Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Disclosure” by Camisha L. Jones, posted below.

Our prompt was:“Write about sounds that beckon.”

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 Monday July 13th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Disclosure by Camisha L. Jones

I’m sorry, could you repeat that. I’m hard of hearing.

To the cashier 

To the receptionist 

To the insistent man asking directions on the street 

I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing. Could you repeat that?

At the business meeting 

In the writing workshop 

On the phone to make a doctor’s appointment 

I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-so-sorry-I’m-hard-for-the-hearing

Repeat. 

           Repeat. 

Hello, my name is Sorry

To full rooms of strangers 

I’m hard to hear 

I vomit apologies everywhere 

They fly on bat wings 

towards whatever sound beckons 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry

           and repeating

                       and not hearing

Dear (again) 

I regret to inform you 

I       am

here

Copyright © 2020 by Camisha L. Jones. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 3, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read an excerpt (p 9-10) from Island at the Center of the World by Russell Shorto, posted below.

Our prompt was: “what happens when time slows down.”

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 July 1st at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

“Island at the Center of the World” by Russell Shorto (p 9-10)

All that said, what originally captivated me about the Dutch documents — that they offered a way to reimagine New York City as a wilderness—stayed alive throughout my research. More than anything, then, this book invites you to do the impossible: to strip from your mental image of Manhattan Island all associations of power, concrete, and glass; to put time into full reverse, unfill the massive landfills, and undo the extensive leveling programs that flattened the hills and filled the gullies. To witness the return of waterfalls, to watch freshwater ponds form in place of asphalt intersections; to let buildings vanish and watch stands of pin oak, sweetgum, basswood, and hawthorne take their place. To imagine the return of salt marshes, mudflats, grasslands, of leopard frogs, grebes, cormorants, and bitterns; to discover newly pure estuaries encrusting themselves with scallops, lamp mussels, oysters, quahogs, and clams. To see maple-ringed meadows become numbered with deer and the higher elevations ruled by wolves. 

And then to stop the time machine, let it hover a moment on the south-most tip of an island poised between the Atlantic Ocean and the civilization of Europe on one side and a virgin continent on the other; to let that moment swell, hearing the screech of gulls and the slap of waves and imagining these same sounds, waves and birds, waves and birds, with regular interruptions by wracking storms, unchanged for dozens of centuries.

And then let time start forward once again as something comes into view on the horizon. Sails.

Credit: Russell Shorto

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Final Poem for My Father Misnamed in My Mouth” by Phillip B. Williams, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about Fatherlight.”

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 Monday June 15th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Final Poem for My Father Misnamed in My Mouth by Phillip B. Williams

Sunlight still holds you and gives

your shapelessness to every room.

By noon, the kitchen catches your hands,

misshapen sunrays. The windows

have your eyes. Taken from me,

your body. I reorder my life with

absence. You are everywhere now

where once I could not find you

even in your own body. Death means

everything has become

possible. I’ve been told I have

your ways, your laughter haunts my mother

from my throat. Everything

is possible. Fatherlight

washes over the kitchen floor.

I try to hold a bit of kindness

for the dead and make of memory

a sponge to wash your corpse.

Your name is not addict or sir.

This is not a dream: you died

and were buried three times. Once,

after my birth. Again, against

your hellos shedding into closing doors,

your face a mask I placed over my face.

The final time, you beneath my feet. Was I

buried with you then? I will not call

what you had left anything

other than gone and sweet perhaps. I am

not your junior, but I fell in love

with being your son. Now what? Possibility

was a bird I once knew. It had one wing.

Credit: Phillip B. Williams

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at the painting “Give me strength” by Louise Bird, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Describe your texture.”

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 June 5th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Give me strength by Louise Bird

Credit: Louise Bird

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at “The Astronomer” by Jan Vermeer 1668” and “Christina Koch Astronaut 2026,” posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about contemplating a world anew.”

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 May 27th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

The Astronomer” by Jan Vermeer 1668

Credit: Jan Vermeer

---

Christina Koch Astronaut 2026

Credit: NASA Image and Video Library

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Peonies” by Danusha Laméris, posted below.

Our prompt was: “What are these strangers?”

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 May 15th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Peonies by Danusha Laméris

What are these strangers 
sitting on the table in their ruffled
collars. They open, close, open,
emit the scent of cracked pepper 
and honey. Magenta punctuation marks 
at which to pause. Pink commas 
against the green scrub. 
I would trade ten goats for one whiff 
of peonies opening in a vase. 
An ancient proverb says 
you should not let a woodpecker 
see you plucking a peony 
lest it peck out your eyes. 
We are afraid of happiness. 
Peonies are to loneliness 
what wind is to the trees. 
Are they animal? Mineral? 
Vegetable? They move 
as the sun moves. When I 
brought them home 
they were dark. Now, 
a whisper, balletic tulle. 
They are not diminished 
even as they turn to smoke. 

Copyright © 2026 by Danusha Laméris. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 1, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Sundown” by Jorie Graham, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about the whispers from what lies behind.”

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 April 29th 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Sundown 
Jorie Graham 1950 – (St. Laurent Sur Mer, June 5, 2009)

Sometimes the day
                              light winces 
                              behind you and it is
a great treasure in this case today a man on
                              a horse in calm full
                              gallop on Omaha over my
                              left shoulder coming on
                              fast but
calm not audible to me at all until I turned back my
                              head for no
                              reason as if what lies behind
                              one had whispered
what can I do for you today and I had just
                              turned to
                              answer and the answer to my
answer flooded from the front with the late sun he/they
                              were driving into—gleaming—
                              wet chest and upraised knees and
light-struck hooves and thrust-out even breathing of the great
                              beast—from just behind me,
                              passing me—the rider looking straight
                              ahead and yet
smiling without looking at me as I smiled as we
                              both smiled for the young
                              animal, my feet in the
breaking wave-edge, his hooves returning, as they begin to pass
                              by,
                              to the edge of the furling
                              break, each tossed-up flake of
                              ocean offered into the reddish
luminosity—sparks—as they made their way,
                              boring through to clear out
                              life, a place where no one
                              again is suddenly 
killed—regardless of the "cause"—no one—just this
                              galloping forward with
                              force through the low waves, seagulls
                              scattering all round, their
screeching and mewing rising like more bits of red foam, the
                              horse's hooves now suddenly
                              louder as it goes
                              by and its prints on
wet sand deep and immediately filled by thousands of
                              sandfleas thrilled to the
declivities in succession in the newly
                              released beach—just
                              at the right
                              moment for some
microscopic life to rise up through these
                              cups in the hard upslant
                              retreating ocean is
revealing, sandfleas finding them just as light does,
                              carving them out with
                              shadow, and glow on each
                              ridge, and
water oozing up through the innermost cut of the
                              hoofsteps,
and when I shut my eyes now I am not like a blind person
                              walking towards the lowering sun,
the water loud at my right,
                              but like a seeing person
with her eyes shut
                              putting her feet down
                              one at a time
                              on the earth.

Copyright © 2011 by Jorie Graham. Used with permission of the author. Previously published in The New Yorker.