Editor’s Note: The poet, through many fine and surprising images, describes the miniature miracle of her newborn grandchild.

Week One

She sleeps and eats, and all the while stays curled
as though still inside my daughter’s body,
in that thick calm of muffled sound that held her,
must be soothing her still
here in the room though none of us can feel it.

She is fine like a ringlet of fiddlehead fern
before it unfurls in the summer forest,
spiraled frond, close to the ground,
most of the plant still root and rhizome
hidden beneath the earth.

Her face, placid as a newly polished stone,
that sits with its perfect even weight
in the curve of an open palm.

All afternoon the soft snail of her
sleeps on her father’s chest.

Editor’s Note: Amazing how the poet has used the small container of a cell phone to convey so much sadness and longing.

Bus Stop

Stubborn sleet. Traffic stuck on Sixth.
We cram the shelter, soaked, strain
to see the bus, except for a man next to me,
dialing his cell-phone. He hunches,
pulls his parka’s collar over it, talks slow and low:
It’s daddy, hon. You do? Me too. Ask mom
if I can come see you now. Oh, okay,
Sunday then. Bye. Me too baby. Me too.
He snaps the phone shut, cradles it to his cheek,
holds it there. Dusk stains the sleet, minutes
slush by. When we board the bus,
that phone is still pressed to his cheek.

Laure-Anne Bosselaar was born in 1943. She grew up in Belgium and moved to the United States in 1987. Fluent in four languages, she has published poems in French and Flemish and translates American poetry into French and Dutch poetry into English. She is the author of These Many Rooms (Four Way Books, 2019); A New Hunger (Ausable Press, 2007); Small Gods of Grief (BOA Editions, 2001), which won the Isabella Gardner Prize for Poetry; and The Hour Between Dog and Wolf (BOA Editions, 1997). This poem was included in A New Hunger (Ausable Press 2007) and posted here with permission of the author.

Editor’s Note: The mother in this poem is working very hard to connect with her daughter at this important juncture in both their lives. Her physical exertions seem to be a stand-in for the emotions and words she can’t say. The images do a powerful job of conveying both the mother’s sadness—sagging carton, slumping rice and lentils, stooped and pinned body—and the daughter’s remoteness—the spiny cactus—while the last line’s poignant image reveals the mother’s sense of failure. 

Helping My Daughter Move into Her First Apartment

This is all I am to her now:
a pair of legs in running shoes,

two arms strung with braided wire.
She heaves a carton sagging with CDs

at me and I accept it gladly, lifting
with my legs, not bending over,

raising each foot high enough
to clear the step. Fortunate to be

of any use to her at all,
I wrestle, stooped and single-handed,

with her mattress in the stairwell,
saying nothing as it pins me,

sweating, to the wall. Vacuum cleaner,
spiny cactus, five-pound sacks

of rice and lentils slumped
against my heart: up one flight

of stairs and then another,
down again with nothing in my arms.

Sue Ellen Thompson is the author of six books of poetry—most recently SEA NETTLES: NEW & SELECTED POEMS. She has taught at Middlebury College, Binghamton University, Wesleyan University, Central Connecticut State University, and the University of Delaware. A resident of Oxford, MD, for the past 19 years, she has been mentoring adult poets and teaching workshops at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda. In 2010, the Maryland Library Association awarded her its prestigious Maryland Author Award.

Editor’s Note: Love always seems to find a way in, no matter what the external circumstances, making even the end of the world seem something one could acclimate to if the right person were beside you. Since post-apocalypse movies seem to be so popular these days, I thought I’d share this poem of love in the time of an imagined post-apocalypse. 

Love Poem for an Apocalypse

I wish I’d met you after everything had burned,
after the markets crash and global sea levels rise.
The forests scorched. The grasslands trespassed.
My love, it is a whole life’s work to disappear—
ask the god with his head in the wolf’s mouth or
the serpent intent on swallowing all the earth.
Ask the senate subcommittee for market solutions
for late capitalism and early-onset dementia.

You and a bird flu could make me believe in fate.
I think we might be happy in the end, in the dark
of a hollow tree, a seed bank or blast-proof bunker,
if only you would sing the song I love, you know
the one about our precious eschatology, the one
I always ask to hear to lull me back to sleep.

Dave Lucas is an American poet born in Cleveland, Ohio. He is the author of Weather (University of Georgia Press, 2011) which was awarded the 2012 Ohioana Book Award for Poetry. He is the recipient of a Henry Hoyns Fellowship from the University of Virginia and a Discovery/The Nation Prize in 2005, and his poems have appeared in many journals including Poetry Magazine, Slate, Blackbird, The Paris Review, The Threepenny Review and Virginia Quarterly Review. He was the second Poet Laureate of the state of Ohio from 2018 to 2019. He received his B.A. at John Carroll University, M.F.A. in creative writing at the University of Virginia, and M.A. and Ph.D. in English language and literature at the University of Michigan. This poem is posted here with permission of the author.

Editor’s Note: As if in response to last week’s Binsey Poplars poem and our not knowing “what we do when we delve or hew,” this prose poem recounts a historic event detailing the consequences of our rapacious “hewing.”   

LOGJAM
               The 1883 logjam on Michigan’s Grand River
was one of the biggest in the history of logging.

Listen: one hundred fifty million feet of logs: skew and splinter thirty feet high for seven river-miles. Sky of only lightning, mouth of only teeth, all bite and churn, thrust and
spear, the kind of mess made by men who have men to clean up their messes. It rains. Thirty-seven million tons of white pine clears its throat. Water rises. The bridges will go
soon. Listen closely: underneath the knock and clatter, the trees still sing. The song is a violence.

Amorak Huey is author of four books of poems including Dad Jokes from Late in the Patriarchy (Sundress Publications, 2021). Co-founder with Han VanderHart of River River Books, Huey teaches in the BFA and MFA programs at Bowling Green State University in Ohio. He also is co-author with W. Todd Kaneko of the textbook Poetry: A Writer’s Guide and Anthology (Bloomsbury, 2nd ed., 2024) and Slash/Slash (2021), winner of the Diode Editions Chapbook Prize. Huey is a recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts, and his poems have appeared in The Best American Poetry, American Poetry Review, The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-A-Day series, and many other print and online journals.

Editor’s Note: The poet’s exquisite, strangely beautiful language and artful rhyme amplify his feelings of despair at losing a treasured and unique stand of aspens. His message is even more pertinent today, when instead of a few trees lost, we are delving and hewing entire forests and their important ecosystems.

Binsey Poplars

felled 1879

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
xQuelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
xAll felled, felled, are all felled;
xxOf a fresh and following folded rank
xxxxxxxxxNot spared, not one
xxxxxxxxxThat dandled a sandalled
xxxxxxShadow that swam or sank
On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank.

xO if we but knew what we do
xxxxxWhen we delve or hew —
xxxHack and rack the growing green!
xxxxxSince country is so tender
xxxTo touch, her being só slender,
xxxThat, like this sleek and seeing ball
xxxBut a prick will make no eye at all,
xxxWhere we, even where we mean
xxxxxxxxxTo mend her we end her,
xxxxxxxWhen we hew or delve:
After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
xTen or twelve, only ten or twelve
xxxStrokes of havoc unselve
xxxxxxxThe sweet especial scene,
xxxRural scene, a rural scene,
xxxSweet especial rural scene.

Gerard Manley Hopkins SJ (28 July 1844 – 8 June 1889) was an English poet and Jesuit priest, whose posthumous fame places him among the leading English poets. His prosody—notably his concept of sprung rhythm—established him as an innovator, as did his praise of God through vivid use of imagery and nature. Only after his death did Robert Bridges publish a few of Hopkins’s mature poems in anthologies, hoping to prepare for wider acceptance of his style. By 1930 Hopkins’s work was seen as one of the most original literary advances of his century.

Editor’s Note: When there is no evidence for hope and when all seems chaos, that is the time we must fill the darkness with song. For who knows what may happen?

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,
a song—and in a little while, behold:

the first glimmer comes, then a glow
filters through the misty trees,
then the bold sun rises, then
everyone starts bustling about.

And that first crazy optimist, can we
forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,
“Hey, I made that happen!
And oh, life is so fine.”

Kim Stafford is Emeritus Professor at Lewis and Clark College in Oregon. He writes, teaches, and travels to raise the human spirit through poetry. In 1986, he founded the Northwest Writing Institute, and he has published a dozen books of poetry and prose, including The Muses Among Us: Eloquent Listening and Other Pleasures of the Writer’s Craft and 100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do: How My Brother Disappeared. His most recent book is the poetry collection As the Sky Begins to Change (Red Hen Press, 2024). He has taught writing in dozens of schools and community centers, and in Scotland, Italy, Mexico, and Bhutan. In 2018 he was named Oregon’s 9th Poet Laureate for a two-year term.