Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read the poem “Why Write Love Poetry in a Burning World ” by Katie Farris, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about a door you cannot close.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday November 21st at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

"Why Write Love Poetry in a Burning World " by Katie Farris

To train myself to find, in the midst of hell
what isn't hell.

The body, bald, cancerous, but still
beautiful enough to
imagine living the body
washing the body
replacing a loose front
porch step the body chewing
what it takes to keep a body
going—

This scene has a tune
a language I can read a door
I cannot close I stand
within its wedge
a shield.

Why write love poetry in a burning world?
To train myself, in the midst of a burning world
to offer poems of love to a burning world.

Copyright © 2022 Katie Farris All rights reserved

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “I Am Vertical” by Sylvia Plath, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about an open conversation with the sky.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Wednesday October 29th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

“I Am Vertical” by Sylvia Plath

But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one’s longevity and the other’s daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them—
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
The the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

Credit: Sylvia Plath

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read an excerpt from “The Antidote ” by Karen Russell, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Tell about a song that has not been lost.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday October 17th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

“The Antidote ” by Karen Russell pg.392

Many songs have been lost. But not all songs have been lost.
I breathed in a lungful of dust at the top of the ladder, sinking my fingers into the wet soil. Job ends his
interrogation of God in a great quiet. When I surfaced from my whirlwind, I heard a lot of noisy, irreverent
chirping. Meadowlarks darted around the ruins of my house, skimming the tires of the truck the twister had
flipped onto its back like some colossal beetle. Goldfinches were swooping in and out of the roofless barn
like indecisive stars. Grassland songbirds chorus every morning on the prairie, rain or shine, drought or
flood. Singing at the tops of their tiny lungs and stitching the world together, waking everyone to the work
ahead. But rarely do I pay attention. In the Book of Job, what God reveals inside the whirlwind cannot
be written down. The omission made more sense to me now, listening to birdsong. Already, God has
translated the answer into everything living. It was Job’s ears that needed tuning. The whirlwind gave Job
a powerful instruction, and so did the great quiet it left in its wake. The silence of God is not so silent after
all. It is teaching me how to listen.

Credit: Karen Russell

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa” by Ada Limón, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about a small invisible world.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Wednesday October 8th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa by Ada Limón

Arching under the night sky inky
with black expansiveness, we point
to the planets we know, we

pin quick wishes on stars. From earth,
we read the sky as if it is an unerring book
of the universe, expert and evident.

Still, there are mysteries below our sky:
the whale song, the songbird singing
its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree.

We are creatures of constant awe,
curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom,
at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.

And it is not darkness that unites us,
not the cold distance of space, but
the offering of water, each drop of rain,

each rivulet, each pulse, each vein.
O second moon, we, too, are made
of water, of vast and beckoning seas.

We, too, are made of wonders, of great
and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds,
of a need to call out through the dark.

“In Praise of Mystery” by Ada Limón was released at the Library of Congress on June 1, 2023, in celebration of the poem’s engraving on NASA’s Europa Clipper, scheduled to launch in October of 2024. Copyright Ada Limón, 2023. All rights reserved. The reproduction of this poem may in no way be used for financial gain.

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Classifieds” by Wislawa Szymborska, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write your own classified.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday September 19th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Classifieds by Wislawa Szymborska

WHOEVER'S found out what location
compassion (heart's imagination)
can be contacted at these days,
is herewith urged to name the place;
and sing about it in full voice,
and dance like crazy and rejoice
beneath the frail birch that appears
to be upon the verge of tears.

I TEACH silence
in all languages
through intensive examination of:
the starry sky,
the Sinanthropus' jaws,
a grasshopper's hop,
an infant's fingernails,
plankton,
a snowflake.

I RESTORE lost love.
Act now! Special offer!
You lie on last year's grass
bathed in sunlight to the chin
while winds of summers past
caress your hair and seem
to lead you in a dance.
For further details, write: "Dream."

WANTED: someone to mourn
the elderly who die
alone in old folks' homes.
Applicants, don't send forms
or birth certificates.
All papers will be torn,
no receipts will be issued
at this or later dates.

FOR PROMISES made by my spouse,
who's tricked so many with his sweet
colors and fragrances and sounds --
dogs barking, guitars in the streets --
into believing that they still
might conquer loneliness and fright,
I cannot be responsible.
Mr. Day's widow, Mrs. Night.

Credit: Wislawa Szymborska
English version by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak
Original Language Polish
poetry-chaikhana.com

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “What Sucks About the Afterlife” by Andrea Gibson, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about the mistake factory.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

**Please note that following our session on Monday, August 4th, we will be taking a summer break. Stay tuned for updates on our return in September! **

“What Sucks About the Afterlife” by Andrea Gibson

On Earth, everyone loved butterflies,
but I trusted the caterpillars more.
I trusted the ones who knew 

they were not done growing.
On Earth, I was a work in progress,
was comforted in knowing 

that I had a million mistakes still in me
to learn from. I changed my mind
more often than I changed my socks, 

and whenever I was criticized
for mismatched thoughts, I’d say,
who wants to be today 

who they were yesterday?
Becoming was how I prayed.
But here—I am past the finish line: 

I have a heart of gold,
and I never have to dig for it.
I couldn’t do anything wrong if I tried,
and trust me, I try, but 

I get hot-headed, and my rage
toasts the marshmallow on an angel’s
celestial s’mores. I lose my temper and find it
in the halo lost-and found box. 

Lies won’t let me tell them.
they handed me a sticker
that said My Name Is and I wrote
Everyone by accident. I can’t remember 

what selfishness is. Yesterday I said
something angry about an ex, and a quarter
of my tastebuds jumped off my tongue.
I’ve known nothing 

of bitterness since.
Right before I died, I thought,
In the afterlife, I’ll apply for a job
at a mistake factory. They’ll be awed 

by my resume. If anything, I’m overqualified.
But there’s no place where they make
mistakes here. Everyone is flawless.
Everyone’s blunders are photoshopped 

right off their lives before
they even happen. Is this heaven
or hell? I can’t tell. I looked
that famous carpenter up 

in the phone book, but his number
wasn’t listed, and I need to ask him
where to find the wood to build
some missteps. I’m not about to spend 

eternity burning in the lie that holy
and perfect are the same thing.
Do you understand? 

A promised land
is not a promised land
if I can’t keep learning

Credit:Andrea Gibson