One Poem Only

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

Operating Instructions for the Day After Your Best Friend Tells You He Supports GenocideJané DowdUpon waking: breathe deep.Savour the shimmer of momentary freedom,lack of memory and regret.Surround yourself with three dogs:sentinels; triumvirate.Check the curtain crack for signs of dawn.When the child stirs, relish her aliveness.As the small ghosts arise in protest,cup their faces in your bloody hands,whisper the useless lament:I am sorry. -And again:I am sorrow.When the cat crawls under your crook’d claw:picture the desert landscapedevoid of trees, of innocence, of hope, of caress.As you pour the milk, squeeze the honey:hold your heart on an open palmleave it be; watch how it stuttersshivers and stallslook at its redness which is simplefragile humanthe same;fill it with your grit, ask that sinewy engineto oyster, to pearlto return to the cave of your chestalive, yes, but beatingdifferently, more soundly andmore true

More from Jané Dowd ↓

1. @jane_doe.8.0 on Instagram
2. @janedoe9 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 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

1. no place like home by Abhilasha Ghosh
2. The mind unmasked by Aliyah Morayo
3. borderline by Luna Ferguson
4. Inedible by Sera
5. adulthood by Carlee Wilson
6. To My Daughter Elizabeth by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Plus one new one to carry us into the week ahead

The CallMaggie DeversThey woke in slumberAnd settled in the streetsThey counted transgressionsLike it was food to eat
The blaze furled down the mountainA glass bottle cried over the dinThe flare dissipated in the skyA subtle shock of warning slowly drifting by
What have they learned here?What fate will be revealed?To the jagged, humbling massesSuddenly filled with zeal?

More from Maggie Devers ↓

1. My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.
2. Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on Patreon
3. 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.

To My Daughter ElizabethMary Ann H. T. BigelowTwo flowers upon one parent stemTogether bloomed for many days.At length a storm arose, and oneWas blighted, and cut down at noon.
The other hath transplanted been,And flowers fair as herself hath borne;She too has felt the withering storm,Her strength's decayed, wasted her form.
May he who hears the mourner's prayer,Renew her strength for years to come;Long may He our Lilly spare,Long delay to call her home.
But when the summons shall arriveTo bear this lovely flower away,Again may she transplanted beTo blossom in eternity.
There may these sisters meet again,Both freed from sorrow, sin, and pain;There with united voices raise,In sweet accord their hymns of praise;Eternally his name t' adore,Who died, yet lives forevermore.

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.

adulthoodCarlee Wilsongone are the days where my ceilingtwinkled with plastic magicand the only house i worried about was barbie’s.it didn’t matter if ken came home or not,didn’t matter if stacie’s car had a flator if joe’s deployment was extended.boy, i’d kill for a mud pie right now,full of everything we’ve been taught to avoid,devoid of everything we’ve been taught matters.i wish i could sit on the playground swingand twist the clinking chains around and aroundand scream as i spin violently back to center.back to before the world did it for me,back to when it felt good.

More from Carlee Wilson ↓

1. @poetcarlee 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.

InedibleSeraI wish I could covermy body in spikes,become unappetizing,indigestible.
I poke holes into my image,pour lighter fluid over it,flicking the flame onand burning awaythe outline you memorized,char the version of meyou still think of.
I wish I could transform,shapeshiftinto something you hate.
I chop my hair inuneven sections,cut lattice into my face,unravel the centre of myself.I bite my fingers raw,throw my body against concreteuntil it's beaten bloody.
carve my tonguefrom my throatso I can't comply.stab forks into my sight;force myself backin control.
I wish I could breakevery single one of my bonesso I can slip from these cuffs,this cage,contort myself to fitbetween the bars.I know I have the keybut I can't find the lock-I'm blind.I need to break myselfout of here.
time is flyingbut my wings are broken.I take a bat to my back,pepper spray my face,swallow a grenadeand drink acid.
I wish I could mould myselfinto a mushy mess,become nauseating,off putting,tasteless.
I run into traffic,tangle myself in the tires,chugging gasoline.I jump into a pit of spiders,cover myself in bites and stings,eat handfuls of beesuntil my cheeks swell.
I'll dip myself into alake of boiling water,seeping deep as myskin bubbles up.
I'll roll in what repels you,leave with a matching stench,use jagged stonesto scratch up anyblank space remaining.
I wish I could melt downinto the cracks in the earth,hide in the soilfrom the eyes in the sky.
drag wood againstmy arms and legs,hair turning to splinters.I shave my eyebrows offand pick at my lips.I'll tie my teeth to string,slam the door,take pieces of glassand stick them into my body,standing with the cactus.
cut out all the cartilageand tie together my tendons,spread my blood on breadand eat that instead.
jump head firstinto a volcano,exfoliate my skin with the heat.make myself a target-fire arrow after arrow,pinning myself down.
take an axe to my toes,a mace to the chest,a knife to the back.
I wish I could becomeinedible,insipid,abhorrent.I'd do anythingto make youprojectile vomitat the thought of me.

More from Sera ↓

1. @serawrites03 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 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 a double feature: one poem here on the podcast, and one more by the same poet shared on Instagram.

borderlineLuna Fergusonborderlinebetween what may i ask?floating whilst the clock ticks bytears on the night of your lifepain in pleasurepleasure in paindoors closedthe slams still echo in your brainin-prisoned by your own namedust scatters over where you layan endless impossible escape you planned at 5imprints of those who held you tightjust to leave you in the nightskys are blue but your mind is greyit makes no sense why you feel this waybut at least you know borderline is where you staythere is safety in that pain

More from Luna Ferguson ↓

1. @lunaroseferguson on Instagram
2. @lunaroseferguson on Substack
3. Her book, Borderline, is available now

Watch the Second Poem

You can watch and listen to another poem by Author as part of our Wednesday double feature 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.

The mind unmaskedAliyah MorayoMy mind carries centuries.The rust of chains sits where dreams should bloom.It remembers the songs my ancestors could not finish,the languages drowned beneath the ocean,The prayers that reached heaven but never came back whole.
I carry the scent of burning villages,the hush of mothers hiding their children from soldiers,The taste of iron in blood is not yet dry.History is not behind me,it lives beneath my skin,in the way I flinch at loud footsteps,In the way, I still ask permission to exist.
Poverty came next, not the kind you can see,But the one that eats through dignity.It teaches you how to smile while shrinking,How to apologize for breathing air you didn’t pay for.I have held hunger in my stomach like a secret,watched promises rot in the mouths of politicians,and called it governance.
Racism doesn’t need chains anymore.It wears suits now, sits in boardrooms,and signs papers that erase faces like mine.It whispers in hiring rooms, in classrooms,In the silence after a joke that was never funny.My skin still walks into rooms before I do,And sometimes it leaves bruises.
And there was the night I lost my body.Hands that were not mine mapped me without mercy.They called it desire,But I learned that silence can sound like survival.They told me to forgive,as if forgiveness could sew me back whole.But my body remembers,every breath, every tremor, every theft.
Sometimes I dream of a woman,barefoot, heavy with history,a pregnant silhouette against a red horizon.She carries nations in her womb,grief and hope braided in her hair.The earth listens when she walks;Every step is a drumbeat,Every contraction is a prophecy.She births children into a world that greets themwith both fear and promise,each cry echoing a memory that refuses to die.
And the men in suits still speak of progress,while the roads collapse and children starve.Corruption wears perfume now,It smiles on TV, it calls itself democracy.The poor grow thinner,their bones become statistics,Their stories are buried under asphalt and applause.
The mind remembers it allthe rape, the racism, the hunger,forgetting.It remembers how it learned to pretend to be fine,how it stitched its wounds with hope too small to cover the pain.It remembers prayers that turned to smoke,dreams that suffocated before they could fly.
But unmasked,The mind does not lie.It bleeds truth.It exposes the scars beneath the laughter,the trembling beneath the strength.It holds everything the world tried to bury, and still dares to breathe.
And somewhere, that pregnant woman still walks.Barefoot and unbroken.Her belly glows with the ghosts of centuries,her breath carries the songs we’ve forgotten to sing.When she finally gives birth, the world will tremble,because the child will come out screaming, not in pain,but in remembrance.
And that, perhaps,is what it means to be unmasked,To remember, to ache, and to live still.

More from Aliyah Morayo ↓

1. @aliyah_morayo 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.

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.

no place like homeAbhilasha Ghoshcoming back feels different—as if the walls have softenedwhile you were gone,as if the light has rehearsedthe exact way it will fall on your facewhen you step inside.you notice small things first:the old curtain breathing in the breeze,the smell of evening settling on the floor,the faint echo of who you used to bestill lingering in the cornerslike a loyal ghost.distance does this—carves out space in your chestso the familiar can returnwith a strange, tender sharpness.a house you once rushed throughbecomes a sanctuarythe moment you walk away from it.and standing at the threshold now,red shoes dusty from everywhere else,you feel that quiet click inside—recognition, surrender, belonging.dorothy’s words arrive softly in red shoes,“there’s no place like home.”

More from Abhilasha Ghosh ↓

1. @booksandbillis 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

1. Presence of Choice by Alecia Lewis
2. Harmony by Seán Tate
3. Memory weighs more than bone and Hash browns by Charlotte Dawn
4. Tangerines and Alcoholism by Labanya Dey
5. I Am Mother by Melissa Norton
6. Comrades by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Plus one new one to carry us into the week ahead

BordersMaggie DeversOn the north side of the borderThe saguaro arms are droopingAnd the Oregon Pipes have disappearedEven their bones are missing.
But to the south, they grow tall and proudWith enough of both to pepper the landscape,And I wonder how it's possibleFor a line in the sand to grow.

More from Maggie Devers ↓

1. My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.
2. Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on Patreon
3. 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.

Comrades Ella Wheeler Wilcox I and my Soul are alone to-day, All in the shining weather; We were sick of the world, and put it away, So we could rejoice together.
Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky Is mixing a rare, sweet wine, In the burnished gold of this cup on high, For me, and this Soul of mine.
We find it a safe and royal drink, And a cure for every pain; It helps us to love, and helps us to think, And strengthens body and brain.
And sitting here, with my Soul alone, Where the yellow sun-rays fall, Of all the friends I have ever known I find it the BEST of all.
We rarely meet when the world is near, For the World hath a pleasing art And brings me so much that is bright and dear That my Soul it keepeth apart.
But when I grow weary of mirth and glee, Of glitter, glow, and splendour, Like a tried old friend it comes to me, With a smile that is sad and tender.
And we walk together as two friends may, And laugh and drink God's wine. Oh, a royal comrade any day I find this Soul of mine.

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 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