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.

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at the portirat “Portrait of Space” by  Lee Miller, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about the space in between.”

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 April 10th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Portrait of Space (1937) by  Lee Miller

© Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved.

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at a video titled “Lamentation Project” by Martha Graham, posted below.

Our prompt was: “the unseen.”

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 March 27th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Lamentation Project by Martha Graham

Credit: Martha Graham

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read an excerpt from the book “Misinterpretation” by Ledia Xhoga, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about the life behind the walls.”

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 March 11th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

An excerpt from Misinterpretation by Ledia Xhoga, (pp. 258-259)

Zani turned to his wife. They smiled at each other again. Arranged marriage or not, they seemed in love.
“So many people in New York City,” Lëndina said, noticing the lights turning on outside. “Like ants. Eating and making nests.” But we could only see buildings. It was hard for me to imagine bodies behind the walls, breathing, worrying, laughing, milling about the dinner table, conversing, obsessing. The spectacle inside my own apartment took all my attention. 
I glimpsed at Zani, munching on bread, cheese, and salami, eating them separately, a bite each time, the Albanian way, not the sandwiched American way. A simple man, an open book, nothing to hide. But was he? He hadn’t batted an eye at paying $50,000 to the lawyer. If he had money, he didn’t show it. Zani wasn’t the type to brag about money, I realized. But he did enjoy an aura of mystique and danger about him. Maybe there was no crime at the root of his opacity, only conceit. Despite his rough appearance, I suspected Zani was a bit vain. 
“Way too many people,” he said. “But the most important thing in the world is not to drink alone. To have someone to clink a glass with. Why did God create so many different kinds of people, do you know? To share love, and everything else.” 
“Gëzuar,” said Lëndina. 
“Gëzuar,” I said. 
“To friends. You are no longer alone,” Zani said. “You have us.” A blinding light from a nearby balcony turned on. Our image on the glass died, replaced by that of the gray buildings. 

Credit: Ledia Xhoga

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “After the Movie” by Marie Howe, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Take another little piece of my heart.”

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 February 27th at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

After the Movie  by Marie Howe

My friend Michael and I are walking home arguing about the movie.
He says that he believes a person can love someone
and still be able to murder that person.

I say, No, that’s not love. That’s attachment.
Michael says, No, that’s love. You can love someone, then come to a day

when you’re forced to think “it’s him or me”
think “me” and kill him.

I say, Then it’s not love anymore.
Michael says, It was love up to then though.

I say, Maybe we mean different things by the same word.
Michael says, Humans are complicated: love can exist even in the
     murderous heart.

I say that what he might mean by love is desire.
Love is not a feeling, I say. And Michael says, Then what is it?

We’re walking along West 16th Street—a clear unclouded night—and I hear my voice
repeating what I used to say to my husband: Love is action, I used to say
     to him.

Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to look at
     someone you want to eat and not eat them.

Janis Joplin says, take another little piece of my heart now baby.

Meister Eckhardt says that as long as we love images we are doomed to
     live in purgatory.

Michael and I stand on the corner of 6th Avenue saying goodnight.
I can’t drink enough of the tangerine spritzer I’ve just bought—

again and again I bring the cold can to my mouth and suck the stuff from
the hole the flip top made.

What are you doing tomorrow? Michael says.
But what I think he’s saying is “You are too strict. You are
     a nun.”

Then I think, Do I love Michael enough to allow him to think these things
     of me even if he’s not thinking them?

Above Manhattan, the moon wanes, and the sky turns clearer and colder.
Although the days, after the solstice, have started to lengthen,

we both know the winter has only begun.
From The Kingdom of Ordinary Time by Marie Howe. Copyright © 2008 by Marie Howe. Used by permission of W. W. Norton. All rights reserved.