One Poem Only

The Altar I Didn’t Know I was Building Elle Zaspel There’s a small bowl on the bookshelf,not meant for anything in particular.But in it: a cicada shell, a rock from a Hamptons beach,a blurry photo propped up beside them.Things I kept without knowing why.Things I wasn’t ready to throw away.
Cicadas remind me of him—loud among friends, a little bit silly,as if joy itself made them tremble.They seem forgetful,unsure of when to rise from the earth,but their confusion is only appearance.They know exactly when.He was like that too.
His keys are lost,his books—vanished into someone else’s box.Mine are stacked neatly,deliberate, placed with care,as if by tending to my objects,I might still be touching his.
There are trinkets from cities he never got to visit.Tiny brass charms, receipts, matchbooksfrom corners of the worldI tried to collect for the both of us.
The Douro waits.I haven’t gone.Too afraid the river might hold himmore completely than I ever could.Too afraid it won’t.
And then there’s the scent—not his, exactly,but close enough to trick me on a tired afternoon.I catch it when I’m not looking,and my knees forget how to hold me up.
The sparkle of his eyes—God, how bright they were—burns now only in memory,a flicker I fan when I’m alone.
This shelf,this corner,this drawer of objects I couldn’t part with—they are all fragments of the could-have-been.Of two heartsthat once tried to meetsomewhere between the living and the not.
I didn’t know I was building a shrine—I thought I was just trying to survive. 

More from Elle Zaspel ↓

• @moonvinegrief on Instagram
• She publishes Howl & Hold: A Grief Zine. Issue 1 is out now. Paper copy. Electronic copy.

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

In Another Lifetime Edyth Grace To an old friend, wherever you are.......
In another lifetime,Where the skies are plastered With soft pinks and bluesand golden huesAnd the grass, softer than your skin I once caressed.
In another lifetime,where the air hums the lyricsof the song, we would've rememberedAnd your fingers would've fit minelike the stars aligningin some perfect, forgotten sky.
In another lifetime,the clocks would slow their hands,giving us endless moments—no rush, no regret,just the gentle unfoldingof a story written in your eyes.
In another lifetime,we would've danced barefoot in the rainwithout fear of the lightning—or the goodbye.And maybe, just maybe,your heart would acheexactly the same waymine still does.
In another lifetime,where dreams rememberwhat reality forgets—I’ll find you.And maybe one day,we’ll stay. 

More from Edyth Grace ↓

• @edyth_grace17 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

"this is not a poem (exactly)"Tess Ezzythis is not a poem (exactly)but a leaf-fall of words unclaimed—(dear dirt) how softly youlistenand when wind folds the gumtrees intoparentheses (yes)what survives isbreath—a syntax of birds unsinging • meanwhile:Calla walks thru rain’s lowercaseand writes a cloud into her pocket(a sentence of dew)Orion maps stars in the dark of the page,his footnotes wet with ash • don’t say hope,say rootdon’t say beauty,say scarclimate speaks in fracture—in murmur,in shiver,in wait • the fire is (still) comingbutso ispoem(and what’s the difference,really?)

More from Tess Ezzy ↓

• @themoodyproject_ on Instagram
• Poetess Press on Substack

You can listen to me read Cross Roads by Tess @rembrandts.cure on Instagram.

Sometimes I feel like writing Junaid Ali Akbar Sometimes I feel like writing...Writing words that could shake the earth, But how foolish of me to think, That ink could stop the bloodshed.
Sometimes I feel like writing...When I see the corpses of children, Hanging from the rubble, Their bodies too small for the weight of this world, Crushed by the sins of those who never knew their names.
Sometimes I feel like writing...When I see fathers cradling their babies' bodies, Their hands trembling as they carry the weight of loss, Bombs ripping apart their hearts and homes, And I wonder, can my words reach where their cries cannot?
Sometimes I feel like writing...A poem so fierce, it could shatter the silence, A verse so loud, it could wake the world, But how silly of me to believe, That words alone could open the eyes of those who choose to sleep.
Sometimes I feel like writing...But what good are these lines, When the world turns away, When the truth lies buried beneath the rubble, And the ink dries, as cold as the bodies it tries to honour.
Sometimes I feel like writing...But I’m just one voice, One heart breaking in a sea of sorrow, And while I write, the bombs keep falling, And the world keeps sleeping.
Sometimes I feel like writing...But sometimes, The words are too heavy, And the silence is all that’s left.

More from Junaid Ali Akbar ↓

• @the.misfitpoet 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

Signs Defne Kartal I don’t believe in signs but I doI beg for them daily, and when they arrive -A postcard, a dog, a friend, a group of musicians, a Canadian -i don’t do what I think they’re telling me towhat are signs for?I don’t believe and I don’t know, I don’t know, so I don’t believeInstead, I conjure up an image of youWalking away through the crowd,I follow youEyes closed in my bedI hold youI look in people’s windows, says the poetI always, always, always doLion-faced truth-speakerNothing to see, if I can’t find you
but can anyone prove to me please,show the signs to me, pleaseThat my world has known you,And the world as I know it, still holds youin a corner where I don’t see, there you must be(Here’s a solace: Object permanence)What did you have for dinner today and who did you talk to?You must have gotten my letterdid it break or mend somethingAnd do you - believe in signs, the way I do?ask for them find them hate them love themask for them again, againagaindo you?

More from Defne Kartal ↓

• @defnewrites 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.

Nov 3 -  Naked by Danielle Martin @cosquelle.mind on Instagram. DanielleM on Facebook. Her book, Kissing Shadows: Caribbean Love Poems, is out now.

Nov 4 - Poetry Reading by Maggie Devers

Nov 5 - Her Absence by Katrina Kaye @poetkatrinakaye on Instagram. You can read more of her poetry on her website poetkatrinakaye.com. You can see me read Her Absence @rembrandts.cure on Instagram.

Nov 6 - you wrote anyway by Abhilasha Ghosh @abhilaxxa on Instagram. Her bookstagram is @booksandbillis .

Nov 7 - Nightmares are dreams too by Dimple Dinesh Lokhande @dimple_writes07 on Instagram. Her poems are featured in the poetry anthology, Words Of Escape, of which she is a co-author.

Nov 8 - "Dear death" by Alexis M Levine @alexandrathepoett on Instagram.

Nov 9The prompt was to write Maggie Devers A seven word poem about your mother I wrote it in my dream and It had evaporated when I woke up 
But I did dream of my daughter As a newborn asleep on my chest. The smell at her crown was there, And her little chest rose the same And I was a new mother again.
I have carried the feeling all day Thinking how our children hold us close When their tiny hand grips our finger I think of my mother and know For her, seven words are not enough.

More from Maggie Devers ↓

• Read my debut poetry book, For My Daughter
• Follow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure

A poem inspired by Emily Dickinson
Dear death How can I stay when you, more than life, make me feel seen?
They call you cruel, but I have seen the gentleness in your cruelty— the mercy in your ending, the way you unburden bones and hush the screaming thoughts no one else could hear. What if the ones who scream are not cruel, but trying to anchor me to a world they still believe can bloom?
And I— have I given everything a chance? Or have I fallen so in love with the idea of not hurting that I’ve forgotten what healing might feel like? Do not rush. But when you come home, come softly. Let me fall like a candle into darkness, like a secret finally heard. But even now, as I write your name with steady hands, something inside me trembles. What if I’m wrong? What if your silence is not peace, but absence? What if the ache I carry is not a curse, but a call— a sign that I was meant to stay, to fight, to feel just a little more? What if the ones who scream are not cruel, but trying to anchor me to a world they still believe can bloom?
And I— have I given everything a chance? Or have I fallen so in love with the idea of not hurting that I’ve forgotten what healing might feel like? - Alexis M Levine

More from Alexis M Levine ↓

• @alexandrathepoett 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

Nightmares are dreams too Dimple Dinesh Lokhande In the midnight sky, as breeze passes by, In our sleep, we tend to fly, To a place where dreams seem to lie.
Dreams whisper on clouds in silver light, We see in shining armor a knight, Who wields his sword and provides justice to what's right.
Dreams are a picture of the future, some blurred, some clear, Where hearts feel safe and fears disappear.
But deep beneath those dreamy skies, Lies a darker place where nightmares reside. They steal your breath, haunt your soul, A terror hidden, your body they control.
A face unknown with a sudden fall, The night consumes you with shadows' creepy call.
But nightmares, no matter how cold and severe, Are born from dreams, the same sphere.
Each night comes with stories brand new, This is your reminder that nightmares are dreams too. 

More from Dimple Dinesh Lokhande ↓

• @dimple_writes07 on Instagram
• Her poems are featured in the poetry anthology, Words Of Escape, of which she is a co-author

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

you wrote anyway Abhilasha Ghosh july 25th, 2025
you were told writing was a man’s terrain— ink too heavy, thought too sharp for your soft hands. so you wrote anyway.
you became george eliot when mary ann wouldn’t be taken seriously. they admired your mind but never called it yours.
you were the brontë sisters, signing as currer, ellis, and acton bell— three pens dipped in restraint, writing women with thunder in their hearts.
you were ismat chughtai, on trial for obscenity because you dared to speak of women as if we had bodies and stories and agency.
you were christine de pizan, arguing with dead philosophers in the 1400s, building a city of women while the world tried to burn it down.
you were savitri bai phule, carrying chalk like a sword, spitting in the face of caste and patriarchy with every lesson you taught a girl.
you were elisabeth vigee le brun, painting and writing through revolutions, surviving exile with a brush and a spine.
you were madame de staël, banished by napoleon for being smarter than he could stand. you turned your exile into a library.
you were sor juana inés de la cruz, writing plays and poems in a convent in mexico, hiding brilliance in lace and latin. you gave up writing— they said it was your choice. you and i both know it was surrender in silk.
you were marina tsvetaeva, writing poems that blistered like prophecy while the soviet air turned cold around your mouth.
you were anna akhmatova, smuggling words through iron bars as your lovers and sons disappeared.
you were sylvia plath, and they romanticized your death before they honored your craft. you left poems like razors on every bathroom tile.
you were virginia woolf, handing every woman a room of her own, while your own mind became too loud to live inside.
you were octavia butler, writing the future because the present refused to hold you.
you were nawal el saadawi, telling the truth of women’s bodies and being cast out for it.
you were toru dutt, begum rokeya, kamala das,— the subcontinent’s burning pen passed down like a secret blessing.
you were too brown, too bold, too bare, too brilliant, too loud, too angry, too strange, too sad, too female.
they called you excessive, unladylike, difficult, political, emotional, hysterical.
and still— you wrote. in exile, in shame, in hunger, in prison, in the dark, in footnotes, in funeral clothes, in jail cells, in schoolhouses, in shame and in secret. on scraps, on borrowed typewriters, under threat, under pressure, under no illusions.
and now— we write because you carved the path with your teeth.
and now— we write in the space you tore open with your bare hands.
we do not write to please them. we write because you did.
we sign our names because you could not. and every sentence we shape rings with your echo— proof that survival, in ink, can be immortal. 

More from Abhilasha Ghosh ↓

• @abhilaxxa on Instagram
• Her bookstagram is @booksandbillis

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

Her Absence Katrina Kaye I do not regret the days I spent loving you in her absence.
I do not regret your tempered touches as you searched for her skin under my scales or the way your eyes reflected her sharp chin and freckled chest when they fell on my frame.
I do not regret the fleeting space we created, morning gestures in the folds of sheet and flesh. Tending your wounds with tongue and time.
You found solace with your elbows on my table, your dirty feet in my bed, but she was ever present upon the waves of your thoughts. Your ears keen for her voice, but I heard it first, soft as the buzz of bumble bees on the beach calling you home.
I do not regret returning to a solitary balcony above the ocean’s turning point, or slipping inside my bed, still warm in your place.
As you kiss my hands in gratitude of my hospitality, my kindness, don’t leave thinking, I am emptied.
I gave what I wanted, no more, no less.

More from Katrina Kaye ↓

• @poetkatrinakaye on Instagram
• You can read more of her poetry on her website poetkatrinakaye.com

You can see me read Her Absence @rembrandts.cure on Instagram.