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

Not mine anymore Avalon If my words are my ownThey are all that I haveExcept... that’s not quite rightIf my words are my ownThey abandon me when I most need itAnd, that never feels rightMy words are my ownAnd they blink in and outA lighthouse on the shoreWhile I’m drowningMy words are my ownAnd others desperately pry them out of meA clam with a pearlA person blinded by the rewardMy words are my ownThey yearn to hear itMy words are my ownMy words are my-My words are-My words-My words are my ownI cannot repeat themUtterance loses meaningIf my words are my ownWhy must I give them away?

More from Avalon ↓

• @avalonspoems on Instagram
• Her book, Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird, is 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 slows us down. Thank you for listening.

Mentioned in this episode:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

ButterscotchAmy Laessle-MorganSomewhere between the amberblush streetlight of Divisionand the butterscotch stain on the back of my throat,there was a glasslike momentnearbentbut not yet breaking.Half-formed, honeydrunk on the hourslipping past the soft machinery of becomingunbecomingrewindingrethreading.Warm, butterfat air washing in subtlebreathing through the cracked window taxicabteacuplight broken open on my cheekwhispering nothing is permanentexcept the way we almost changed.There was always something burning—toastbridgesthe last good version of me I kept resuscitatingwith mouth-to-mouth-watering memory.Tonight, I’ll wear that dress you lovedin the color of skinbrushed apologieswhile the past rides shotgunsilentadjusting the mirror like it still matters how I see myselfbecause when mirrors grow honestthe corridors echo less—as everyone pours out.Let us go then, you and Ithrough the goldblood hourswhere no one teaches you how to bleed pretty—not in the swanpale wrist pressedto cold porcelain tile wayhalf-lit in someone else’s forgetting.You learn it knees to marblecheek to linoleumin radio silence buzzing through your teethplaying love songs that didn’t learn the language.He liked it leaning in disrepairso I sucked the ghostsweet butterscotch slow.I let it split goldenglass hard and sharpthe bloom red blooming—behind teetha salty flood.It cut me—but I didn’t spit it out.I kept itI kept it all.

More from Amy Laessle-Morgan ↓

• @ultramarine_poetry on Instagram
• Her book, Live Wire, is 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:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

“God, you can keep the boys”Peyton Michelle BryantGod, you can keep the boyswho only write sad poetryand listen to The Smiths on repeat.God, my man is a warrior.Lord knows I’ve got enough wordsto feed the both of uswhen times get tough.My man writes poems with his hands.My man is not afraidto bloody his knuckles for me.My man is a lion, Lord.He is a stallion running down his own mission.Our paths meet in the middle where we playbut neither one pulls the other off course.He knows I belong to this wild worlddoesn’t try to rope me inor brand me with his name.He knows I am not something to be owned.Instead, he builds me a boatwith the biggest sail you’ve ever seenand paints my nameon the side of her.He builds me a set of wingsthat carries me fartherthan Icarus could ever go.He builds me a writing cabinand doesn’t get offendedwhen I’m taken by the desireto be alone for daysin my cocoon of creation.His hands are shields-his palms big enoughto hold the entirety of the Milky Wayand each one has memorizedthe blue/brown/green/red planetof my body.His fingertips brush the column of my throatand he calls the rain down.Gardens grow in the marrow of meand not oncedoes he try to pluck them from the soil.My man has arms and legs like the trunksof the six-hundred-year-old Sycamore.I want to nest in the branches of him.I chart the map of his bodylike a world-eager traveler-trace the veins like blue-green riversalong the shores of his forearmslick the salt ocean sweatgathered in his jugular notchclimb him like a wolf in heatand stillI am hungry for the meat of him.My man calls me Brilliantcalls me Dragon Firecalls me Wolf Witch,Poetess,Great Moon of His Heart.My man calls me Thank God.He calls me At Last.God, my man is an inferno.I need him to be sturdy enoughto withstand the heat.He is my burning crimson star;I reach for the ten-million-degree Fahrenheit center of himwithout flinching.God, I know you’ve put us together before;our lifetimes are an ancient songmy cells still remember.I remember how we smelledof campfire smoke and sweat-our feet pounding a beat into the Earth.I remember his face cast in firelight-the two of us skin on skin,a tangled pile of limbsblanketed by furs.I remember my nailstracing red lines down the planes of himmy hair held like a birdtender in his fist.I remember his mouthmarking each rung of my spine,his calloused handslike rocky planetsorbiting the moon of me.I remember I fell from my horse-he took an arrow to the heartand new bodies and livesmade up a river of time between us.I am a queen lost to his kingdom, Lord.Send the cavalry!The lines have been blurredbetweendragonwomanand towerand I can no longer rememberwhich one I’m supposed to be.God, I want you to give him back.I want to lay him downin the feather bed of my heartonce again.I want to take his handcatch a ride to some faraway red planetwhere reincarnation is just myth-where this lifeis the only one that matters.God, call him back to mewith bone and bloodwith fire and howl-stitch soul to body once more.I will rearrange the cosmos myselfif need be.And this time, when stars alignand we find each other again,I will not fall from my horse.No.This timewe’ll ride side by sideall the way back home.

More from Peyton Michelle Bryant ↓

• @mama.laloba on Instagram
• Her newest poetry book Wolf Witch of the Wild and her debut, Feral Mother, Sovereign Woman, are out 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 shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

Mentioned in this episode:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

Dear Personal Care Department GodChris KadsAfter Lancee Whetman
God of the Personal Care Department,please grant me musk. Grant methe strength of “Steel Courage” -buffness in a bottle. Let mybody be a vessel of “dragon’s breath”and “warrior’s blood”. Allow me,like men, to be baptizedin wet swagger, to have mypreconceived softnesswash away with the scentof toughness.
Bless me,with blindness in the faceof razors. Grant methe normalizationof forest-y armpitsto pair with the scent of“Sasquatch Foot”.
And, please, oh holyPersonal Care Department God,revoke your commandmentsand let the avoidance of “Secret”and smoothnessnot be a sin.
Amen.

More from Chris Kads ↓

1. @chris_kads 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:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

Ugly Bones by Ella B. WintersElla B. WintersBehind the dusty radiator,green splashed like bloodspray in a B-film, from that timewhen you decidedto paint our bedroomin the middle of the night,I keep my poemshidden in a puce manila fileso unremarkable, it chameleonsinto the background, pink tongueunfurling to swallow my wordsinto the shadowy crevice.Mostly, I don’t want youto see them, as though,in the starkness of the earlyhours, when our wallsdemand another change,they might reveal my uglybones through the translucentskin. But sometimes, I forgetthey’re there, as well. Imagineleaving them behind when wemove on. Who will I be whenunsuspecting tenants pull meout word after word like a magician’sstring of endless gauzy scarves?How will they piece my naked bonestogether? What colour will theypaint the room?

More from Ella B. Winters ↓

1. @ella.b.winters on Instagram
2. @ellabwinters 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:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

When the Moon is fullGiGiWhen the Moon is Full,She never holds Me by the hand.
She grabs right behind thegape of My neck anddrags me to all I've been avoiding.
When the Moon is Full,She never whispers in My ear.
She screams at the top of Her lungs,so loud, that her rasping voice awakensthe aliens in outer space; now peering fromtheir spaceships.
When the Moon is Full,She never glides across the sky.
She anchors through the cloudsbeaming directly foreveryone and everything in Her path.
When the Moon is Full,She is never dainty but always true.
She smiles from above,sneering at everything You thought You knew about Her,and reminding you of exactly who You are

More from GiGi ↓

1. @thegigirising on Threads
2. Her books, The Scorpio Rising and The Marilyn Rising: Letters to Marilyn
3. She has a new book coming soon The California Rising: Poems from San Francisco to LA

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:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

This is How I DieKris AzizThis is how I dieGlass reflecting moonlighton the pavementMetal and gasoline mixing withBlood in the airA paramedic holding my hand
Except, wait-- rewind.I chose to get Taco BellBefore getting on the highwayAfter all.I don't worry about the caloriesOr how a dress will fitAfter all, I have a coupon forA free soft tacoThat says "you deserve it".I am not dead, I am eating aNacho fry Baja blast chalupaIn standstill traffic.
No, this is how I die:An empty bottle with one undrunkDrop of poison drippingOn the floor, mixing with theSweat on my blanketsShivering through my last feverWith nobody to hold my hand
Except, wait-- rewind.This time I chose to text my friendTo speak my pain into existenceAnd arm myself with herwords of love and worry.She brings me a Chicken Enchilada BurritoWith extra Diablo sauce.I am not dead,I am sleeping soundlySafe in my bedWith many dreams to come.
No, this is how I die:In a hospiceBreathing life throughan oxygen maskI am surrounded byThose who love meEnough to sneak inA Mountain Dew Baja Blast.
I am telling my grandkids aboutThat one time in the Himalayas.They don’t understand what I’m sayingUntil I pronounce it“Him-uh-LAY-uhs”.Their overbearing AmericanizationIs too much for my impatient heartI love them dearlyAnd am only leaving for a short time.
This is how I lived:Flirting with Death and cursing GodHeld together by soft tacosAnd nicotineTesting the limits of existenceWith recklessness andScraped together wordsEmbracing the joyEnduring the hurt
Now this is how I live:Pouring words on a pageEven though I am just aBoy/Girl/Ghost/Person,Not a poetShowing my heart to strangersHolding my own hand.

More from Kris Aziz ↓

1. @tacobelltrauma 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:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

First DraftJo WrightI don’t want AI.I want bees and seasDeep evergreen forestsGreat honeycombsIcecaps.Just, knowledgeable loversMen needing othersPeople questioning rhetoricSpeaking truthUnderstanding VaccinationsA world where we exclude no oneYears where there is still ozone.I want words to matterAnd when I draft my patterI don’t want my phone to ask‘Can I rewrite that for you?’I want credit where credit’s bloody dueAnd throwing that swear word inStops Google taking the line from you.I want water poured into humanityUntil everyone’s cup is fullUntil this thief clad in microchipsBurns itself out.I want precisely zero of your excusesWailing viciously under this skyRetreat quietly pleaseOut to no man’s landKeeping jealous ignorance ofHow generosity feedsEveryone’s delicate creativityBetter without AI.I don’t want it.I want to reclaim the land.

More from Jo Wright ↓

1. @joslipstick 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:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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. Plutocracy by Alicia Swain
2. Tony and/or Tonee by Nguyen Minh Tri
3. Snail by Lizzie Elliot-Klein
4. intuition by rism
5. Reduced by Rosalind Davies
6. Epitaph On A Tyrant by W. H. Auden

Plus one new one to carry us into the week ahead

In WarmthMaggie DeversHow many pots of tea have we forgotten to drink?Have we left sitting calmly on the counterGoing from hot to warmWarm to coolNoiselessly with no protest
As if our neglect was nothing to the brew,Our forgetfulness marked by indifference
But more is wasted than the tea–The chance to pause, to communeTo let the warm sweetness envelop us slowlyLike ivy covering a buildingSometimes taking years to grow.
But slowly, slowly spreading to touch every cellTo remind us to protect our warmthSo we remember to shoutWhen we are left alone to grow cold.

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.

Mentioned in this episode:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO

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

Epitaph On A TyrantW. H. AudenPerfection, of a kind, was what he was after,And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;He knew human folly like the back of his hand,And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

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:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO