National Poetry Month 2024
30 Days,
30 Poems
Here is the comprehensive list of all the poems we’ve celebrated during
National Poetry Month, 2024
April 1
Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis
expression is the need of my soul i was once a vers libre bard but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach...
(Ed Note: It is our tradition to begin our National Poetry Celebration with a poem about poetry. Archy and Mehitabel is much more than one poem. We could probably celebrate it for an entire month. And so it seems only appropriate to begin the month with an epic such as this.)
Before e. e. cummings… before bell hooks… there was Archy (who never capitalized his own name but whose human handler, Don Marquis, frequently did). I first encountered Archy when I was in college. I fell in love immediately.
I had just been learning about picaresque novels (The Golden Ass, Lazarillo de Tormes…) and about how being neglected can be a superpower because it allows you to see things that are concealed from people of greater importance. Archy was far from the first to embody ideas but that’s partly the point. His creator was not the first to do talking animals (not by thousands of years) nor the first to do a picaresque animal-transformation (again, not by thousands of years).
I actually heard a version of this lesson from Mark Strand; he said: if you’re having trouble writing something original, go to a poetic era you haven’t heard much from and try to borrow some of its spirit. In this case, the only surviving complete work of prose fiction in classical Latin (the Satyricon also survives but only fragments).
The other thing Archy teaches us is that when the context doesn’t survive, you might have to say outright what previous authors could get by with implying. When Apuleius wrote The Golden Ass he never said, as Archy does, “i see things from the under side now,” because he was writing a novel. Did he trust his readers to understand as much? Should he have spelled it out? No matter. Don Marquis said in the first poem, practically the first line: this is who I am and this is what I offer. Maybe that’s what is expected from a newspaper article, even if it’s a newspaper article in verse by a typing cockroach.
Erika and I both wanted to include Archy and Mehitabel in a national poetry month essay sooner or later. And we’re putting it right up top on April first for a simple reason: Archy teaches by example something that I never tire of saying to my students: Take an idea and run with it. Even if you end up with a mess it’ll be a GLORIOUS mess.
April 2
Where I’m From
I am from clothespins, from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride. I am from the dirt under the back porch. (Black, glistening, it tasted like...
(Ed Note: As you’ll see throughout the month, sometimes we have a long entry and sometimes a line or two will suffice, and we let the poem speak for itself. Today’s poem was chosen by Willie Carver, and this is as good a time as any to remind you that Willie will be teaching a workshop with us this Saturday followed by a poetry reading (sign up here).
Lyon marries something simple with beautiful language that crescendos into something much more delicate than its components. -Willie Carver
April 3
Hermetics by Jason O’Toole
"Am I with you, my son, in eternity, though linear time is all I see?
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen AGAIN by Willie Carver, and this is as good a time as any to remind you that Willie will be teaching a workshop with us this Saturday, followed by a poetry reading (sign up here). Willie writes simply:
He finds so much space in the loneliness of life.
April 4
I Want a President by Zoe Leonard
"I want a president who is not the lesser of two evils..." "I want to know why we started learning somewhere down the line that a president is always a clown. Always a john and never a hooker. .Always a boss and neve a worker. Always a liar, always a thief and never caught."
As the 1992 US presidential election approached, the country was recovering from twelve years of Republican rule, and contemplating an election that included George W. Bush, Ross Perot and Bill Clinton. The entire country continued to be devastated by the Republican response to the AIDS epidemic, which hit the queer community and the artistic community especially hard. This poem, “I Want a President” was written originally as a press release for a queer magazine, about the candidacy of her friend, poet Eileen Myles. When that magazine folded, the typewritten piece found a new life as it was passed around the artist’s social circle. (I first read it in a zine that I’d picked up somewhere.)
The poem has continued to stand as a powerful symbol of the need for a truly progressive US president. Someone who represents “regular people.” By 2006, it had been turned into a widely circulated postcard. In 2016, it was installed on a colossal scale, under The High Line (an elevated park in New York City,) during the runup to the election. It has even been translated and modified for use in other countries and other languages.
As an angry teenager, finding my independent footing in the feminist world, I loved this poem. As a closeted queer kid volunteering in HIV prevention services, seeking a safe space, this poem helped me find that safety. The more I learned about the truths in this poem, the more right my anger felt. And now, decades later, the truths feel even more truthful. I still feel moved by that anger and driven to work for change. I still feel that pain, but it has matured with me. It still motivates choices and actions in my life. My anger has become part of my art, but is not all of me.
This poem has been on my lists since we began this project. There never seemed to be a “right time” to share it, but with the decision today with two of the three cases against Donald Trump being decided against him (the Georgia election interference case and the federal classified documents case) it felt like the right day to do it.
April 5
“Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong” by Ocean Vuong
"The most beautiful part of your body is where it’s headed. & remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world."
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Kasidy Cates. If you enjoy talking poetry, sign up here for our workshop series. Kasidy chose the excerpt and also writes:
I first read this poem in a poetry workshop. I’ve never felt more connected to a poem or a poet before. I love this poem because it is a conversation he is having with his inward self. It symbolizes how one day we can fall in love with ourselves.
April 6
“Supernatural” by Laura Theis
mist is water
without surface
and yet it will not
only swallow the past but
bring it up again too
if it feels in the mood
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by our friend and contributor the Flea Dane. If you enjoy talking poetry, sign up here for our workshop series. The Flea Dane tells us:
I love this poem because it’s a poem about an image that makes a whole other mental image, with both in form and with the flow of the words. I love how I sway when I read it.
They also tell us: My favorite kinds of poetry either tell a story and make me feel physical sensations.
You can find some of the Flea Dane’s work featured here.
April 7
“I Write the Land” by Najwan Darwish
I want to write the land, I want the words to be the land itself. But I’m just a statue the Romans carved and the Arabs forgot. Colonizers stole my severed hand and stuck it in a museum. No matter. I still want to write it – the land. My words are everywhere and silence is my story.
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam. If you enjoy talking poetry, sign up here for our workshop series. Adam writes:
It’s bittersweet at best observing Arab-American Heritage month this year.
First things first: The reason I’m the one writing this because we don’t have any regular contributors of Arab descent. If anyone is reading this and wants us to platform their voice, please reach out.
I picked this poem for a few reasons. First, I wanted a Palestinian or Palestinian-American poet, and I didn’t want to go with Mahmoud Darwish or Naomi Shihab Nye, much as I enjoy both of their respective works. BTW, go read them too.
Maybe I would have picked Mahmoud Darwish if I hadn’t read an article entitled “15 Twenty-First-Century Palestinian Poets” only to find that most of the poets selected were firmly 20th century poets who happened to live a few years into the 21st century. But not all of them. Some were born in the 1920s–or earlier–and did not live in the 21st Century much less work in it. Love clicking on an article expecting to learn something new only to learn something I was already aware of: Chat GPT is bad at writing articles. All the more so I wanted someone whose career was still on an upward trajectory as of the year 2000.
And with all of that I realize I am stalling for time because I don’t feel especially qualified to talk about this poem. But I was drawn to it. You’ll see why if you read it through a few times. Follow the link to a page that includes two others by the same writer.
I found the poem simple, obvious even, in its theme. By that I mean: wait a few days and you’ll see that every idea presented here makes regular appearances in the newspapers. But the poem rises above its own simplicity. It’s as if the poet had taken dozens of years of tired newspaper headlines about Palestine, glued them together, bolted them to a lathe, and chiseled and chiseled and chiseled until what was left was something new.
April 8
“The Reason We Gather for the Solar Eclipse” by Linda Neal Reising
No, we gather for that moment, after totality’s darkness, when we stand, faces upturned, waiting for that brilliant flash of promise, and we think, Ah, yes, this is the way it will be.
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika. If you enjoy talking about poetry, sign up here for our workshop series. Erika writes:
In second grade, I was obsessed with finishing the available books in Laura Lee Hope’s Bobbsey Twins series. Even the ones only available at the library, because they’d been declared unable to be updated/modernized. (They were still dripping with racism and sexism, but even the updated versions were an improvement over the original versions.)
A year later, when I was in third grade, there was a partial eclipse that passed where I lived. It happened during the school day and we weren’t allowed to go see it. Instead, teachers were instructed to draw the shades and keep us in our classrooms while the eclipse happened. I remember the classroom being very dark. I was trying to peek around the shades the whole time we were in the dark but still unable to see anything. I was so disappointed.
But in 2017, we packed up the kids and trekked to South Carolina. I was terribly sick on that road trip. So sick that I thought about not going. The too frequent stops would turn few hours journey into a much longer one, it wouldn’t be fair to the kids , and I wouldn’t be able to do anything.
We persisted with our journey though, and even though I spent the entire trip in the hotel room, it was worth it. That feeling of gathering with a crowd to witness a singular event where nothing else mattered for those few minutes, other than the phenomena we were seeing.
I sat in a parking lot, surrounded by strangers and everything became darker and cooler. Just like nightfall, only in the middle of the afternoon. The daytime creatures fell silent and the nighttime creatures sang. And the crowd stood in silence. It really was as today’s poem says,
It is not to feel the day lose its way, the waning of warmth sending icy fingers to stroke our prickled arms.
It was like everything was upside down. And in some ways, perfect. The feeling of darkness covering me like a hug in the middle afternoon, instead of being smothered by a fear-blanket and then slowly letting go was something I can perhaps put into words, as I have done here, but could never really tell you how it felt or what it meant.
It’s that mysterious upside down perfection that I love about poetry. It’s ability to capture, in a work of art made up of words, some moment that defies explanation in other ways-even other kinds of words. As poets, sometimes we share and sometimes we don’t, but we make this magic for ourselves. The same magic we see in the enigma of an eclipse.
(Today’s poem comes from Linda Neal Rising, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation and winner of the Indiana Humanities Eclipse Poetry Contest. You can hear her read the poem and you can also read the second and third place poems here. )
April 9
The Odyssey 1.1-10 by Homer
Tell me, O Muse, of the man of many devices, who wandered full many ways after he had sacked the sacred citadel of Troy. Many were the men whose cities he saw and whose mind he learned, aye, and many the woes he suffered in his heart upon the sea...
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Maxwell Bauman. Max is the founder and editor of Door is a Jar Magazine. Max will also be offering a workshop this Saturday at noon (edt) entitled “Poetry and Structure: Building a Poetic Narrative”If you enjoy talking about poetry, sign up here for our workshop series. Max writes:
The opening of the Odyssey frames this epic poem by setting up the hero Odysseus and his struggle in the Trojan War, his transgressions against the gods, and how they prevented his homecoming. The Odyssey is a wonderful poem intended for soldiers returning from the horrors of war to confront and educate them on the different ways that may truly prevent them from returning home.
Have you read this poem? Do you have a favorite translation? A favorite part?
April 10
In Which Hemingway Examines Fitzgerald’s Penis
by Molly Cimikoski
And so Scott went on to detail for Hemingway his shortcomings. Or rather, a very specific shortcoming. At least, that’s what Zelda had told him .
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by 2 Rules co-founder Erika. Don’t forget to sign up for our workshop taught by Maxwell Bauman this Saturday at noon (edt) entitled “Poetry and Structure: Building a Poetic Narrative” If you enjoy talking about poetry, sign up here for our workshop series).
Today’s poem comes from The Ekphrastic Review. “Ekphrasis” has its roots in the ancient Greek skill of describing things in great detail as Homer describes the shield of Achilles in The Iliad. You might be more familiar with Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats. Ekphrastic poetry is about describing in the fine details in the things around us.
You’re asking “But what does that have to do with Hemmingway, Fitzgerald or a photo of Michelangelo’s David?”
Here’s your answer.
About a century ago, Ernest Hemmingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald were sitting in a cafe in Paris, talking, as friends do. And then, Fitzgerald confessed that he’d only ever been intimate with his wife who had been quite critical of his endowment. So Hemmingway offered to take a look…and the two men disappeared into the restroom together. Hemmingway goes on to describe this episode in his memoir A Moveable Feast, where he advises Fitzgerald that he’s adequate and to go check out the statues at the Louvre for confirmation.
This is not the kind of story we’re used to hearing. It’s certainly not a “polite company” sort of story. But is it art? Is a crude discussion about dick sizing between two of the greatest literary figures in twentieth century western literature really art? Is it art because one of them wrote about it in his memoir? Because someone wrote a poem that we can read about the incident? Memoirs are art. Poetry is art. Are either of these less “art’ because they talk about the genitals of famous authors? Or are they still art?
And what if someone were to write the story of what else might have happened in that bathroom? In the same explicit detail that this poem uses? Would that still be art, even if it were erotic or even pornographic?
The lines between art and erotic and pornographic can be difficult to define. I happen to love this story because it’s just so amusing. And it leaves open the possibility of a great deal more. But the thing I love most about it? It leaves you thinking about those lines? Where does one begin and the other end? And why is one okay and the other not? Where are the limits between art and erotica? Or between erotica and pornography? How comfortable are you crossing them? Let’s get a drink sometime and talk about it…
April 11
The Defence of Fort M’Henry by Francis Scott Key
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave, O'er the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Maxwell Bauman, founder of the literary magazine Door is a Jar. Don’t forget to sign up for our workshop taught by Max this Saturday (April 13 2024) at noon (edt) entitled “Poetry and Structure: Building a Poetic Narrative.” Sign up here for our workshop series). Interesting and actually accidental tie-in: Yesterday we discussed a poem ABOUT F. Scott Fitzgerald. Today we’re doing one BY his uncle and namesake, F. Scott Key.
We all know the first stanza of this poem (we sing it at every major sporting event), but when you delve into the other verses, and see what had been added since the Civil War, we find a picture and declaration on what what values Americans carry with them.
And the rhyming pattern of ababccdd provide unique constraints on how the poet delivered his message.
What does the “Star Spangled Banner” say about American values? What does it say about us that you essentially never hear verses 2-4?
April 12
“This be the Verse” by Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.
(Ed Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam. Don’t forget to sign up for our workshop taught by Max Bauman this Saturday (April 13 2024) at noon (edt) entitled “Poetry and Structure: Building a Poetic Narrative.” Sign up here for our workshop series).
There’s a lot you can say about this poem. It’s easy to memorize. It’s one of the few poems that’s ACTUALLY fun to recite at parties. There is exactly one simile (a really good one). And it’s one of those pieces where the subject matter is dismal but the poem–its music, its wordplay–manages to be pure joy.
For many of us there was our lives before this poem and our lives after. This poem comes up in some university literature class and you read it and just think: “Wait… you can DO that?” Suddenly poetry means something very different. You may never write your own poem quite in this style. But you’ll always have that Philip Larkin voice in the back of your mind saying: “Don’t waste time being subtle. Poetry is fun. Poetry is entertaining. And poetry SHOUTS what other types of communication barely whisper. Otherwise what’s the point?”
And despite the fact that this poem is over fifty years old (published in 1971; first collected into a book in 1974) you can imagine it being written yesterday and posted on Instagram in front of a picture of dead flowers. And the same type of people who probably complained back then would be complaining now and saying: “Poetry these days has fallen on hard times. Like you can just complain about your parents and that’s a poem.” Ok, boomer.
Do you know this poem? what was your reaction to it the first time around?
April 13
“Alone” by Edgar Allan Poe
From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was recommended by author Jayce Pagaduan. If you want to join our workshops throughout the month of April, click here. Jayce writes:
I enjoy how he uses imagery to paint a picture of a complicated childhood, which I find relatable. It’s parts whimsical and melancholy, somewhere between “The Raven” and “To Helen” in tone.
April 14
“The Fatigue” by Eli Tareq El Bechelany-Lynch
Say thank you for your friends and the family that stay in touch .Was it challenging? Everything is changing. The fatigue is just fatigue until it’s not.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was . chosen by Erika. If you want to join our workshops throughout the month of April, click here. Erika writes:
30 Days, 30 Poems is one of the 2 Rules projects that I am most proud of. It’s something that has the ability to really reach out and impact anyone who is willing to take a few moments to read a poem and the comments. It’s also an event that takes a lot of time an energy. Months of planning go into the event, and keeping up with the daily tasks throughout the month in addition to the usual daily maintenance tasks is also tough. I have a wonderful partner helping with it–there’s no way I could keep up with it without Adam. Especially this year, when I’m dealing with my regular “collection of bespoke disabilities,” along with some other bonus health stuff. And this year, Adam has stepped up and done so much more of 30 Days, 30 Poems than I have asked him to do before. I cannot say enough about what that means, someone else caring about this project the way I do.
I often tease Adam about how replaceable I am. The truth is, it’s just my own fear that my chronic illness will become too much to ask someone ese to deal with. Because all it ever seems to do is demand more from me. And there’s no way that doesn’t trickle down to people who depend on me. Friends, family, colleagues, and anyone else I interact with regularly. This poem talks about the demands of living with chronic illness. The repeats, “fatigue is just fatigue,” “a challenge is just a challenge,” are like the rhythm of life with chronic illness. The precise management of everything, doing your best to avoid the things that leave you too sore to raise your arms to wash your hands or that put you in bed all day.
I’ve written about that kind of life before, but never as a poem. It’s too much for me. Too much for my heart, too much for my soul. Too much pain to put on paper. I’m glad someone has been able to do it. My essay might not reach a reader. Maybe this poem will.
April 15
“Every 40 Seconds” by Patrick Roche
If I'm going to die, better to do it without all that fuss; better to do it in silence. Hundreds of thousands of people are dying in silence and because of silence. This is not a list poem, this is saying we can keep each other breathing. This is speaking louder than the stigma and hoping someone will listen.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was . chosen by Erika. If you want to join our workshops throughout the month of April, click here. Erika writes:
I’ve never talked much publicly about the origin of the 30 Days, 30 Poems project. It began at a time when I was struggling a great deal, and things were very dark. In short, the project began as a way to keep me going through the entire month. And it worked. I kept going, and I loved the project, and so the project kept going, too.
Mental health has always been a big part of what we do at 2 Rules of Writing. It’s been a part of the essays, fiction, and poetry we’ve published on our website, It’s a frequent topic of discussion in our Facebook community. And it’s a regular topic of conversations at our weekend writing groups. In fact, sometimes our check ins are even more important than any of the writing we do. Talking about mental health even amongst friends is difficult. Asking for help is difficult. When we do it, it makes all of us stronger. We grow from asking and we grow from helping.
Talking about it among our peers isn’t enough though. We know the statistics. We can rattle off numbers with each other, or be there for the midnight phone call, even if it happens across time zones. We need to start having these conversations with everyone around us. To remind someone we’re talking to that the person they’re calling “crazy” just might be us. To make sure that the people around us know that depression doesn’t always look like sadness, but sometimes it means that we stop turning down invitations. That sometimes it means that taking a shower or brushing our teeth is too much. Or that anxiety means that every noise is too loud or every space that isn’t home feels unsafe. We need to talk about what the day to day reality is of being mentally ill. And when we do that, we also need to fight the big picture stuff-to make sure that we can take medical leave for mental health just as easily as physical. That we talk about our mental health as loudly and as often as our physical health. That seeking care when we need it, is just as normal as seeking care for anything else.
With the roots of 30 Days, 30 Poems in mental health, it feels like just as good a time as any to give credit to anyone who struggles, to thank those who support us, and to remind everyone that it’s an ongoing fight on many fronts: personal, medical, political. And whatever you’re doing is important.
In the US, for mental health resources call 988 or click here. For help in the rest of the world, find resources here.
April 16
“walking bishop back to moonlight” by John Compton
we made temptation into a game: our bodies confided, knowing we already knew how to play...
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam. John Compton, poet and editor, will be holding a workshop this week on editing your poetry. If you want to join our workshops throughout the month of April, click here.
I don’t know what to call this poem except “sure-footed.” When I write a poem, I want it to make sense–to have a narrative line from beginning to end, like the Iliad. But just because I write that kind of poetry, I still love this kind of poetry. This poem reminds me a bit of “Voyages” by Hart Crane or “Pequeño Vals Vienes” by Garcia Lorca. I’ve memorized parts of both (that may be why they came to mind just now… they’re never far) and I can tell you that memorizing a poem that doesn’t connect logically is… a labor of love.
But there’s something beautiful about a poem that messes around in dreams before delivering something that makes simple, logical sense to the waking mind. I don’t know why that hits harder–like the impression a dream leaves with you upon waking that then stays with you all day–but it does.
Crap. I may have to memorize this poem too. Thanks, John.
April 17
“One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam. John Compton, poet and editor, will be holding a workshop this week on editing your poetry. If you want to join our workshops throughout the month of April, click here.
This is another one from Saskia Hamilton. We came into class one day and there was a stapled packet of poems side-by-side with their revisions. This was one of them. We got to see the way it built up from nothing–the way lines were auditioned, tweaked, rejected. It was beautiful. Seeing the poem that way feels especially appropriate given the way the poem lurches from thought to thought as if eternally caught in the process of making up its mind.
This is the hardest type of poem to write successfully; the type that feels like it’s being written as you are reading it. It’s almost impossible to get the tone just right and not to go over into stiffness or schmaltziness or contrivance. I’m not a hundred percent convinced this one sticks the landing. But I still admire its audacity. Does that make sense? Well IDGAF.
April 18
“How I Feel” by The Halluci Nation
When life takes a turn for the worst and creators all Becomes another canvas that will never be completed I'm a few degrees away and a thousand times defeated
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam but recommended by our longtime member, David.
Reminder: John Compton, poet and editor, will be holding a workshop this week (4/20/24 at 12 PM edt) on editing your poetry. Mildred K. Barya will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt). If you want to join our workshops throughout the month of April, click here.
This is the sort of poem that is hard to listen to but so worth it. The wordplay is inventive. The background vocals make a haunting counterpoint. And the whole thing just bleeds sadness and anger and spite and determination.
I want to talk about the art of this song; about how beautiful it is and how enjoyable the intricate rhymes and references are. The way they deliver the line “Whether it’s an MC in a booth or a PhD in a suit,” for example. And the sequence towards the end that runs:
It’s a nation with racism here since the start of it
Hard to let go cause it’s carved in the heart of it
Relation to the land and our rise were a part of it
Roots where I stand, I could never depart from it
It’s hard to separate what the song is saying from how it’s saying it. It’s hard to use words like “beautiful” and “enjoyable” about a song like this. But there is a kind of beauty in hearing a thing–rapping, songwriting, and so on–done so well. And there is, if not enjoyment then satisfaction in hearing people fit words to their suffering and try in real time to imagine a better way.
April 19
“Pesach in Blacksburg” by Erika Meitner
...This is a shadow of the seders of my youth, the lace table cloths, my survivor grandfather in his resplendent satin robe at the table’s head leading, switching between Hebrew and Yiddish, but we do what we can...
This poem was chosen more for Erika than for me. I looked at it and saw all the things she’s been talking about–the way Southern Christians show ignorance and contempt for other religions.
As for myself? I’m not feeling it this year. I haven’t been in the spirit of the Jewish holidays since October 7, 2023. So all I really can bring myself to say with any enthusiasm is: may this holiday season bring us good news. I hope for peace and I hope for the return / exchange / whatever of prisoners and hostages. And an end to the bombing. For today, at least, that’s what I have.
April 20
“Prayer for the Mutilated World” by sam sax
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika
Reminder :Mildred K. Barya will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt)) on Writing the Other–Non-human Creatures. If you want to join our workshops throughout the month of April, click here.
what will be left after we’ve left i dare not consider it instead dance with me a moment late in this last extinction that you are reading this must be enough
The 30 Days, 30 Poems project is a year round job for me. I spend a great deal of time cultivating lists of possible poems, vetting poets to make sure that beautiful poems by problematic poets are not included, or if they are, that our notes and discussions reflect that. I have extensive spreadsheets with poems, with notes about why this one is important, or what holiday or event a poem might work for. Something is different this year though. None of the poems I’ve collected seem to feel right.
All of the hours I’ve put in. New poems, old poems. New-to-me poets or not. They just don’t work. It’s a strange and frustrating feeling to not be able to find a poem to share. But that’s how it feels. Like I want to curl up in the most comfortable, quiet place, and embark on a quest to find something just right for each of the nights and I just can’t find anything. It’s so very frustrating.
This poem wasn’t even on the list. Other poems by sam sax are on my lists. They’re one of my favorite contemporary poets! Not this one. Why not? What have I been missing about this one?
I don’t think I’ll find the answer tonight. I can talk all about the theme of the poem, how it reflects on apocalypse like Adam Zagajewski’s “Try to Praise the Mutilated World” or one of my most beloved poem, “Perhaps the World Ends Here” by Joy Harjo. I can talk about the influence of Allen Ginsberg, another queer, Jewish poet, who has shaped my love of poetry, but why? You can compare and contrast and find similar themes and do all the work yourself if you want to. You can think about the way ecosystems benefit from periodic renewal,. You’re probably familiar with at least some of the other variations of “to create you must destroy” whether it’s the Bible, Picasso, Nietzsche or someone else.
Maybe it’s not about destroying the whole world tonight. Maybe tonight, what I’m thinking about is just what parts of me I’ve had to destroy in the last few years to become the me I am right now. Destruction is terrifying. And so is the different kind of beauty on the other side.
April 21
“The Poem Wants a Drink” by Karen Glenn
This poem doesn't give a damn for rhyme or reason. It only sings off-key. It has no rhythm in the jukebox of its soul. It grew up without symbols. It doesn't know from assonance.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Gina Freyre
Reminder: Mildred K. Barya, author of The Animals of My Earth School, will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt) on Writing the Other–Non-human Creatures. If you want to join, click here. Gina writes:
I like this poem a lot because it doesn’t strive for perfection. It is just is tired. Many poems I read, are highly structured and use beautiful words and imagery and rhyme and all of these things (even when they say they don’t). They adhere to these high standards of polish that feel impossible to achieve and sometimes feel like, for me, I can’t quite get to the heart of the piece.
Ironically, this poem, too, has some good imagery and sound even while claiming not to use those things. I like how it doesn’t claim to be perfection or anything such; it just wants a drink. Too many poems and essays and whatever talk about saving the world, loving too much, being angry, all these things…
Where are the poems where you AREN’T a hero? Where you wanna chill and are tired at the end of the day, don’t have your hair perfect, aren’t perfect, period, where are THOSE? I feel this encapsulates that. I like the energy of the poem how it doesn’t even try to do those things (but still sounds and feels so nice anyway! In a non-perfect way). It is dull and tired, and I can relate to that so bad.
April 22
“Just Call me Tuey” by Kieryn J. McCann
I get it you only have so many boxes to filter your world through dalmatians and dairy cows are both labeled "dog" for a little bit.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was offered by Kieryn J. McCann and is presented with love, joy and respect from the entire 2 Rules of Writing team. Because of a scheduling mishap, which we sincerely apologize for, this poem appeared on April 22, instead of April 21, which is the actual day that Non-Binary Parents Day was celebrated.
Reminder: Mildred K. Barya, author of The Animals of My Earth School, will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt) on Writing the Other–Non-human Creatures. If you want to join, click here.
We asked Kieryn for some thoughts on Non-Binary Parents Day, and thon offered the following:
“The third Sunday in April is celebrated among the queer community as Non-Binary Parent’s Day……… I keep trying to put it into expository words but I feel like the poem is self explanatory, so any more words are superfluous“
I don’t know that there is much to add to that. All loving parents have the same wishes for their children–that they can be the parent that child needs, and can help guide an amazing childing into being an incredible adult. All loving parents should be honored with a special day, and I am so glad that the world is catching up with the beautiful diversity that is the families in our world. Happy (belated) Non-Binary Parents Day to all of our parents and families who celebrated.
April 23
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be” by William Shakespeare
Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine ownself be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam in honor of the anniversary of Shakespeare’s death and the presumed anniversary of his birth.
Reminder: Mildred K. Barya, author of the poetry collection The Animals of My Earth School, will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt) “Writing the Other–Non-human Creatures.” If you want to join, click here.
Those seven lines were not quite my introduction to Shakespeare. But almost. I went into my sixth grade English class one day and we were told there would be a Shakespeare recitation contest. In order to qualify, we had to memorize the above speech (or the excerpt from Julius Caesar that runs: “Cowards die many times before their death…“) and recite it for Mrs. Scimone. I wasn’t sure about it but I memorized both.
The thing is that, when you’re eleven you learn in three different ways that Shakespeare is capital-G Great. Someone tells you, of course. And you can’t help but notice that some Shakespeare or other is programmed every year. And when you’re not learning it in class there are things like this contest. But you don’t learn in the way that matters. Maybe you’re not ready; maybe you are.
What could a kid know about revealing the humanity in a character, which is the heart of what makes Shakespeare a perennial favorite among actors and audiences. Or about playing half a dozen plots and sub-plots off of each other towards an inevitable climax? Nothing if an adult doesn’t try to explain. So you read speeches like this and the music of them is impressive. But you don’t learn about what blowhards Polonius and Caesar are–how they say things just to hear themselves talk and how both of these speeches are meant to be played for laughs.
So the result is these tiny little kids reciting these speeches in squeaky-stentorian voices because That’s How You’re Supposed To Recite Important Things. I’m not complaining per se. Okay I am. But I’m not trying to pick a fight with sixth grade English teachers (they’d win). But I can’t help thinking we should learn Shakespeare the way we learn any other foreign language: insults first. You’re telling me you wouldn’t like it if the next time your 11-year-olds played dodgeball they were calling each other “thou zed! thou unnecessary letter!” (Kent from King Lear) or “thou base football player” (Kent again) or “whoreson beetle-headed flap-eared knave” (Petruchio from Taming of the Shrew)? You would. And so would I.
Happy Death Day, Shakespeare, “For I must tell you friendly in your ear, / Sell when you can; you are not for all markets” (As you Like It).
April 24
“i love you to the moon & by Chen Chen
logical next step, are you packing your bags yet, don’t forget your sailor moon jean jacket, let’s wear our sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter,
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika.
Reminder: Mildred K. Barya, author of the poetry collection The Animals of My Earth School, will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt) “Writing the Other–Non-human Creatures.” If you want to join, click here.
A year ago, I lost someone very special to me. She was someone who loved me in a way that was deeper, harder, more exciting, than the love I had experienced before, or since, and in turn, allowed me to learn to love that way. She was someone who loved me enough to let me go, to end a relationship when we were still in love, because she knew I needed time to grow. And she did, too. Even if that ending also hurt her. And many years later, she was brave enough to take a chance on rekindling a different kind of relationship, not knowing what kind of response she might get.
Grief is a tricky thing. Especially when someone introduces so much grief into your life. Ending a relationship. Restarting one and having to move past all that grief. Losing someone again, this time forever. It lurks around corners, it sneaks up on your when you least expect it. But the anger? I wasn’t prepared for so much of the anger. The anger at her for dying, that I expected. But not at myself for not spending enough time with her while she was dying. Not at the cancer that “murdered her.” (Her words, not mine.) Not at the unfairness of it all. All the typical things that happen after a loss.
On the night she told me her cancer came back, she asked me to promise one thing. That we would live the rest of our relationship in the present tense. No more dwelling on the old hurts, or our past mistakes. The absolution on both sides was refreshing. The focus only on now gave us a few extra months to love each other in the deepest possible way.
I’m at a place where I’m finally able to talk about the impact this loss had on me. Where I can put pen to paper and use words to share with others. Where sometimes love poems make me feel hopeful. But this one? It may not be the greatest love poem ever. It’s not even my favorite love poem ever. What it does though, with the lines about the Sailor Moon jackets is remind me of the night we met, and the overalls I was wearing. Overalls which she loved so much that she had to go out and buy a pair of her own. Overalls she never stopped talking about until the end. And in the present tense, if I could find a pair for myself, I’d wear them, knowing a lot more now about love and forgiveness than I did the first time around.
April 25
“Consent at 10,000 Feet” by Kyle “Guante” Trahn Myre
it would be silence. It would be “I don’t know if this is what I want right now.” Because maybe that’s not a no, but it’s definitely not a yes. It would be just about everyone agreeing that rape is bad, but only when it’s called rape; how the amount of men who will admit to getting someone drunk, or otherwise manipulating, coercing, or forcing them into a sexual act is so much larger than the amount of men will admit to raping someone.
How wrong is it, to continue to talk about sexual assault like it’s always that stranger lurking in the bushes, or always that cartoon caricature of a predatory fratboy and never… the boyfriend. Or the girlfriend. Or the best friend. Or the “ally.” Or that really sweet guy from class.
This is for that really sweet guy from class, who might be asking: what about the grey areas? I’m not a rapist. What if we’re just both really drunk? What if she sends mixed messages? What if I’m trying to do the right thing but I read those signals wrong?
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika.
Reminder: Mildred K. Barya, author of the poetry collection The Animals of My Earth School, will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt) “Writing the Other–Non-human Creatures.” If you want to join, click here.
The very first poem ever that was part of the 30 Days, 30 Poems project was a poem by Kyle “Guante” Trahn Myre. And with few exceptions (Shakespeare, for example,) I really try hard not to repeat poets. There are so many incredible poets and poems from every part of the world, from every generation. But Guante? There’s something about his work that makes me want to play his videos again and again for people I meet.
Not only does he write poems that challenge you to really think about difficult things, whether it’s masculinity, white supremacy, consent or something else, but he’s also devoted to educating people about the art of spoken word poetry, too. He blends the political with the personal and finds ways to shout all of the things that are bubbling angrily inside me, and does it in a way that’s easy for people to listen to.
Why this poem? Maybe because it’s sexual assault awareness month. And I’ve written a whole lot about my own experience as a rape survivor, and how “nice guys” don’t rape you, but when they do, they walk you home after. And because I am so full of rage after Harvey Weinstein’s conviction was overturned today by the New York State Supreme Court that I’m struggling to find words for things. It’s one more shovelful of manure on top of all of the other attacks on reproductive rights in the USA. And if we’re not already paying attention, toppling reproductive rights is only one tiny little step towards destroying so many other things like, contraception, marriage equality, and other things we’ve become complacent about.
It’s the recognition that it’s not the stranger lurking in the dark. It’s regular people. It’s this line that enrages and soothes me at the same time : “how the amount of men who will admit to getting someone drunk, or otherwise manipulating, coercing, or forcing them into a sexual act is so much larger than the amount of men will admit to raping someone.”
And it’s the fettuccini Alfredo.
April 26
“Bewilderment” by Mildred Kiconco Barya
Sword-billed hummingbird, what you love opens to your
sharp beak—esperanza, hibiscus, morning glory, nasturtium,
and my heart—penetrated, wells with unspeakable joy.
A new burst of energy almost knocks me off the chair.
I want to name you sugar bird, but it’s taken.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam.
Reminder: Mildred K. Barya, author of the poetry collection The Animals of My Earth School and 3 other collections, will be hosting our next and last workshop (4/27/24 at 2PM edt) “Writing the Other–Non-human Creatures.” If you want to join us, click here.
It’s funny. We just had a workshop by the inimitable John Compton, who talked at length about cutting unnecessary words from your poetry. But a big part of that workshop stressed that words that are necessary to one poem are unnecessary to another and vice versa. In other words, you can’t just sart cutting words from a poem; you have to establish what your goal is and then cut–or add–words to fit that goal.
This poem is a great one to look at through that lens. Look how long the lines are. Look how many functional words the poet leaves in even though the meaning would be clear without them. And yet.
What is achieved in this poem is a swell of language–that rare piece of writing that picks up speed and momentum with each stanza. Parts of the poem have the feel of a funny anecdote being told by a friend or cousin: “The backyard door is open, ruffled leaves sway in the breeze. / A hummingbird flies in, pecks my cheek with zest, and buzzes out.” Other parts have the feel of a great orator haranguing a crowd in a city square: “Disneyland’s magic cannot compare in visuals and acoustics / with the splendid pomp and vanishing of the hummingbird.” These two rhetorical modes don’t belong in the same poem. Yet here they are. And it works. It better-than-works.
This is what a good poem does. It takes your expectations as to what a good poem does and breaks them over its knee. And leaves you with new expectations as to what a good poem does, and so on.
April 27
“Ten Things Men Have Done After Hearing the Rape Poem”
by Liv McKee
"To put it simply, we speak poems about people violating our bodies
We share poems in “safe spaces” and you think you have rights to our stories.
This is why writer Kapano says there is no clear distinction between when the assault stops and when survivorhood begins. This is why she says “I am being raped.”
This is what your touch feels to me."
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika.
I’ve been on a list poems kick lately. In my own work, anyway. It’s not a format I’d ever worked with before. I could listen to other people’s list poems and understand that they were poems, but I had no idea how to write one. But there’s this long running joke Adam and I have, where one of us says something and the other declares that it will be the title of my memoir. As I’ve recorded these different phrases over several years, I’ve watched them gel into something that began to look like a poem. And then, with a little massaging, these seemingly random phrases have actually become a poem. One that I’ve shared at poetry readings and gotten unexpectedly (to me, anyway) positive feedback. People talked about how it took them on a bumper sticker journey through the theme. And writing a list poem finally made sense.
So I wrote another one. This one, I wrote all at once. It’s funny, perhaps, that this second one began life as something else. I didn’t plan on a list poem. I just ended up with one when the notes I was taking for what I’d planned to do ended up in a numbered list, and suddenly it fit the theme, and it fit the title in my head (I don’t typically add titles until things are finished, but this was such a great title that it needed a poem, and it took several tries before I ended up with the list poem.)
This list poem does the things a list poem should do. It’s not like reading someone’s shopping list or to-do list, it takes you on a journey about how someone makes art after trauma. About how people respond to the kind of trauma that people prefer to keep secret or victim-blame, or undermine everything about the responsibility of perpetrators. You get that bumper-sticker-journey through a survivor’s eyes.
What I love though, is that you get more than a list here. You get glimpses of some of the things I talk about in my own writing as a rape survivor, like the difference between “survivor” and “victim” and why I choose one over the other for myself. But this poet also shares some of the secret things I talk about only in quiet conversations with my closest friends. And those quiet, intimate conversations of mine are unique–each survivor has their own. And each survivor makes choices about who to protect from conversations about the violence they’ve experienced, too.
But most of all, what this poem lets me do is scream. I feel the anger, my own anger, radiating from it. Because it’s a list. Because as a list, it has a rhythm to it that takes over, and that beat just keeps rising and rising, until I explode.
Try a list poem out. Take your own set of images or adjectives, and read them aloud, organizing them in a way that the rhythm feels right to you. Where you feel the heartbeat of what you’re doing. and you bring out the unifying emotion in the set. The poem may talk about some very serious topic, but that rhythm engages people and I’ve found some great joy in writing the list poems, no matter how difficult the topics have been.
April 28
Der Erlkönig by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (Music by Franz Schubert)
My son, why do you hide your face in fear?
Father, don't you see the Erl-King?
The Erl-King with his crown and cape?
My son, it's just a bit of fog.
Dear child, come away with me!
You can play wonderful games with me!
Colorful flowers await you on the riverbank
My mother will dress you in golden robes.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika and Adam together. Content warnings for rape, sexual assault, ptsd, and flashbacks.
Adam writes:
A quick bit of background: Erika and I met in the Summer of 2020. It was the first year of the pandemic and a mutual acquaintance–someone she’d gone to camp with and I’d had as a counselor at the same camp a decade later–posted the question: “Hey, teachers and artists! How are you moving your businesses online for the pandemic?” I wrote that I was teaching writing online. Erika messaged me that it might be something she’d be interested in for her two kids.
But when the time came, Erika–locked indoors by multiple disabilities including a vulnerable immune system–ended up taking classes with me herself. The first few classes were great (I had never had an adult writing student). We read short stories and poems together. Analyzed them. Erika started writing pieces of her own. One of the pieces I wanted to discuss was “Der Erlkönig” by Goethe (music by Schubert). I thought nothing of this.
There’s a YouTube video that sets the whole thing to shadowy puppet theater, and I’d showed this video to young kids before, followed by a lively discussion. It’s a disturbing story, to be sure: a father and son are racing through the woods; the son is being menaced by the Erl-king whom the father cannot (or chooses not to) see. The Erl-king makes an argument as to why the son should run away with him; the son screams his concerns to his father; the father offers a plausible explanation: it’s just the wind, it’s just a fog, it’s just, it’s just.
Then the Erl-king makes another pass at the kid and the cycle begins again. The whole thing ends with the horse reaching safely home, the father carrying the body of his dead son.
So yeah. It’s an affecting poem. And with the pounding hoofbeats in the right hand of the piano accompaniment and the portentous acting of the singer and the creepy shadow puppetry, the whole thing is quite a spectacle.
But what I didn’t expect was for Erika to have a full-blown panic attack and begin reliving the time when she was raped some 25 years earlier. The rest of the lesson went out the window and I started sitting with her talking as softly as I could, trying to get her breathing to return to normal. An hour or two later we turned off the Zoom and tried to go to bed. Tried to.
Erika called me on Sunday to say “thank you” for sitting with her; that was above and beyond what was required of a teacher. But why would I just jump off of Zoom when my student was having a panic attack? Anyway, the result of that horrible night was that our relationship jumped about 3 years. We went from being acquaintances to friends almost literally overnight. Soon after that we started working together on the podcast I was involved with at the time; and when that environment grew toxic, we left and started our own thing, 2 Rules of Writing.
I want to say more about what that experience did to shape my relationship with Erika and indeed with all of the students we have had since then. I feel proud that, as painful as it was to be dealt such a circumstance, we both stepped up. I offered medical care to a relative stranger. And Erika confronted her shit enough to keep coming back even though, from a young age, her training taught her (incorrectly of course but never mind that) to be shamed and mortified by the experience. To run and hide.
But for now I’d like to talk about the poem; and I hate to say it but witnessing Erika’s panic attack (and discussing it with her a dozen times since) has given me new appreciation for the damn poem. Yeah I said it. It’s not every poem that can have that effect. You hear stories of people 2500 years ago at a performance of Aeschylus’ The Kindly Ones spontaneously aborting their pregnancies but that’s just hyperbole, right? Right?
In any case, it took participating in Erika’s panic attack to realize: the erl-king is so frightening because he so perfectly imitates the tactics of an abuser, particularly a sexual abuser. He keeps trying different paths to get the boy to go with him; he offers female accomplices (his daughters, his mother) to make the boy feel safer. And all the while the boy knows something bad is happening, but lacks the language to communicate his distress. The father needs to ask follow up questions; needs to help give the boy the language he needs to voice his own distress. But the father is concerned with other things and besides is apparently not in the habit of crediting things the boy says. So on they press homeward; but for nothing. The victim is ignored and the assailant melts into the shadows.
Erika writes:
I’ve taught a lot of classes where content warnings were important. I use content warnings because it allows each person to decide for themself whether or not the upcoming content is going to be a trigger for them. But working one on one with Adam? I wasn’t expecting anything like that. At least not so early in our work together.
I looked forward to our Friday night meetings. Adam chose interesting pieces for us to discuss, some familiar and some new to me. He even seemed interested in what I had to say about them. I began writing some things of my own, too, and although the feedback was difficult to hear, I did my best to accept it and put it into action. After a twenty five year hiatus, I was finding joy in writing again.
And so on a Friday night, I started Zoom up on my laptop, settled in with my notebook and pen and looked forward to Adam’s next lesson. Instead of our usual screen share-read a piece aloud-discuss it, this week, Adam’s plan was a YouTube video of “Der Erlkönig,” with music by Schubert and text by Goethe.
Schubert isn’t my favorite classical composer, and I probably said so, maybe even grumbled a bit about music I liked better, but we started up the video and began watching the paper cutout style animation. I focused intently on the lyrics–listening to the German and watching the captions to see if I could catch any small but significant differences that sometimes happen when translating things.
The music began to fade into the background, but I couldn’t stop looking at the pictures. And listening to the story. Der Erlkönig becomes more and more manipulative, more and more intent on capturing the child, he offers greater and greater enticement. Meanwhile, the father continues to tell the child to ignore all of his feelings about danger, all of his instincts that something terrible is about to happen.
The more involved the story got, the more anxious I got. Until everything turned into a full on PTSD flashback. I couldn’t breathe. I screamed. I punched at the air. I was sucked right back into a moment of terror, nearly a quarter of a century earlier. The night a “friend” held me down and raped me.
And all of this in front of a person I hardly knew.
I wasn’t ready for this. For any of it. I was barely ready to start writing again, and now, I’d been forced into exposing one of the most vulnerable things about me by a simple YouTube video.
After so many years, I’d become comfortable talking about my experience with rape. I’d spoken one on one, I’d given presentations for large audiences. It’s not something I was unfamiliar with doing. And it was something I was certain I’d have had to talk about with Adam at some point. I just wasn’t expecting to have to explain it in the middle of a full on meltdown. It was a conversation I thought I’d have some control over–the time, the circumstances. Instead, I sat there, melting down on Zoom in front of a teacher, who suddenly had to deal with a student he hardly knew, in a massive emotional crisis.
At any point in this situation, Adam could have noped out. He could have said “This is too much” and ended the Zoom. He didn’t. He sat with me. He tried to help me recover my breathing. He talked calmly to me as I rode each wave of panic until I was worn out. When everything was done, we talked for a few more minutes and ended the Zoom. Just ended. No plans for the following Friday, just a good night.
I spent Saturday recovering. Flashbacks are exhausting. I did my best to rest, to call a few friends, and to take care of myself. This time, recovering meant also trying to figure out how to talk to a virtual stranger about what I had just put him through.
When Adam and I ended our Zoom on Friday, it just sort of ended. We hadn’t talked about what would happen next. Whether we’d continue. What else might happen. One of us was going to have to reach out and say something. I assumed that whatever happened, Adam was going to tell me, “Thanks, it’s been nice but I can’t do this anymore.” And I needed to tell him, “Thanks for everything, I’m sorry I wrecked it.”
I hate picking up the phone. I’m always worrying that when I do, I’ll be a burden or an interruption. I put it off as long as I could. Sunday evening I dialed Adam’s number, and tried to apologize. I tried. He wouldn’t let me. Each and every time I tried, he interrupted. He redirected the conversation. He refused to allow me to blame myself for what happened. He kept pushing me outside my comfort zone, the one where everything that happens during a flashback is my fault.
We hung up the phone with a plan to meet again on Friday night. Some time during that week, I put words to my rage for the first time. We might have talked about it that Friday. I might have waited another week. Things might have been weird that Friday night. Or not. But after an experience like that, you can’t go backwards. We got to skip so much of the getting to know you parts of building a friendship.
The rewards though? They’ve been priceless. Of course there’s everything with Adam. The friendship. 2 Rules of Writing. Everything else. Adam’s kindness that night has allowed me to access my own anger. To let it inspire essays and poems, and to become “a better writer,” my goal when we first started working together again. Accessing that anger? It’s allowed me to find compassion for myself that I never knew existed. Which has let me become a better person all around.
Listening to Schubert–any Schubert can get my pulse racing and bring up a lot of anxiety. And the poem? It’s really hard to read. In fact, to write this, I started by reading it in German first, hoping that the extra effort might distract me just enough. (It worked.) I’m never going to love this poem. Or even like it. But I’m so glad that I’ve studied it. It’s given me more than Schubert or Goethe could have dreamed of.
April 29
The Wasteland by T. S. Eliot
...Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Adam.
This is the poem you’re supposed to talk about, right? It’s April, the cruelest month. So we should talk about The Wasteland. Right? Well. Yes and no. I’m a big believer in the idea that if you don’t love something… that’s enough. I’m not forcing anyone to love King Lear or Troilus and Cressida. But I will infodump on you about either one if you give me the slenderest of pretexts. You don’t have to like The Wasteland.
So I’m not here to talk about why the Wasteland is a brilliant poem. Which it is, though so difficult to understand that I wouldn’t know where to begin. Not, you understand, because I’m at a loss to explain it, but rather because I myself, with all my supposed training, am at a loss to understand it. As with most things I mostly concentrate on the rhythmic beauty of the language and leave the rest to the rest.
No. I’m here to talk about something different: the value of community. The Wasteland was about 24 pages long in the edition I had from college. But its first draft was something like forty pages. So what happened? Well, Eliot brought the draft to his friend Ezra Pound, and Ezra, despite being a fascist prick of the highest order, was a pretty good editor. So he trimmed and trimmed–here a line, there a word, there a whole section–and Eliot took pretty much all of his friend’s edits. You can actually buy a facsimile of that original manuscript with Pound’s cross-outs. Its resemblance, taking the edits into account, to the published version is astonishing.
The thing is: when you see a book that says “The Waste Land” on the cover, and its byline says “T. S. Eliot,” and especially when you are reliably informed by professors whose leather elbow-patches are the correct color and diameter that “The Waste Land” is the greatest poem of the twentieth century, you could be forgiven for thinking that T.S. Eliot was the one who wrote the damn thing. And you’d mostly be right.
But you’d also be forgiven for thinking that Eliot, at the height of his powers, had a decent idea of what he wanted in his poem–what sections, at least. And there you’d be wrong. It was Pound, much more than Eliot, whose judgment held sway as to what version of The Wasteland would be sent to the publishers.
So. When the guy who is widely considered the greatest European Anglophone poet of the twentieth century sat down to write what is widely considered his greatest poem, he relied so heavily on his friends that, on the advice of one of them, he cut about 40% of the text. And the passages that he cut never found their way into any other work. They lay on the cutting room floor until he died. Don’t you feel a bit better now about the fact that you need beta readers and well-wishers and found-family and so forth to support your writing career or avocation? I know I do.
Eliot was a good writer and had a good ear. But what would Eliot have looked like without his friends about him–Pound, H.D., his own wife… these are the people who give us staying power in our career or avocation.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika.
The last day of 30 Days, 30 Poems is always a little difficult. Usually it’s because I’ve struggled to choose a poem for today. What poem says everything that needs to be said? In the past, I’ve searched for hours, for days, choosing something, writing commentary, changing my mind and starting again. But not this year. This year, I knew exactly what I wanted for the last day of the month.
What’s funny about it is that I had chosen this poem even before the month began. I had no idea what mood I’d really be in at the end of the month, but here we are, with the one I knew was right. And here we are, ending the month and I’ve gotten a new appreciation for TS Eliot’s “The Wasteland”. I’ve shared Zoe Leonard’s poem “I Want a President,” which has followed me around since college. Adam wrote about Philip Larkin’s “This Be the Verse,” which we quote at each other often. And I made him laugh (and groan) when I wrote about Hemingway, who has been a ghost in my life this year.
30 Days, 30 Poems is not only a 2 Rules of Writing tradition, but it’s grown now to have stories and traditions of its own.
Which brings us to today’s poem. There aren’t many poems I can think of that make me cry a little bit every time I read them. And it doesn’t take much to make me cry. But this poem does.
We begin at the kitchen table. We end at the same kitchen table. And through our lives, although we drift away from that table, we keep returning to the safety of the table. It shields us from the sun and the rain. At that kitchen table, we learn to become the kind of humans who are good in the world.
2 Rules of Writing began at a very small table. In a bunch of phone calls and messages exchanged between Adam and I. After two and a half years, the project we have is so very different from the project we envisioned, but no less exciting. Every time I turn around, I find myself discovering another skill I never thought I’d have to learn, another experience I never thought I’d have.
My heart overflows with joy and with pride at how much we’ve grown this year. We’ve had to add leaves and chairs to our ever growing table. Not only that, but Adam and I, who are largely responsible for guiding this community have grown, as community leaders, as writers, as friends.
In some Jewish communities, it is traditional that when a child begins learning, letters are traced in honey and the child licks their fingers so that learning may always be sweet. We know that learning is hard. That sometimes at our table voices are raised, angry words are said and people hurt. The thing I keep seeing, again and again, is genuine compassion. People willing to listen. People willing to do the work to make change. “To learn what it means to be human.”
This website, our Facebook community, our Discord server, our Zoom groups, this is our table. If someone shows up with an open heart and an open mind at our table, there will be room. We will welcome them, laugh with them, dry their tears, patch up scraped knees and celebrate with them.
“The world begins at a kitchen table.” We’re still making room at ours. Find your seat.
To view the daily 2024 poem click here.
To view a list of all poems that have been part of the 30 Days, 30 Poems project, click here.
