One Poem Only

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.

Disjointed ConversationsJean WathuguBecause I saw that obligatory smileI am dismembering the foot in my mouthYour eyes like to wander in the middle of my lame anecdoteSo here’s my prosthetic humourSo I can fake it enough to make itHow about you write me a technical manual on how to beSo in between the jargon I can mourn the parts of me that don't fit inYou took me in beforeSpitting me outI’m a mishmash of mismatched ingredientsPreheating the oven to bake foreign philosophies into my ownI hoped you'd see me but I guess now I'm in betweenCrystal glasses of wineSo I can see through thisDismembering of the foot in my mouthThe burning off of offensive quirksThe flogging of my delinquent idiosyncrasiesThe branding of new philosophiesMy drunk mind was always more imaginative. So I'm drinking 4% beerDreaming up a version of realityWhere your attention doesn't wander off-In the middle of my syllablesThe only visions that matter are the ones you have of meIn the right lens. Did you get my good side?I am dreaming up a version of realityWhere I am solid enough to be elusiveAnd you don't have to see through me and my bullshitI am mourning the parts of me that don't fit in - do you get it?

More from Jean Wathugu ↓

• @jean.wathugu on Instagram
• @jean.archived on Substack

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us when we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, in print, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.

Benedict FruitYonsiri Rojasthe goose hisses in its ivory crochet suit;sauntering the stoned road, a flinch of lightbathing the pigeon’s pearls, the town’s bruteanimal—its local needful, lazy pal mighthave carved off some of its benedict fruit.the goose grasps the pigeon’s winghums a ballad, makes a sorrowful scenedown the mountain, towards the spring“cut him some slack!”, swallows him clean;local conflict nicely solved, left neither a whing,nor the clumsy thief seen.

More from Yonsiri Rojas ↓

• @lvrimar on Instagram

Watch Handpicked Wednesday

A new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.

A Few Weeks Into the DreamsJorge Lopez LlorenteBack then, a few bodies ago, you knew how to get your dreams delivered. You would sleep in the shape of a question mark and the empty side of the bed would be the silent answer. Now the silence is broken by you answering the door late, groggy. Now dreams are strangers’ hands, with covered faces, leaving a parcel on the doorstep, untouched, which you find too late, with the doorbell’s ring muffled. You’re asking for more than you need. You lie that it’s broken and you’re reimbursed and keep these dreams. You lie to yourself: you don’t want them, you don’t know where to put them. Fragile, this way up, they are now half-used and tucked beneath your unmade bed. Now the dreamfulness wakes you up at odd hours of the night, with that shudder as if you’re dreaming that you’re falling or flying and then stop. Nothing is enough; the nothing is too much. You can’t say no to them, although you can’t say yes to them and follow them through; that would spoil these dreams. Besides, they’re not even yours. Kind of. Sleeping with outdoor clothes on has got you dreaming of the bubble wrap these dreams came in. You never finish bursting the bubbles; your room smells of plastic. In the next few sleeps, you want no more dreams, you want the sound of burst bubbles instead; not foam, but seconds of spindrift spittle. Throw it all out except the wrapping. A choking hazard. Only then can you wrap it all up, forget all the forgetting, stop feeling those dreams and that body as your own. Sleep on your back, straightened, correctly, staring at the ceiling. Sleep like a few bodies ago, some body on a commute, delivered, daydreaming of no longer dreaming, onwards, straight ahead, correctly. The bubbles don’t all burst.

More from Jorge Lopez Llorente ↓

• @jorgelllorente on Instagram
• This poem is from his recently published poetry Dreamescapes published by Alien Buddha Press, 2025

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Feed yourself poetry every day.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.

What's Wrong with My HeartGillian ShielsMy heart is a little broken:Sometimes it does too much tickingAnd not enough tocking.It’s an electrical signal disruption,They tell me.I take my tablets every dayAnd they help.Most of the time.But I worry.I can’t help it.Over the years,This poor heart of mineHas been shattered so many times.It has been battered,Bruised,Ached so badlyI was sure I would die.It has expandedAnd contracted.Been scorched by flamesI mistook for lasting warmth.Still, I will continue to take my tablets.And whisper to my heart in the night,As if it were a fragile bird,Beat on,sweet heart,beat on.

More from Gillian Shiels ↓

• @thoughts_finding_words on Instagram

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.

This week’s poems

• Aching by Brittany Searle Kempaiah
• La Mariposa de Fierro by Christiane Williams-Vigil
• They Built the Wall Themselves by M. A. Dubbs
• Nine Novembers Later by Erin Zarro
• Shadow Infested Room by Himani Goel
• Show & Tell by Shahé Mankerian

Plus one new one to carry us into the week ahead

Tea PartyMaggie DeversThe hand of godSips with the divine pinky upHoly water servedIn antique china cupsFirst gently blowingNot for the heatBut to make ripplesStill, the liquid warms the sameEven for the dolls whoHave yet to taste a dropThe imaginary need not look realTo be feltCreation is not just what we see

More from Maggie Devers ↓

• My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.
• Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on Patreon
• Follow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure

More from this week’s poets

Find links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Poetry is better when it’s lived with. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.

Show & TellShahé MankerianThis poem was first published in Contemporary Verse 2, Summer 2024 (Vol. 47, No. 1)To Lucille CliftonJosé lifted a rabbit from a corroded cageand said, “This is Jesús. We found himsleeping among the dead daffodils.”Elizabeth asked us to cover our ears“Because Beethoven was deaf,” she saidas “Ode to Joy” squeaked on her violin.I clapped the loudest because on the firstday of school Liz braided my shoelaceswith hers. Mrs. Honzay poked my forearmwith a pen, “Settle down,” she whispered.Sweaty Mika wore his father’s space suit.Selma uttered from her wobbly desk,“He even smells like an alien.” When I stoodin front of the blackboard, nauseous,with nothing fancy to share, I raisedmy trembling hands shoulder high.“I was born with twelve fingers,” I said,“and I have the scars to prove it.”

More from Shahé Mankerian ↓

• @shahemankerian on Instagram
• His book: History of Forgetfulness published by the Fly on the Wall Press

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us when we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, in print, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.

Shadow Infested RoomHimani GoelClosing the door on the shadow infested room?I say noI pull the curtains open.Shaky handsWindows stuckStrain harderpushed open with a rattleSudden breezehair swept awayCurtains blownThe wind takes the lead to start a dance with the mossy curtainsUp they flysaying hello to theparticlessparkling like pixie dusta magic in new ray of shineThe wind pulls back with a whisperthe curtains flow downcaughtin a thorn,grown unknownbetween the floorboardsthe dance turns into a tug of wartug tug, oh the strugglethe wind wins,thorn ripswind tries to dance againbut the mark left the curtains flutteringbroken, healingWind settles downthe curtains rest.Pitter patternear my toesup I lookthe ceiling leaksI let it pour.Wet floorHidden tearsTaken first steps to wash away the sorrows pastWish to forget the shadows cast

More from Himani Goel ↓

• @heartovermind on Instagram

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.

Nine Novembers LaterErin ZarroTW: ViolenceNine Novembers laterYou plucked flowers from my mouth andweaved them into a crownYou sang me into submission andwe made beautiful music togetherbut in the morning, you didn't remember my name.When I wanted to leave you, you gave me sunlight,promised me forever,slid a dagger through my spine.When you sucked the light from my bones,I cried, and you sewed my tears to my facein silence that burnsIn darkness, you fed me wildflowers and pain.I will gather my bones and I will riseI will shine heavenly light through my empty eye socketsYou will never touch my bones again.Originally written in Esperanto.

More from Erin Zarro ↓

• @erinzpoetry on Instagram
• Her chapbooks, Life as a Moving Target, and Without Wings are available now

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us when we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, in print, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.

They Built the Wall ThemselvesM. A. DubbsOn any given weekday on the east boardwalk of Port Washington,you’ll find fishermen of leisure.Long white beards, shirtless with an all over tan,crepey skin a canvas of tattoos;a visual storyboard of his trials.If you’d ask, you’d learn about the steady handsthat inked him as a kid drafted to ‘Nam.He won’t say much about the thick bordered oneshe did when he got back.Just shake his beard and tell you “mistakes.”Ashes from his cigarette will fallon familiar burn marks as his lips tremble.The lake clears the mind,dampening the sound of everything.Even the water crashes silently on the storm breaker,so it’s always still.A haze, not a fog, rests north of here.Resting on the horizon like an acoustic panel.It’s the silence that he seeksbut he’ll bring six fishing rods anyways.Strap them up in a row along the railing,all cast close, lines just four feet apart.If you’d ask, he’d say he’s trying to better his odds.Ask if he’s caught anything so far and he’d shrug,tell you nothing good yetbut he wants a big fish so he brought the big rods.But mostly, he’s quiet.He rests on a bench or sits on his hams and squints outwards.Solemn face, as couples hold hands and stroll by,as a mom pushes her child in a stroller,as a group of teen boys pause.They long to learn and touch fishing line,have an old hand guide their fingers through pretty little lures,each feathered and glittered with care.They long for tough stories that were untold until they lent an ear.There’s a pause for connectionbut it passes too quick.The boys don’t know much yet but they’ll carry this anger homeand it will stay in their chest for years to come.The old man watches through sleepy eyes,human lighthouse:eyelids half open to the boys,half closed to the water.

More from M. A. Dubbs ↓

• @madubbspoetry on Instagram
• Her book, A Walk to Americana, published with Dancing Girl Press is available now

Handpicked Wednesday

A new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch here on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.

La Mariposa de FierroChristiane Williams-VigilThe autumn leaves of American Beechflutter and cover her inquilt-like patches of many colors.To warm her through icy yearsand struggles of the 9 to 5.She sings not for those who are entangled in richesbut lullabies those who are suppressed,silenced,and overlooked.The ones who she wishes life willtreat them kind..Blessed is she who opens her heart,and pardons red-haired womenwho can’t help their siren-esque call.Out of a chrysalis of ash,her soul profound in its understanding ofphilanthropy and eternal love.She rises as an iron butterfly,armed with guitars and an endless stream of lyrics.And we will always love her.

More from Christiane Williams-Vigil ↓

• @christyvigilwriter on Instagram
• You can see her latest publications and workshops at her website: christianewilliams-vigil.com

Support + Stay Connected to OPO

If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

Feed yourself poetry every day.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form