Poem of the Week, by Rita Dove

Friends, I’m offering four one-afternoon creative writing workshops via Zoom in August and September. Click here for all the details. Maybe you should treat yourself to a three-hour creative reset – I’d love to see you in the Zoom room!

A few weeks ago I was on an MFA panel with three other writers, talking about the poems we had contributed to The Country in the Mirror: Poems of Protest & Witness. An audience member wondered how to approach difficult topics when writing for children.

Don’t be afraid of laughter, one of the writers said. Don’t be afraid of joy. My God, don’t we need it now more than ever? It felt as if the whole room exhaled when she said this, and I thought of this poem.

Postlude, by Rita Dove

Stay by the hearth, little cricket.
—Cendrillon


You prefer me invisible, no more than
a crisp salute far away from
your silks and firewood and woolens.

Out of sight, I’m merely an annoyance,
one slim, obstinate wrinkle in night’s
deepening trance. When sleep fails,

you wish me shushed and back in my hole.
As usual, you’re not listening: time stops
only if you stop long enough to hear it

passing. This is my business:
I’ve got ten weeks left to croon through.
What you hear is a lifetime of song.

Poem of the Week, by Molly Brodak

In our pottery class we were warned that pots might fling themselves off the wheel, but it was still shocking when one of mine suddenly leapt into the air and smashed itself on the floor. I mushed it back together as best I could and returned it to the wheel.

Everything was going well (as well as anything can go when you are the beginningest of beginning potters) when suddenly POOF, the pot flung itself off the wheel again and this time landed on the window ledge.

Maybe the pot didn’t want to live? I wanted her to live, though, so I nicknamed her The Child and kept going. Maybe she could be a lopsided gravy boat, maybe a lopsided vase, maybe just a lopside. The Child made it through her first firing. I painted her and glazed her and dipped the rim again and everyone in the class blessed her and off she went for her final firing.

I’m a perfectionist in one way only and for that I’m grateful, because otherwise The Child wouldn’t be sitting in my kitchen now, making me smile every time I look at her.

How to Not Be a Perfectionist, by Molly Brodak

People are vivid
and small
and don’t live
very long—


Click here for more information about poet and memoirist Molly Brodak. Today’s poem was first published in New York Tyrant on November 25, 2017, as part of a grouping called “Three Poems by Molly Brodak.”


alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter