Robyn Sarah

Poem of the Week, by Robyn Sarah

Posted on by alisonmcghee

Write Together 2026 is now open for registration! Come write with us for an hour each morning, January 12-17. Each day’s Zoom session features different readings, different prompts, and the chance to write quietly together in solidarity and appreciation. Click here for more information and to sign up. 

Last month, a week after my mother died, I was on the couch practicing Duolingo when my entire body began to shake, my gut turned to ice, and a feeling of terror overwhelmed me. You’re having a panic attack, I thought, but why? Then it came to me: there is no one in the world anymore to take care of you. No one will ever love you the way she did. This feeling was not rational, but neither is grief or panic.

Many of my mother’s favorite Poems of the Week from this blog were scattered around her apartment –she read them online and printed them out, tucked them into drawers, stuck them on the fridge, propped them up in window frames. But the one below didn’t come from me. She must have found it somewhere and loved it and printed it out. I brought it back with me and use it as a bookmark now, a small token of the essence of my mother.

Bounty, by Robyn Sarah

Make much of something small.
The pouring-out of tea,
a drying flower’s shadow on the wall
from last week’s sad bouquet.
A fact: it isn’t summer any more.

Say that December sun
is pitiless, but crystalline
and strikes like a bell.
Say it plays colours like a glockenspiel.
It shows the dust as well,

the elemental sediment
your broom has missed,
and lights each grain of sugar spilled
upon the tabletop, beside
pistachio shells, peel of a clementine.

Slippers and morning papers on the floor,
and wafts of iron heat from rumbling rads,
can this be all? No, look — here comes the cat,
with one ear inside out.
Make much of something small.

Click here for more information about Canadian writer Robyn Sarah. Today’s poem is from A Day’s Grace, published in 2003 by The Porcupine’s Quill.

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My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Robyn Sarah

Posted on by alisonmcghee

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Last week I visited The Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. My grandfather and his family lived there when they first emigrated to New York, after fleeing the pogroms in Russia at the turn of the 20th century. Small dark rooms. No electricity. No running water. Four toilets in the back yard for the entire building. Family piecework factories. One of my great-uncles died of TB, which he contracted in a sweatshop. No, scratch that. He died of suicide because he didn’t want to put his family through the pain and expense of a long and agonizing death. 

On our tour, I was the only American. When the tour guide asked if there had once been languages spoken in our families that are no longer spoken, I was the only one to raise my hand: “Sure. Russian, Yiddish, German, Danish, French.” My ancestors lived not an American dream but an American story, like most of us.  It was a relief to emerge from that dark, cramped tenement and stand in the sunshine. 

 

On Closing the Apartment of My Grandparents of Blessed Memory, by Robyn Sarah

And then I stood for the last time in that room.
The key was in my hand. I held my ground,
and listened to the quiet that was like a sound,
and saw how the long sun of winter afternoon
fell slantwise on the floorboards, making bloom
the grain in the blond wood. (All that they owned
was once contained here.) At the window moaned
a splinter of wind. I would be going soon.

I would be going soon; but first I stood,
hearing the years turn in that emptied place
whose fullness echoed. Whose familiar smell,
of a tranquil life, lived simply, clung like a mood
or a long-loved melody there. A lingering grace.
Then I locked up, and rang the janitor’s bell.    

 

For more information on Robyn Sarah, please click here.

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