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Words
The Sunday Poem: “Little Farmer” by Naomi Shihab Nye
It’s vital to look back on our lives and trace those first, formative encounters with wonder and awe. We might ask ourselves: What experiences taught us to revere the world? As Naomi Shihab Nye reveals in “Little Farmer,” her own childhood connection to the organic farm in Missouri close to where she grew up planted the seeds of wonder in her.
The Sunday Poem: “More” by James Crews
Living in cities and moving from place to place for most of my adult life, I had fallen out of the habit of gardening. Like many, I’d lost touch with the food I found for sale in grocery stores and even at farmer’s markets, forgetting the pleasure (and intense hard work) of being part of the growing process from beginning to end.
The Sunday Poem: “I’d rather be influenced” by Patrick Ramsay
Directed at the so-called “influencers” and advertisers online who vie for our attention, this poem rejects such marketing manipulation. Instead, Patrick Ramsay says he would rather be influenced to “send more postcards./To kiss with more tongue . . . and make cold brew at home.”
The Sunday Poem: “Each Self” by Andrea Potos
Leave it to a mother, while looking out at the sunset with her daughter, to observe how we hold all the selves we’ve ever been inside us like “nesting dolls,” one fitting easily within the next.
The Sunday Poem: “The Honeybee” by Jacqueline Jules
Life presents us with so many moments when we can choose to react or not, turn one way, or go in another direction. Do we choose peace, or move into reactivity?
The Sunday Poem: “In the Fourth of July Parade” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Even in the midst of a ravaging sorrow, joy can arise in us seemingly out of nowhere. And as Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer illustrates so well in this week’s poem, our task then becomes not rejecting the joy, accepting that “key,” we often receive from someone else.
The Sunday Poem: Northern California by Rage Hezekiah
It can be useful, of course, for us to hold onto instants of joy and connection when they happen in the moment. We can pause, truly take them in, and allow them to stay, instead of turning away from those bursts of deeper happiness. Yet it’s also possible, as Rage Hezekiah illustrates so beautifully in her poem, to look back at certain times in our lives and relive the “guiltless” pleasure that we felt then.
The Sunday Poem: Praise by Kelli Russell Agodon
The poet Ross Gay has said: “Gratitude is a grave thing.” Kelli Russell Agodon’s exuberant “Praise” embodies this truth by listing all the seemingly plain things in life that bring her pleasure, in spite of the disappointments and failures that come along with them.
“Home” by Natalie Goldberg
It’s amazing that we can create a singular place on the page—a whole world—as Natalie Goldberg does so well in the wide-ranging and open-armed “Home.”
The Sunday Poem: “All Joys Are Small” by Sharon Corcoran
I love how Sharon Corcoran describes “daily visitations,” the moments of joy “so small they barely register,” unless we prioritize them.
The Sunday Poem: “Archilochus Colubris” by José A. Alcántara
It’s hard not to feel wonder and awe for the migrating birds that finally return to us, “bearing the light” of the faraway places they’ve been. Here, José A. Alcántara, who writes with such deep affection of his connection to the natural world, recounts a moment spent trying to attract the hummingbirds hovering near him.
The Sunday Poem: “Free Breakfast” by Terri Kirby Erickson
It feels refreshing that the attentive speaker of Terri Kirby Erickson’s poem refuses to turn away from this scene of a father lowering his disabled son into a wheelchair.
The Sunday Poem: Boy by Sheila Carter-Jones
Sheila Carter-Jones shows us how easily we can label others, and the negative effects such labeling might have, especially on young people.
The Sunday Poem: “The Living” by Trey Moody
Occasionally, I come across a poem that seems to contain a whole world of feeling, held in the space of just a few lines. “The Living” by Trey Moody is one such poem, at the core of which is the speaker’s confession: “I don’t think/my father didn’t love me.”
The Sunday Poem: “Sorrow Is Not My Name” by Ross Gay
As is so often the case in his work, Ross Gay calls us back to delight over and over in spite of the “brink” and final “deep sleep” that await us all.