"joy still stays joy"

10 May 2026: Just a bit ago, coming in from my walk--a walk filled with Big Thoughts--I finally read a piece my friend sent me that she cut out of the New York Times. By Melissa Kirsch, it commemorates thirty years of "National Poetry Month" (which is April, so yeah...took me a while to get to it). 

Kirsh, like me, is drawn to springtime poems, especially those about April, a month of boomeranging weather contrasts here in the Northeast. She writes, "The internal work is much the same, sitting quietly, paying close attention to the weather inside, you can observe the hope that blows in with the fear, the lightness and heaviness that seem to be competing." Just a really lovely little essay.

The piece ends with some lines from this Jane Hirschfield poem that I have read before and even linked to on New Year's Day. 

This read-through, some different lines caught my attention and some of what was on my mind on my walk: 

"Stone did not become apple. War did not become peace. 

Yet joy still stays joy. Sequins stay sequins. Words still bespangle, bewilder."

"Joy still stays joy," I say to myself, which somehow makes the sadness bearable. 

"Our Book of Delights"

15 April 2026: 

"...But it’s our own ferns and fiddleheads, 

evergreens and sugar maples, trillium blooming, or on the verge, 

for no one in particular, for everyone in particular, as if to say, 

Go on, enjoy it..."

Oh, man...this one got me. I feel like such a mess and this is just what I needed to read. It's Arielle Hebert's "Our Book of Delights."

[And isn’t everything risk?]

16 March 2026:

Perfect poem for a solitary, Big Thoughts day. Grateful for Gregory Orr's work.

"And isn’t everything risk?

The beloved lives
Then dies,
Then (if we’re lucky)
Rises again 

Into a poem or song

Or into the world
In some other form
Impossible to predict.

Simplest story, oldest tale: 

Sparrows sing it
From every hedge;
And swallows, also,
From their nests on the ledge." 

That there's a tornado watch in effect also feels appropriate as the weather outside veers from bright sun to storms and back again.

"This human life"

2 March 2026: 

"...But from the inside 

this life feels enormous, unlimited 

by the self—by selfness—"

Grateful to come across this Maggie Smith poem in my "Poem-a-Day" email. Sometimes I think about the vastness Smith writes about here and then wonder about the vastness in others. 

It seems to me one of the great projects--responsibilities, even--of living is acknowledging that vastness in others. Getting glimpses of it is often one of life's great pleasures. 

(This is also why the two most recent papers I've been working with my students on--profiles--are so rewarding.)

"What the Living Do"

27 December 2025: A little over two months ago, I kicked off what I called a marathon--one that I thought would be done in mid-November. I thought it was just about over by the time I wrote this post. I was wrong. 

It actually ended--I think? I hope?--yesterday when I got back to WV. 

Time now for stillness, I think/hope. Lots of work to do--so much--but I am catching my breath and hoping to settle in. 

I was in bed before 10:00 last night and, though I woke up--wide awake--at 4:00, I made myself drift back to sleep a few more times. I stayed in bed longer than I have in months. Jo insisted on staying with me--right up next to me or on me--for most of it. She's ready for stillness, too. 

Still so sad, though. Still so many Big Thoughts. 

Stillness is good--and so necessary. But I will lose my mind if that's all there is. I need things to do. Anchored in place, yes, but active. I need to do "What the Living Do."

On the drive back yesterday, I listened to Saeed Jones read Marie Howe's poem on the latest Vibe Check. Saeed called it a "Modern Scripture" for him and I think it might be for me, too.

This morning (walking past what used to be a video store!), I caught my reflection in the some window glass and thought of the poem's closing:

"But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

I am living. I remember you."

"Our Real Work"

26 November 2025: Just came across this Wendell Berry poem and somehow it fits the moment, especially after another day filled with not knowing what to do or which way to go. 

Poetry continues to show up for me, blessing after blessing...

"Catching the Light"

23 November 2025: Read this poem today in preparation for my book club meeting this evening. (Our selection is The People's Project.) It is precisely the poem I need for this moment, thinking about my dad and one of the last conversations we had. 

"One Art"

21 November 2025: Taught the most beautifully meta class of my life today, leading students through Bishop's "One Art." 

Do the thing. Say the words. Master the disaster. Even though it's still a disaster. 

Point to the cracks. Point to the fragility. Let them see that that's what makes it beautiful and human and real.

The joking voice. The gesture I love.

All there in that classroom, moving me along. 

Last night, when I was waiting any moment to hear that my father was gone, I couldn't imagine being in that classroom the next morning, much less to talk about that poem.

But he made it through the night. 

Who knows what comes next?

But whatever it is, the classroom...and language...and art...and teaching will be there. And he will be there, too. 

"Don't Hesitate"

5 November 2025: I saw this Mary Oliver poem being passed around on Bluesky this morning. Still holding onto the joy of last night's election results.

"Message for Jim in Syria [Fall fell wind-wise]"

3 October 2025: My goodness--this poem, which I read this morning, has been on my mind all day. It's achingly specific for this poet, but also speaks to so many thoughts in my mind lately, especially as fall edges its way more fully into this corner of the world. 

"Tired of Love Poems"

3 July 2025: 

"What we tire of is that we never tire of it.

How it guts us. How it fails, then reappears.

Because what is the bird compared to you?"

Saeed Jones read Megan Fernandes's "Tired of Love Poems" on this week's Vibe Check and I really enjoyed it. That was before the awful news about the dumb bill passing and just more and more awfulness closing in everywhere. 

I read the poem again this evening and I am thinking about it still, glad for the reminder that we never tire of love (even when it is a big risk, when it hurts, or when it ends badly), and that love feeds hope, and both keep us going and fighting. 

"Altitude"

18 June 2025:  Check out Airea D. Matthews' "Altitude," a reimagining of the Icarus story. The whole thing is great, but here's the ending: 

"My fall, well, yes,

those depths matter less.

What I learned by height—

that’s the story."

I read this poem first thing this morning, after another restless night, this time thanks to multiple astonishingly loud thunderstorms, and it--a bit like thunder--knocked me out. 

"Spring in the mischief in me"

19 March 2025: Crazy-busy day, but not a bad one. Been working non-stop with probably about an hour's more work to go before I let myself call it. At the same time, Frost's line from "Mending Wall" (in this post's title) has been in my head on and off all day. Part of the reason is that I taught the poem in ENGL 204 today. 

Beyond that, though, the idea of mischief (fueled by the transition to my favorite season) has been kind of fueling my attitude (in good ways). 

Anyway, this isn't the most thought-out or eloquent post, I know. (See above--so much more to do, "miles to go before I sleep," to borrow even more from Frost.) But it's enough to "count" for my daily post and get my butt back to work! 

"Would I burn palaces?"

8 February 2025: Re-reading the book during this last round of proofing has me stopping again and again in amazement of how strikingly relevant nineteenth-century American women's writing is for our moment. This isn't surprising, given how much of it emerged in moments of national crisis, but some of the parallels are especially poignant. Today it was "The Palace Burner," by Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt. 

Would I burn palaces? I'd like to think so, but I sure don't know for certain. 

"Love (III)"

9 January 2024: Found myself tearing up listening to a reading of George Herbert's "Love (III)" this morning. I've been such a fan of Herbert ever since I first read him, but I don't think I've thought about this poem in years. But this morning, as I drove to an appointment, filled with anxiety and so tired already, it moved me more profoundly than ever before. "You must sit," God tells us. He loves us. That is enough.

(Grateful for the magnificant In Our Time podcast for this moment of grace.)

"didn’t it give you the asking"

1 January 2025: So many smart and kind souls posting words of wisdom and commiseration at the beginning of this new year, one already marred by violence and pain. Jane Hirschfield's poem, "Counting, This New Year’s Morning, What Powers Yet Remain To Me," really speaks to me today. 

"Think not we give out yet..."

19 December 2024: Ah, Walt...

"Sounds of the Winter" 

Walt Whitman

Sounds of the winter too,

Sunshine upon the mountains—many a distant strain

From cheery railroad train—from nearer field, barn, house

The whispering air—even the mute crops, garner’d apples, corn,

Children’s and women’s tones—rhythm of many a farmer and of flail,

And old man’s garrulous lips among the rest, Think not we give out yet,

Forth from these snowy hairs we keep up yet the lilt.

Nikki Giovanni

10 December 2024:

i hope i die
warmed
by the life that i tried
to live

— Nikki Giovanni

RIP to this legendary woman. 

"I've never run out of poetry to nourish me..."

25 September 2024: 

[Catch-up post because when I got home last night, my beloved old laptop died on me, mid-message.]

What a pleasure to once again listen to Mark Harshman talk about poetry and read some of his work. 

"without tenderness..."

2 July 2024: Saw this tweet earlier today and it made me choke up. So much turmoil right now, but this strikes me as at least part of the answer. 

without tenderness, we are in hell

—Adrienne Rich

— 兔兒神 (@chenchenwrites) July 2, 2024