One Poem Only

One Poem Only

By Maggie DeversSociety & CultureArtsBooksPerforming Arts
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One Poem Only episodes

  • the listener by Laura Theis
    the listener Laura Theis her magic was so gentle you may not have known itfor a spell
    the way she was able to listen so openlythat we were each coaxed into speaking our language
    the fiddle began to talk of the willow tree it had beenhow it had feasted on light and liquid
    how it had swayed and creaked in the wind like a door to another realm
    the piano confessed how its beauty was forged from the killing of a playful giant who had loved his life of mischief and joy
    while the rain outside sang along in the dangerous language of watera complicated grammar of clouds and dropletsstillness and rush
    even the silence afterwards surprised itselffor the first timein the mirror of her quiet attention
    and bowed like a secret wordthat had suddenly understood its own significance

    More from Laura ↓

    • @wodehouse_and_i on Instagram
    • Her book, Introduction to Cloud Care, is available now
    • Her children’s poetry book, Poems from a Witch’s Pocket, is available now

    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

    2 min
  • Love Poem for a Hornbill by Vinita Agrawal

    Love Poem for a Hornbill

    Vinita Agrawal

    I look for you—

    a burst of black and gold against the green,
    your sun-blade beak
    piano-keys wingspan
    your call rasping through the forest
    in a language older than stars.
    I need to know you exist—
    not as a metaphor of love and loyalty,
    but as beak, wing,
    a crash of color in the canopy.
    It rained in the jungle,
    when they took your perch.
    By dawn,
    only the echo of your calls remained;
    a hollow note drifting through the leaves,
    a feather caught in the wind’s teeth.
    Who can say who took you,
    where you went.
    Who swallowed your shadow.
    Who folded you into the sky
    like a damp newspaper cloud.
    What is love but to see and not hold.
    To trace the lace of your flight
    but not its destination.
    To caress half-broken things,
    with a salt-stung gaze.
    Love is to build a nest of your echoes,
    and allow it to crown me
    like a fig tree offering itself to the sky.
    It is to beg forgiveness for our axes,
    our hunger, our greed.
    It is to kneel before the cavity
    of the tree trunk, where your mate waits
    sealed-in with mud and trust
    and say, forgive me.

    More from Vinita Agrawal ↓

    * @vinitaagrawal18 on Instagram

    * Her book Eartha is out now

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    3 min
  • First Person Account of a Seed by Vinita Agrawal
    First Person Account of a Seed by Vinita Agrawal All night, the face of awning greenhovers above me, its branches carved partlywith the grimace of my own imagination.The sacred wounds of treesleaves me trembling in my own hands.
    This is the first lesson, though it comesfrom no sage, no guide, but myself:that if I must shatter, let it be outward,like a burst of light, leaves, flowers, fruits—not this inward scoping and scraping of darkness.
    In the afternoon, a Laburnum, goldenand thick as a second sun, spills over myshoulders while I am bent over in contemplation,oblivious to the miracle of the universearriving blindingly through the window.
    The yellow blooms are the second lesson,both an elegy and an anthem, my true trophy.I must remember them—for memory is the only permanenceon the tarmac of sprouting.
    Germinating is not a cage, I don’t squirmor shrink to break open my coat, nor my vestof testa and tegmen. To pullulate,is to swim through an ocean of moist soil,air, sunlight. Then, thrust out a radicle.
    The annunciation of flowers, until coloursjostle with colours, is speech, if onlyit could be understood. I dream of a thousandforests in my frantic hunger to wrestle withas many shadows as there are beams of light.
    To exist without a map, is the third lesson—to speak and not be heard, to have my ribsache with greed for verdancy, to lose friendsto the whirl of winds, to vanish for no reason,to stay unbroken, even in the breaking. 

    More from Vinita ↓

    • @vinitaagrawal18 on Instagram
    • Her book Eartha is out now

    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

    3 min
  • Sunday Recap & Play More by Maggie Devers

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

    Sep 8 - Broken by Ani Leland @neversent.poetry on Instagram. Her book, Echoes and Embers, the first in a trilogy co-authored with T.C. James, will be published this fall.

    Sep 9 - Pop Punk Therapy (Kristen’s Version) by Kristen Rosasco @poetryandpatchouli on Instagram. Her upcoming anthology, Poetry and Patchouli, is out soon.

    Sep 10 - I Watched Gaza Burn From My Bed by Fatima Zahra Gul @fatimaasarchive_ on Instagram.

    Sep 11 - Koi Pond by Isra Cheema @tiramisruu on Instagram. Isra Cheema on Substack.

    Sep 12 - Grief is like a corpse in the land of the living. by Kimeysia @the.chaotic_urbanpoet on Instagram.

    Sep 13 - Mabon by Danielle Marie Cahill @daniellecahillwriter on Instagram.

    Sep 14 - Play MoreMaggie DeversI have this little fantasy that my daughter’s hippy school is raising a bunch of radicalsAnd imagine them chanting “resist” in unisonBut then I realize that’s what they’re doing all dayIn every moment that they are authentically true to themselvesAnd we can too.
    Liberation looks like many thingsHanging upside down on the monkey bars with no handsStanding on the highest part of the play structure and observing the world below Painting, drawing, readingWhen we light our hearts on fire just to feel good, we are resisting.So play more, love more, be silly more, break the rules moreJust to feel goodAnd count it as an act of rebellion,Because it is.

    More from Maggie Devers ↓

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

    14 min
  • Mabon by Danielle Marie Cahill
    Mabon Danielle Marie Cahill We choose three glowing apples in the greengrocerand take them home: one for each of us,polished scarlet.I slice them horizontally, so when I open the fleshyou both see the pattern of seed stars in the centre.A gasp,and you reach out with curious hands to touch them,picking out the pips with pointed fingers.You create celestial shapes on the tabletop,arguing over one stray seed although it is mine.We bite into the fruit, careful to leave behind the Pleiades: joyful sisters shining in the core.They hold us enraptured in Mabon sweetness.

    More from Danielle Marie Cahill ↓

    * @daniellecahillwriter 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

    2 min
  • Grief is like a corpse in the land of the living. by Kimeysia
    Grief is like a corpse in the land of the living. Kimeysia They say grief is found in the saddest of people,In the saddest of families,In the lost and in the lonely.But I say this isn’t true.I’ve seen grief in happy homesIn the happiest of people.In you and in me.
    When grief knocks at our front door,We don’t invite it in with open arms.It comes without a whisper.So silently it creeps up,That it catches us off guard.Slowly creeping into our souls,Holding complete control of our emotions.We are lost,We are depressed.We want to run.But where do we hide?Do we seek shelter or do we hide from our emotions?These emotions are the death of us,But yet when grief gradually disappears,It’s like grey clouds washing away,Being replaced by clear skies.All we do is wait for clear skies,Without realizing grey skies are needed to make us humans.And if grey skies didn’t exist,It wouldn’t rain and cool our souls down.

    More from Kimeysia ↓

    * @the.chaotic_urbanpoet 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

    2 min
  • Koi Pond by Isra Cheema
    Koi Pond Isra Cheema This poem was first published in Ghost City PressTW: AbortionLook down and see your unborn baby floating in the middle of the toilet bowl—you see it spin slowly like a lone koi fish, it’s soft pinked flesh swirling in a murky pond of blood clot-lily pads. You were driving and pulled over to throw up from the lightning-strike explosion of sharp pain in your uterus—you vomited into a crumpled Walmart bag as the car inched towards someone’s mailbox. Feel the liquid warmth gush out of you, life ejected, no—rejected from your body, that life-giver. Peer closer at it, that no-longer-life no larger than a just-plucked raspberry squished intosome sort of spring jam.You want to bury it. Fill a small ring box with silk threads, a few tears, a palmful of dust, and a folded-up note of its name for the angels to know and watch over—but no, this maroon sea is its cushioned coffin, the cold ceramic toilet seat its halo. You flush, watch it swish around the bowl in circles, life-blood swirling in water like striped fins swimming away from you,as if Allah didn’t say your unborn child would drag you into heaven by its umbilical cord, as if this angel baby—

    More from Isra Cheema ↓

    • @tiramisruu on Instagram
    • Isra Cheema on Substack

    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

    3 min
  • I Watched Gaza Burn From My Bed by Fatima Zahra Gul
    I Watched Gaza Burn From My Bed Fatima Zahra Gul i made teawhile gaza lost internet.they bombed jabalialike it wasn’t filled with sleeping children.like it wasn’t already rubble the last time they came.
    al-ahli hospital glowed orange,not with hope,but with 471 lives turned to ashin one breath.
    the news called it a “misfire.”as if that soothed the motherspulling body parts from broken prayer mats.
    i saw amal and mohammad kneel besidetheir dead siblings.their faces older than their years,their grief aired live,then forgotten.
    i remember hind rajab.six years old.trapped in a car surrounded by her family’s corpses,whispering “they’re shooting… come get me.”they found her twelve days later.bullet in her head,rescue team dead beside her.
    i remember her voicemore than the silence of those who could’ve helped.
    i scroll past pictures of rafahwhere tents fold in on bodies like grief.where water is a privilegeand bread is a miracle.
    and from my room;with the fan on,with a full plate,with the guilt of breathing,i stare.
    gaza dies in real-timeand we livestream our helplessness.
    i don’t know if it’s protestor performative.i just knowi haven’t been able to sleep right since october.

    More from Fatima Zahra Gul ↓

    * @fatimaasarchive_ on Instagram

    You can listen to me read this poem over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure

    3 min
  • Pop Punk Therapy (Kristen’s Version) by Kristen Rosasco
    Pop Punk Therapy (Kristen’s Version) Kristen Rosasco I. THIRTY, FLIRTY, AND DEEPLY UNWELL
    They told me thirty would feel likefreedom—like a crisp Chardonnay in an overpriced glass,like a mortgage,like knees that don’t audibly crackwhen you squat down to pick up the crumbsof your twenty-something mistakes.
    But I’m here in my room—a room that is covered in crumbs even though there is a strict no food upstairs rule,A room that eerily resembles my teenage bedroom that thankfully still only lives in my memoryWell, sort of… *gestures vaguely*I’m still having a mental breakdown in my underwearMascara coated tears still streaming down my cheeksand since being a mom doesn’t leave much room for literally anything else I’m still standing in front of a dusty mirrorwearing a t-shirt that says“I PAUSED MY ANIME FOR THIS?”staring at my reflection and screaming—
    “If you could see that I’m the one who understands you!”
    with the emotional stabilityof a raccoon in a thunderstorm.
    (Because even I don’t understand myself anymore…)
    ⸻
    II. THE SACRED RITUAL OF REGRESSION
    There’s a method to the madness.First, I light a candle that smells like“Cozy Cabin”(a lie. I live in messy, stained suburban hellascape with a leaky faucet,two major appliances that don’t work,and 3 tiny roommates who call me cringe).
    Then, I open Spotify like it’s the Ark of the Covenant,search: TAYLOR SWIFT OG ERA,and prepare to summonmy inner dramatic-ass teenwho thought wearing Converse to promwas an act of social rebellionon par with the Boston Tea Party.
    You Belong With Me begins.And suddenly, I’m fourteen again,mad at a boy who never looked at me,even though I definitelywrote him a very subtle poem called “your eyes are like the apocalypse but hotter.”
    I press play. I ascend.I time travel via bridge.
    “She wears short skirts / I wear depression”or whatever the lyric is.Same vibe.
    ⸻
    III. THE DANCE FLOOR IS LAVA (AND ALSO CARPETED)
    Cue the chaos.
    My body moves with the graceof a drunk muppet.Arms flailing like I’m signalinga plane to land in my driveway.I knock over a glass of LaCroix—R.I.P. key lime,you were too carbonated for this world.
    And yet,in the disarray,something holy happens.A divine possession.Like I’m being exorcisedof all the garbage thoughtsthat say,“how’s married life treating you,”“when are you having more kids,”“your LinkedIn is embarrassing,”“your mom thinks poetry isn’t a real career.”
    And in this sacred movement,this messy, definitely nowhere near middle-aged interpretive flailing,I am not behind.I am not broken.I am not a punchlineat the Thanksgiving table.
    I am the main character.I am the moment.I am her.
    ⸻
    IV. EXISTENTIAL BRIDGE
    But then, inevitably,the song ends.The silence creeps inlike a landlord on the first of the month.
    I sit on the floor,wrap up in an old blanket that smells likedespair and dry shampoo,wondering whydancing to a pop songis the closest I’ve come toinner peacein four fiscal quarters.
    Maybe it’s becausewe were raised onrom-coms and repression,so we have to self-soothewith bridge-builds and chorusesto remember who we are.
    Maybe Taylor Swiftis cheaper than therapyand twice as effective.
    Maybe healingdoesn’t look like yoga retreatsand perfectly curated morning routineswith matcha and “Daily Stoic” readings—maybe healing isblasting blondie at full volumewhile ugly-crying in a bath towel,because the only personwho really understands youis 2009 Taylorand the backup vocalsyou sang into your hairbrushwhen you still believed in magic.
    ⸻
    V. CLOSING CREDITS: A MIDLIFE MELODRAMA
    So yeah.I’m thirty.I still don’t eat my vegetables and I cry at commercials.I’ve googled “how to get your life together”more times than I’ve called my dentist.I still feel like I’m fifteen.
    But tonight,I danced.I shook off the shame.I made peace with my ghostsin four-four time.
    And if that makes me ridiculous—a grown womanin mismatched socksfinding salvation in a pop song—
    then so be it.
    Because somewhere out there,someone’s blasting All Too Well (10 Minute Version)with a bottle of Merlot and a full-on breakdown.And I salute them.And I join them.And I press repeat.

    More from Kristen Rosasco ↓

    • @poetryandpatchouli on Instagram
    • Her upcoming anthology, Poetry and Patchouli, is out soon

    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

    6 min
  • Broken by Ani Leland
    Broken Ani Leland They say I'm heartbrokenBut heartache can't sufficiently describeHow the physical agony in my chest steals the air from my lungsPain so visceral tears seem trivial - not a worthy outlet of emotionThese windows to my soul are dry, seeing clear for the first timeMy body is numb - unfeelingTorment induced disassociation shielding my fragile mindMy tortured heart no longer set alight by my twin flameBut incinerated by the resulting infernoEach broken piece fueling the blazeThe once glowing embers now cold and black

    More from Ani Leland ↓

    • @neversent.poetry on Instagram
    • Her book, Echoes and Embers, the first in a trilogy co-authored with T.C. James, will be published this fall

    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

    2 min

About One Poem Only

From the publisher's feed

A daily reading. A quiet moment. One poem, center stage: just for now, just for you. A one-night-only show, in verse.