One Poem Only

DreamsCecilia Knighti’m three months postpartumand i’m dreaming againnot the kind you get when you’re asleepwhat is sleep anyway?the kind you get when you’re awakewhen your eyes are openand you feel alivethe kind of dreams that remind youof your firei say hello to themand they feel like a long lost friendthat you meet up with in an empty parking lotat 5am to watch the sunriseand talk about what life will be likewhen you finally leave this townthey feel like octoberthey feel like the bonfirei can hear the wood crackingi can smell the hay bale im sitting onthe beanie im wearingmakes my forehead itchybut my best friend is sitting next to meand just offered me his jacketso i forget about it for a whilethey feel like im standing in the front rowat my favorite singer’s concertjumping up and downscreaming the words toeverysinglesongthey feel like no one can touch methey feel like my son will never go wantingthey feel like something worth huntingand nothing can stop men o t h i n g

More from Cecilia Knight ↓

1. @ceciliaknightpoems on Instagram
2. Her book, The Burning Pages, is available now.
3. Listen to me read Treasures by Cecilia on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.

The Cloak of Quiet Light Dorothy Howls I weave a thread of silver-white, around my chest, soft-shielded tight. A shimmer-glow no eye can see, but here it stands, protecting me. No harsh word sticks, no shadow stays, I’m held in warmth through stormy days.

More from Dorothy Howls ↓

1. @thehumanspell on Instagram

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

LightShannon WestI’m afraid of the dark and so is heWe hold each other close and drift off into dreamsThe closet light is on - just how we like itLight spills from beneath the door bathing the room in its warmthThe basement, being alone, silence, death - belong to the darkThe kitchen table, love, togetherness, life - belong to the lightKindred spirits safe in our nestWe don’t need to fear the shadowsWe can see them as well as they can see usThe irony is not lost on me that when we are most at peace, we close our eyesEmbracing the darknessI am empatheticBecause I still fear the darkMaybe moms aren’t supposed to admit thatI don’t think it’s a weaknessIt just isBut what a privilege it isTo be his light now

More from Shannon West ↓

1. @shannonswriting on Instagram

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

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.

Jan 26 - Born of Ashes by Goldilocks @goldenprisonpoetry on Instagram.

Jan 27 - The Mythical Hero of Legend has Clinical Depression by Oscar W Isaacs @oscarwritesaacs on Instagram.

Jan 28 - Cheap Therapy Cheat Sheet by Tanja Lau @tanias.butterflies on Instagram. Tania's Butterflies on Substack. Listen to me read Rumors by Tanja on Instagram @rembrandts.cure

Jan 29 - The Grief that Grips Our World by Raquel Dionísio Abrantes @poets_desk on Instagram.

Jan 30 - Without The Noise by Dipanwita Dey @iamdipanwitadey on Instagram.

Jan 31 - Chai and Chrysanthemum by Mahnoor Rehan @smearedwithcrimson on Instagram.

Feb 1

Through the SoundMaggie DeversHow much longer will we keep up the farceHow much longer will the charade last?We thrive onscreen with tricks of light and sound
Our entire world–galaxy–is cut off from the rest of the universeWe fill this void by lashing outBy forgetting why we're hereBy rushing through the good partsAnd replaying the bad ones
The things they promised would never happenNow occur at such a frequency,There is no time to parse their soundsThe morning birdsong is immense and unwaveringA reminder not to close your ears
A reminder that the small and weak are us,As are the brutesWe only have to look them in the eyes to know–One day we will die.
Familiar things become derangedThere is a part of us that remembers these horrorsBecause we’ve seen them beforeIn the hours we wait for understanding
The smell of a familiar stuffed bearOf pancakes on the griddleRosemary scented palms, sticky with the smelling
Where do pain and fear live?In the small quiet corners of our bodyWhere they try not to cry,Where they bite their lipLook deep into the middle distanceAnd imagine they are safe.

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

Chai and Chrysanthemum Mahnoor Rehan My heart leansTowards abominationYou— Earliest ray of sunshineWalking sack of calculated caloriesAbyss, philanthropyI follow the squirrels as they hop from one willow toanotherWhen I leave my world behind just to play a minusculepart in yoursWhite Chrysanthemum disguisedAs a humanBang bangSwish swishThey rip my petals off in bitsEven god loves your companyYou both laugh at my life choices on a Saturday morningover a cup of chaiOh, what a delightful sight am I?A hopeless, humorless watchThe burden of love etched in my palms—Yet the thought of you still keeps me warmAs I sit here in my rocking chairIn the winter of my lifeMy center centers around your centerAnd I—Quietly oblige.

More from Mahnoor Rehan ↓

1. @smearedwithcrimson on Instagram

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

Without The Noise Dipanwita Dey Who am Iwhen the notifications stop buzzing,when applause fades,when the lights dim and disappear,when no eyes are left to watch?
Who am Iwhen the corner of the bedside empties quietly,the pillow no longer wet with secrets,the chaos no longer hums merrily,and my father’s strength vanishes—softly into thin air?
Am I still kindif no one claps for my empathy?Still strong,if no one sees me carry the weight?Still dependable,if I crumble silently each day?
In the hush of 3 AM,without filters, without guilt,without the crowd, without the noise,without the need to be enough—I find her.
The girl who is strength.The quiet warrior,secretly fighting her own battle.She is poetry. She is art.She writes wildlyand cries without shame.
Without the noise,I am not the echo of the world.I am the voice.Raw. Trembling.But finally—mine.

More from Dipanwita Dey ↓

1. @iamdipanwitadey on Instagram

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

The Grief that Grips Our WorldRaquel Dionísio AbrantesSilver waters whisperamidst slender brancheswhere sisters bathe. My twinof bone and moss whose woeI fold like my grandmother foldedher husband’s pants —carefully, and in silence. Come,feral storm. Let usbe washed from the griefthat grips our world tonight.

More from Raquel Dionísio Abrantes ↓

1. @poets_desk on Instagram

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

Cheap Therapy Cheat SheetTanja Lau

This poem was originally published by Part-Time Poets. Issue 29.

No excuses. Pick your next move:Some people scream into pillows, others nametheir grief Steve and set a place for him at dinner.Mine is called Ernesto, he’s Swedish and he’s a strangerto daylight, so I forgive him. Naturally, he likes to quoteKierkegaard. That guy knew a thing or two aboutconnecting the dots backwards. But it’s the partabout living fast-forward Ernie conveniently swallows.It still gets me every time. You know,Ernesto can be a bit dramatic. He always wants meto dress for my own funeral. But I pick the red backlessdress instead and microwave my lunch at 4 p.m. like Lady Madrid.Yes, it’s good china Wednesday. Everyday. Time to crackopen that bottle of champagne I’ve been savingfor a special occasion. What’s more specialthan being alive? After dinner, I serve two Oreoslike communion. (Take three, if you’re religious.)For dessert there’s nothing better than writingmy name on the mirror. Kissing it. (With tonguefor advanced patients). And then the grand finale:smashing the handmade mug from third gradepottery class and spending two hours reassembling it.Same same, but different. Just like me. In bed,I make a vow to never again miss a chanceto dance it out in an elevator. Ernesto wouldn’t approve.Who cares? He’s asleep by now.

More from Tanja Lau ↓

• @tanias.butterflies on Instagram
• Tania's Butterflies on Substack
• Listen to me read Rumors by Tanja on Instagram @rembrandts.cure
• She is editor of SHAME/less, an anthology that brings together forty-nine poems by forty poets from across the world in a collection that moves, with honesty and tenderness, from shame to shedding.

The Mythical Hero of Legend has Clinical Depression Oscar W Isaacs The prophecy breathed of him cleaving through demons. Reaping through legions of unspeakable evil. Reaming to pieces their grievous leaders. Then of the deceased, he’d retrieve them from Elysium by redeeming their lethal lesions. A kill he’s healed… But in reality, the Hero just sleeps in. His steed, he forgot to feed it. Lives off cheap mead, cheap weed, gets a quest- he doesn’t even read it. His sword forged by dwarves in the depths of a Fjord is buried under heaps of laundry increasing week by week because folding his jeans is as steep an Odyssey as deceiving Polyphemus. Forget polishing those greaves when Aeneids could be written from him polishing his teeth. The Mythical Hero of Legend is Atlas bearing the weight of the heavens Even when he’s rotting in his bedroom. He’s reeling from a lifetime of people demeaning and lessening his presence, first bullies, then professors, with lessons in quelling his legend, and then in the present he’s putting in effort impressing incessant investors. It bends him. Rends him. Condemned like a Trojan no Hector defending. And while kingdoms immolate in dragon’s flames, he’s sat at home playing video games because he comprehends himself as Untermenschen. There’s no Nemean beast, no mares of Diomedes, the apples of Hesperides still chill among the trees, the labours would seem unachievabletoo if Heracles was Gen Z. And though the world needs him, he can’t quite believe it. A party made up of a priest and a thief like in an RPG awaits him. He doesn’t know that those are his mates who stayed with him. Who he’s airing because replying to their message feels like writing an Epic. But the world cannot be rescued by scrolling through Reddit. Upheaval cannot be bested by a festering prisoner of terror. The Mythical Hero of Legend must be his own medic. Like Gilgamesh he must face the grotesque and behead it, transform like an Ovid retelling. Not dread the unsettling, accept it. The voice in his head will always be frenetic. Let it. It won’t always be poetic. Even if he manages to build Rome from wreckage, he is stuck behind a desk. Shiva works for Unilever. Beowulf claims benefits. The Mythical Hero of Legend is being suppressed and you, no less oppressed. You get dressed, get stressed, do your best for a profession that does not honour the hopes you’re repressing. I am Tiresias the Prophet proclaiming a presage, you my friend are not pathetic. Even if apathetic, even if dead, your life was a saga you scribed into cells. The Mythical Hero works in sales. Works retail. Waits tables. The Mythical Hero frees himself from Hades since maybe to be is worthy of fables. And even though sometimes he dreams of the cleanest means to leave, and there may come a day where that urge may defeat him. Perceive that the prophecy breathed of him cleaving through demons. And to exist. For an eon, or even, just for a minute, to meet them in conflict,
is mythic.

More from Oscar W Isaacs ↓

1. @oscarwritesaacs on Instagram

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

Born of Ashes Goldilocks We were born of ashes and blood, In a shattered past stained with death. Each word hurt like a knife stabbing, Each day felt closer to the end. The pain did not stop for a second, It grew bigger with rage.
Despite it all, survival was my saviour. Living got me into the arms of a soul like mine. A soul that needed mine, a soul that found me too. A soul that needed saving and soothing, just like I did. The world got colors, and the heart filled with light. Today, I live the dream I had when I cried myself to sleep.
All the times I begged in desperation, Prayed for hope, prayed for a hero. All the tears that wetted my pillow, All the silent screams the walls held, All the beatings the bed took. So it all had meaning, it all led me here.

More from Goldilocks ↓

1. @goldenprisonpoetry on Instagram

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