The Graduate Caitríona Walsh On the vesper of March I pulsed through the desert, Ever the vagary Clot of the bloodline.
Koutoubia's minaret Catnapped before me, Steepled in sandstone–A moonshot missile
Lullabied by ouds And kittens' Bare-bellied Midnight mewls.
Medina mazes Assuaged by Cloud-confetti Orange blossoms–
Palls of scent spun In arabesque spells Through souks Keyhole arches.
I woke with Muezzin's Call to prayer, Parched, perplexed By Agafay air–
Caught in my glottis As cockcrow came–Florid gown gone, No call to cross campus
With tasselled cap Like a gored Rorschach blot, The gashed wattle Of a prize grouse
Or a stray tide's Red-stained froth rim–Raked far From shipwreck wraiths.
Instead, I conferred With cordial drivers and Spinning-top Sufis In fractured French,
Sipped rose-syrup tea In a turquoise courtyard Of a trillion druzy Star-strewn tiles,
Bled, in secret, Beneath the furtive folds Of an opalite skirt– Shed my pelt

More from Caitríona Walsh ↓

• @tone.down.the.blonde on Instagram
• Caitríona is a host for Gut Punch Prompts, as twice-monthly poetry contest on Instagram.
• You can hear me read Two Wishes by Caitríona on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.

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when we fall Paper Trail Poetry when we fallwe give back to the soilthat nurtured us.seasonally, we are compost, yes,but life-giving nonetheless.
when we fallour roots are ruptured;we are bare.decay tightensits cold, rotten grasp,but hope shall not be choked out.
when we fallthe way forward is pavedwith opportunityso make room for graceto replant you come springwhere you’ll stretch in sunlight again.

More from Paper Trail Poetry ↓

• @papertrailpoetry on Instagram

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Momma Said Be Nice Chris Kads

This poem was originally published in Blood+Honey Lit mag and is being republished with SHINE International Poetry Series.

You don’t expect to serve mashed potatoes and steak for breakfast. Don’t expect to find urine in a tub or to have sympathy for the assaulter who pissed in it.
I’ve learned to let expectations fly like ashes.
When the men retire so do the rules instilled by their mothers. They’ll swim in the deep end of the pool, tiptoe into the kitchen, sneak a cookie after bedtime.
I know now that two things can be true at once. That the mush can be unappetizing and filling. That a room can be full of memories and empty of soul. That you can pity the mousein the trap, while being gladhe can no longer bite.I don’t like the way it all went down. I wouldn’t wish a life behind curtained bars on anyone.
But when we finally remove flesh-colored food, scrub stains from the ceramic tub, and open the door for the new resident, I’m happy to see it’s a woman.

More from Chris Kads ↓

• @chris_kads on Instagram
• Chris runs Gut Punch Prompts, a twice monthly poetry challenge on Instagram looking for poems that contain visceral language, raw emotion, and/or thought-provoking political and social commentary. In other words, poems that pack a punch!

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

Dec 1 - Timeline by Quinn Holm @quinnholm.muse and @gratusgarden on Instagram. Quinn Holm on Substack.

Dec 2 - my throat makes by atm.itm @atm.itm on Instagram. @atmitm on Substack. They are co-founder of studio somnus: a creative project agency.

Dec 3 - “as the ground begins to frost” by esso @esso_overflow on Instagram. @essooverflow on Substack. Her book, when the moon calls, is out now. It features poetry she wrote during the new and full moons. If you feel inspired while reading, esso has left pages at the back so you can add your own poem for each prompt. Listen to me read "the earth whispered to me" by esso on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.

Dec 4 - “My poetry has big bones” by Bex @mother_smudger on Instagram. Her book, conflict resolution: a trauma response, is out now.

Dec 5 - I dreamt I was in Paris by Jen Booton @jenthepoeta on Instagram. She runs Mística Holistica, a mystic shop and tea house in Avellanas, Costa Rica. There you can find Jen writing custom poems on a typewriter at the weekly Friday night market. And everyday you can access the poetry pharmacy featuring poets from around the world.

Dec 6 - Hearthside by Dorothy Parker

Dec 7When the Hum Rises Maggie Devers The outrage machine is always on Like the neon in a 24-hour diner,But it doesn’t use electricity, The continual dopamine hitOf finding the wrong in someone else’s rightPowers the nation.
We live for the take down,The misstepWe watch the trip and fallNever extending a hand—Not understanding We’re the ones flat on our face.
What if we abandon the unending scrollOf false justice What if we suspended judgement Even for a dayWhat if we realize our power can do moreThen keep the lights on.

More from Maggie Devers ↓

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

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Morning Magic Maggie DeversA princess sits at the edge of my bedTelling fantastical stories,My sleepy head tripping over the details But in line with the nuance.She prattles like a caffeinated sage,Wisdom seeping out of jumbled phrases,Bits of stories, weaving togetherHer dreams, desires, realities.It’s all the same,She speaks her life.

Hearthside Dorothy Parker Half across the world from me Lie the lands I'll never see- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay.
Things I may not know nor tell Wait, where older waters swell; Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread, Winds that sighed in Homer's strings, Vibrant with the singing dead, Golden with the dust of wings.
Under deeper skies than mine, Quiet valleys dip and shine. Where their tender grasses heal Ancient scars of trench and tombI shall never walk; nor kneel Where the bones of poets bloom.
If I seek a lovelier part, Where I travel goes my heart; Where I stray my thought must go; With me wanders my desire. Best to sit and watch the snow, Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

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Baby BookMaggie DeversI didn’t make my daughter a baby book,I wrote her weird poems instead.I can hear her explaining this to her friends,“There’s no scrapbook full of memoriesBut there is a special poem about me being Athena, and one about my birth, and when I was conceived.My parents named me after a fancy hotel.”
Dear God, what have I done?I’m that mom,The unhinged mom that really should know better.
We don’t have annual professional photos in matching outfits,Just the ones we take, that stop time at the imperfect momentThe ones that capture life.You can’t get the perfect shot when you’re busy living.
Well, you can, but you have to be ready for it.You must listen for inspiration to strike.And when it does you take the picture, write the poem, make the art, make the child.And that’s what we’re here to leave behind, our creation, in its imperfect divinity.

“I dreamt I was in Paris” Jen Booton I dreamt I was in Paris scents of coffee and absinthe wafting as olfactory wind chimes typewriters snug on Boulevard Montparnasse tables peppered with burgeoning authors lost among their own generation but destined to be famous for centuries.
Drunk on wine, cigarettes and delusion sturdy as centenarian tree roots that their precious moment in time, after war, was all that mattered, which of course they were right a ripple in the energetic tapestry of life connecting them with me here, 100 years
Later on a wooden table snug against a Smith-Corona drunk on the belief that this sliver of presence means just as much as it did to them and that maybe it wasn't a dream after all but a memory as we find ourselves over and over again through the timeless echo of ink-drenched words.

More from Jen Booton ↓

• @jenthepoeta on Instagram
• She runs Mística Holistica, a mystic shop and tea house in Avellanas, Costa Rica. There you can find Jen writing custom poems on a typewriter at the weekly Friday night market. And everyday you can access the poetry pharmacy featuring poets from around the world.

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Of CourseMaggie DeversHer feet were purple when she was born,The cord pinned between her shoulder and me.Half a dozen extra doctors and nurses had converged in the room moments before,All of me open to all of themAs my doctor, the one I started with so many weeks ago,Back when she told me they don’t use the tongs anymore,Suction cupped her tiny head and yanked,I breathed,And the baby entered this world with a mighty howl.
In seconds all the contingency actors vanished.
The center of the room, the universe,Was a tiny creature, fists tight, mouth wide, screaming.Of course she was born the only way she lives—stubborn and fearless.

“My poetry has big bones” Bex My poetry has big bones And big ideas tooShe wears vintage lace And she remembers every time she was slipped on... Poetry smokes green in the grass with her lover and dissects the sun for she remembers its inception.Poetry says -"I’m with you in this life and the next, I will eat every piece of you whole, wiping up what's left and wringing the cloth out in my mouth, because my survival depends on your every drop" Poetry is the story that lives in the wooden box on the shelf.Forgotten but not.Poetry is dragging you to the finish lineand has ten thousand ways to say You are necessary.For me - Poetry is how i process -My griefMy loveMy numbness…The monsters under my bed Poetry is how I breathe...

More from Bex ↓

• @mother_smudger on Instagram
• Her book, conflict resolution: a trauma response, is out now.

Mentioned in this episode:

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