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Poetry


“Another Advent” by Mischa Willett

This poem was excerpted from Mischa Willett’s book, The Elegy Beta.

Come crack the frozen
branch-ends that’ve had you so long
penned up as in winter-trap,
snow-drift, tree-sap.

Have the whole Earth heave
and scream at your verdant birth;
bring in your train the bright green
lips of leaves, the lengthening day,
the suggestion of sex, a mess;
wreck the hard and frostbitten ground
with your trillion shoots; break through,
crown, come in like a tooth
into a world sore, into the ache;

come save the stupid, drooped
stems of our hearts before they wilt;
by the Earth’s cataclysmic tilt,
Primavera, evergreen hope,
get here.

The More Walt Whitman Strove for Perfection, the More It Eluded Him

God comes a loving bed-fellow and sleeps at my side all night and close on the peep of the day, And leaves for me baskets covered with white towels bulging the house with their plenty … — Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1855) One of the more interesting things I’ve read recently about the creative […]

Variations on Beowulf, Feminist and Christian

What Beowulf should have known was that he was a sinner just like Grendel. If they had both trusted in Christ as their personal lord and savior, Beowulf wouldn’t’ve had to kill Grendel, and they could have avoided all this mess. My classmate finished speaking, smiled, and sat down. My sixth-grade homeschool co-op English teacher […]

Pandemic Poetry from W. B. Yeats

Written during the height of the Spanish Flu in 1919 and while his wife was herself stricken by the disease, W. B. Yeats penned this reflection, “The Second Coming”: Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the […]

Sacred Wounds that Give Life

Natasha Trethewey is trying to redeem herself — or at least the aspect of herself she lost when she buried the emotional memory of her mother’s tragic death. Her collection of poems, Memorial Drive: A Daughter’s Memoirs, represents an attempt to unearth the past with clarity and insight, adding prose and metaphor to speak to […]

Devotion and Metaphor, Consciousness and Grace: Mark Jarman’s Dailiness

Prayer is a waking activity, a way of giving thanks for consciousness. … When prayer takes the form of devotion, and devotion takes the form of poetry, the connection is through consciousness. Mark Jarman wrote his new essay collection, Dailiness, about “the way poetry celebrates being alive as an act of consciousness.” But does consciousness […]

Emily Dickinson Has More Hope than Pharaoh

It is an honorable Thought
And makes One lift One’s Hat
As One met sudden Gentlefolk
Upon a daily Street,

That We’ve immortal Place
Though Pyramids decay
And Kingdoms, like the Orchard
Flit Russetly away

(Franklin Variorum 1115A)

“Overtime,” by Mischa Willett

Let it crack. Let its sound go
sour, and if, when it tolls the hour, we
hear an A minor rather than a B flat,
well, that’s that.

It’s breaking, but doesn’t need
replacing any more than liberty
for greening, the tower for leaning.

Cast in Limerick and floated round
the Cape to hang here and peel
for each assassination, graduation,
it grew, over time, ours. When is a bell

broken? A tongue stammers out
the time still, mimes the orbital
click, movement tick into noon
and now, cries flatly—ironic—from

its diaphragmatic round: Be it known
hereby! It is! Amen! This!

Each tock rhapsodic atop the tower clock.


From The Elegy Beta: And Other Poems by Mischa Willett. You can purchase this collection from the Mockingbird storeAmazon, and elsewhere.

“Dream at Bethel,” by Mischa Willett

Quiet now, but for camels’ tongues,
lopping fat and sticky in the young

desert night, big wind in the black backdrop
of sky, crickets and their ancient legs, log-pops

from my small fire. Cool on my feet,
this breeze after two days walking since the trees

of my village waved their shaggy good-byes. My wool socks
stuffed in boots, I relax; put a smooth rock

under my head, start to dream the dreams of my life:
I can fly like hawks, have green-eyed wives

from the east, am a sailor with a swift ship,
fish, kingdoms under me, then this:

a ladder leaning into clouds reaching high as noon,
quick as raindrops, up and down, angels, bright as moon.

Then a whisper comes sliding too, down the ricket of the bars,
promising peace and plenty, descendants like the stars.

The fire is dim as voices when the drop
of my leg wakes me. Blinking, I prop

on an elbow and look around for stairs, an unnatural
hint of spirits, but see only my bearded camels,

some lights on a hill from town, my boots, provisions.
I think better of my strange vision.

At breakfast I splash oil on my pillow rock—
it seems holy still—and get ready to walk, pack

everything, give the camels some straw,
call the place Church, to remember what I saw.


From The Elegy Beta: And Other Poems by Mischa Willett. You can purchase this collection from the Mockingbird store, Amazon, and elsewhere.

“This World Is Not Conclusion” (Song of COVID-19)

By Emily Dickinson:

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond —
Invisible, as Music —
But positive, as Sound —
It beckons, and it baffles —
Philosophy — don’t know —
And through a Riddle, at the last —
Sagacity, must go —
To guess it, puzzles scholars —
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown —
Faith slips — and laughs, and rallies —
Blushes, if any see —
Plucks at a twig of Evidence —
And asks a Vane, the way —
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit —
Strong Hallelujahs roll —
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul —

– 1862

As part of the Emily Days series on Saved by Design.

Long Distance Churching

“For though I am absent in body, yet I am with you in spirit…” (Colossians 2:5, RSV)

You are still my Dearly Beloved.
Gone are the proximate days we took for granted,
the friction of shoulders
mingling of voices
intimate meals of bread and wine.

Now we lay our hands
upon our screens
and pass the peace
by pressing Send.

We fear the rumors of loves
sundered by separation
and renew our vows
by keeping our distance:

Where you go I will not go
Where you lodge I will not lodge.
Your pixelated people are still my people
And your God my God.

“Escape from Circumstances”: Dickinson in Quarantine

Take It from the Woman Who Self-Sequestered for Over Fifty Years