Poem of the Week, by Danusha Laméris

​Where are they now, those fictional people I spun up out of thin air and set free? I miss them: Clara and Mallie and William T., The Bartender and Tamar and Crystal. I miss Will, lonely boy wandering the streets of LA, leaving kindness in his wake.

My people live in an invisible world parallel to ours. Sometimes I’m able to coax them through the scrim. Sometimes they fill me in on their lives. Sometimes I wish I could change things for them, but they are their own selves now, and they get to be who they are. I wish I could have them all over to dinner, make their favorite foods, tell them how much I love them.

Fictional Characters, by Danusha Laméris

Do they ever want to escape?
Climb out of the white pages
and enter our world?

Holden Caulfield slipping in the movie theater
to catch the two o’clock
Anna Karenina sitting in a diner,
reading the paper as the waitress
serves up a cheeseburger.

Even Hector, on break from the Iliad,
takes a stroll through the park,
admires the tulips.

Maybe they grew tired
of the author’s mind,
all its twists and turns.

Or were finally weary
of stumbling around Pamplona,
a bottle in each fist,
eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile.

For others, it was just too hot
in the small California town
where they’d been written into
a lifetime of plowing fields.

Whatever the reason,
here they are, roaming the city streets
rain falling on their phantasmal shoulders.

Wouldn’t you, if you could?
Step out of your own story,
to lean against a doorway
of the Five & Dime, sipping your coffee,

your life, somewhere far behind you,
all its heat and toil nothing but a tale
resting in the hands of a stranger,
the sidewalk ahead wet and glistening.

Click here for more information about the wondrous poet Danusha Laméris. Today’s poem is from from The Moons of August, published in 2014 by Autumn House Press.
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My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Evie Shockley

Our January 6-11, 2025, Write Together session is now open for registration! I’d love to see you in the Zoom room. Click here for more information.

If I tell someone I’m working at Turtle Bread Bakery this morning, they often assume I have a part-time job there. Even though I’ve been writing novels in coffeeshops forever. Even though long ago I trained myself to say “working” instead of “writing.”

An artist’s next release, the new season of a favorite series, an actor’s next movie, a painter’s next exhibition, a writer’s new book. Next to food, clothing, and shelter, isn’t art –in all its forms– the one thing everyone craves?

Job Prescription, by Evie Shockley

will poetry change the world? no one asks
this about football, the thrill of watching or
playing. we get that nurses & doctors are
healers. no question that rabbis, priests, &

imams guide individuals & groups through
spiritual thickets. we don’t tell cooks to put
down their wooden spoons & go make a real
difference instead of a real soufflé. teachers

are honored for the learning they impart. so
let poets keep on exciting passion in them-
selves & others. don’t discourage us from our
efforts to diagnose the human heart or create

trail markers for those coming behind us on
this journey. trust me when i say that poetry
heals, guides, feeds, & enlivens. poetry may
not change the world, but might change you.

Click here for more information on Evie Shockley. Click here to listen to the audio version, read by the poet herself. This poem appeared on the American Academy of Poets website in 2024. 
alisonmcghee.com
My poetry podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Sharon Olds

Station
– Sharon Olds

Coming in off the dock after writing,
I approached the house,
and saw your long grandee face
in the light of a lamp with a parchment shade
the color of flame.

An elegant hand on your beard. Your tapered
eyes found me on the lawn. You looked
as the lord looks down from a narrow window
and you are descended from lords. Calmly, with no
hint of shyness you examined me,
the wife who runs out on the dock to write
as soon as one child is in bed,
leaving the other to you.

Your long
mouth, flexible as an archer’s bow,
did not curve. We spent a long moment
in the truth of our situation, the poems
heavy as poached game hanging from my hands.


For more information on Sharon Olds, please click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/sharon-olds

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