One Poem Only

Morning Magic Maggie DeversA princess sits at the edge of my bedTelling fantastical stories,My sleepy head tripping over the details But in line with the nuance.She prattles like a caffeinated sage,Wisdom seeping out of jumbled phrases,Bits of stories, weaving togetherHer dreams, desires, realities.It’s all the same,She speaks her life.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.To My Daughter ElizabethMary Ann H. T. BigelowTwo flowers upon one parent stemTogether bloomed for many days.At length a storm arose, and oneWas blighted, and cut down at noon.The other hath transplanted been,And flowers fair as herself hath borne;She too has felt the withering storm,Her strength's decayed, wasted her form.May he who hears the mourner's prayer,Renew her strength for years to come;Long may He our Lilly spare,Long delay to call her home.But when the summons shall arriveTo bear this lovely flower away,Again may she transplanted beTo blossom in eternity.There may these sisters meet again,Both freed from sorrow, sin, and pain;There with united voices raise,In sweet accord their hymns of praise;Eternally his name t' adore,Who died, yet lives forevermore.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.adulthoodCarlee Wilsongone are the days where my ceilingtwinkled with plastic magicand the only house i worried about was barbie’s.it didn’t matter if ken came home or not,didn’t matter if stacie’s car had a flator if joe’s deployment was extended.boy, i’d kill for a mud pie right now,full of everything we’ve been taught to avoid,devoid of everything we’ve been taught matters.i wish i could sit on the playground swingand twist the clinking chains around and aroundand scream as i spin violently back to center.back to before the world did it for me,back to when it felt good.More from Carlee Wilson ↓@poetcarlee on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.InedibleSeraI wish I could covermy body in spikes,become unappetizing,indigestible.I poke holes into my image,pour lighter fluid over it,flicking the flame onand burning awaythe outline you memorized,char the version of meyou still think of.I wish I could transform,shapeshiftinto something you hate.I chop my hair inuneven sections,cut lattice into my face,unravel the centre of myself.I bite my fingers raw,throw my body against concreteuntil it's beaten bloody.carve my tonguefrom my throatso I can't comply.stab forks into my sight;force myself backin control.I wish I could breakevery single one of my bonesso I can slip from these cuffs,this cage,contort myself to fitbetween the bars.I know I have the keybut I can't find the lock-I'm blind.I need to break myselfout of here.time is flyingbut my wings are broken.I take a bat to my back,pepper spray my face,swallow a grenadeand drink acid.I wish I could mould myselfinto a mushy mess,become nauseating,off putting,tasteless.I run into traffic,tangle myself in the tires,chugging gasoline.I jump into a pit of spiders,cover myself in bites and stings,eat handfuls of beesuntil my cheeks swell.I'll dip myself into alake of boiling water,seeping deep as myskin bubbles up.I'll roll in what repels you,leave with a matching stench,use jagged stonesto scratch up anyblank space remaining.I wish I could melt downinto the cracks in the earth,hide in the soilfrom the eyes in the sky.drag wood againstmy arms and legs,hair turning to splinters.I shave my eyebrows offand pick at my lips.I'll tie my teeth to string,slam the door,take pieces of glassand stick them into my body,standing with the cactus.cut out all the cartilageand tie together my tendons,spread my blood on breadand eat that instead.jump head firstinto a volcano,exfoliate my skin with the heat.make myself a target-fire arrow after arrow,pinning myself down.take an axe to my toes,a mace to the chest,a knife to the back.I wish I could becomeinedible,insipid,abhorrent.I'd do anythingto make youprojectile vomitat the thought of me.More from Sera ↓@serawrites03 on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are a double feature: one poem here on the podcast, and one more by the same poet shared on Instagram.borderlineLuna Fergusonborderlinebetween what may i ask?floating whilst the clock ticks bytears on the night of your lifepain in pleasurepleasure in paindoors closedthe slams still echo in your brainin-prisoned by your own namedust scatters over where you layan endless impossible escape you planned at 5imprints of those who held you tightjust to leave you in the nightskys are blue but your mind is greyit makes no sense why you feel this waybut at least you know borderline is where you staythere is safety in that painMore from Luna Ferguson ↓@lunaroseferguson on Instagram@lunaroseferguson on SubstackHer book, Borderline, is available nowWatch the Second PoemYou can watch and listen to another poem by Author as part of our Wednesday double feature on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.The mind unmaskedAliyah MorayoMy mind carries centuries.The rust of chains sits where dreams should bloom.It remembers the songs my ancestors could not finish,the languages drowned beneath the ocean,The prayers that reached heaven but never came back whole.I carry the scent of burning villages,the hush of mothers hiding their children from soldiers,The taste of iron in blood is not yet dry.History is not behind me,it lives beneath my skin,in the way I flinch at loud footsteps,In the way, I still ask permission to exist.Poverty came next, not the kind you can see,But the one that eats through dignity.It teaches you how to smile while shrinking,How to apologize for breathing air you didn’t pay for.I have held hunger in my stomach like a secret,watched promises rot in the mouths of politicians,and called it governance.Racism doesn’t need chains anymore.It wears suits now, sits in boardrooms,and signs papers that erase faces like mine.It whispers in hiring rooms, in classrooms,In the silence after a joke that was never funny.My skin still walks into rooms before I do,And sometimes it leaves bruises.And there was the night I lost my body.Hands that were not mine mapped me without mercy.They called it desire,But I learned that silence can sound like survival.They told me to forgive,as if forgiveness could sew me back whole.But my body remembers,every breath, every tremor, every theft.Sometimes I dream of a woman,barefoot, heavy with history,a pregnant silhouette against a red horizon.She carries nations in her womb,grief and hope braided in her hair.The earth listens when she walks;Every step is a drumbeat,Every contraction is a prophecy.She births children into a world that greets themwith both fear and promise,each cry echoing a memory that refuses to die.And the men in suits still speak of progress,while the roads collapse and children starve.Corruption wears perfume now,It smiles on TV, it calls itself democracy.The poor grow thinner,their bones become statistics,Their stories are buried under asphalt and applause.The mind remembers it allthe rape, the racism, the hunger,forgetting.It remembers how it learned to pretend to be fine,how it stitched its wounds with hope too small to cover the pain.It remembers prayers that turned to smoke,dreams that suffocated before they could fly.But unmasked,The mind does not lie.It bleeds truth.It exposes the scars beneath the laughter,the trembling beneath the strength.It holds everything the world tried to bury, and still dares to breathe.And somewhere, that pregnant woman still walks.Barefoot and unbroken.Her belly glows with the ghosts of centuries,her breath carries the songs we’ve forgotten to sing.When she finally gives birth, the world will tremble,because the child will come out screaming, not in pain,but in remembrance.And that, perhaps,is what it means to be unmasked,To remember, to ache, and to live still.More from Aliyah Morayo ↓@aliyah_morayo on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. no place like homeAbhilasha Ghoshcoming back feels different—as if the walls have softenedwhile you were gone,as if the light has rehearsedthe exact way it will fall on your facewhen you step inside.you notice small things first:the old curtain breathing in the breeze,the smell of evening settling on the floor,the faint echo of who you used to bestill lingering in the cornerslike a loyal ghost.distance does this—carves out space in your chestso the familiar can returnwith a strange, tender sharpness.a house you once rushed throughbecomes a sanctuarythe moment you walk away from it.and standing at the threshold now,red shoes dusty from everywhere else,you feel that quiet click inside—recognition, surrender, belonging.dorothy’s words arrive softly in red shoes,“there’s no place like home.”More from Abhilasha Ghosh ↓@booksandbillis on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsPresence of Choice by Alecia LewisHarmony by Seán TateMemory weighs more than bone and Hash browns by Charlotte DawnTangerines and Alcoholism by Labanya DeyI Am Mother by Melissa NortonComrades by Ella Wheeler WilcoxPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadBordersMaggie DeversOn the north side of the borderThe saguaro arms are droopingAnd the Oregon Pipes have disappearedEven their bones are missing.But to the south, they grow tall and proudWith enough of both to pepper the landscape,And I wonder how it's possibleFor a line in the sand to grow.More from Maggie Devers ↓My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poetsFind links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry is better when it’s lived with. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Comrades Ella Wheeler Wilcox I and my Soul are alone to-day, All in the shining weather; We were sick of the world, and put it away, So we could rejoice together. Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky Is mixing a rare, sweet wine, In the burnished gold of this cup on high, For me, and this Soul of mine. We find it a safe and royal drink, And a cure for every pain; It helps us to love, and helps us to think, And strengthens body and brain. And sitting here, with my Soul alone, Where the yellow sun-rays fall, Of all the friends I have ever known I find it the BEST of all. We rarely meet when the world is near, For the World hath a pleasing art And brings me so much that is bright and dear That my Soul it keepeth apart. But when I grow weary of mirth and glee, Of glitter, glow, and splendour, Like a tried old friend it comes to me, With a smile that is sad and tender. And we walk together as two friends may, And laugh and drink God's wine. Oh, a royal comrade any day I find this Soul of mine. Support + Stay Connected to OPO If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook. Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.I Am Mother Melissa Norton I am Mother, stepping barefoot on the snake.Absorbing her power as her body wraps tight around my leg.I, with quick, sharp force sever the head full of venomAs my mother has done with the point of a shovelAs I have done with a horrified hatchetMy babies will fear no fangs.I am Mother. Protector. Warrior. Safe Haven.I am Mother. I know powerful, truest love.I have trudged through petrifying, thick and heavy fear.Stepped over serpents of worry, tears slithering,Growing my new skin to protect this love.I am Mother. I know sacrifice.I have abandoned limbs and organs to survive viper pits.I have been swallowed wholeI have been buried and unearthed, endless reincarnation.I am Mother. I have created life within meTorn and bled to release these beings and their breaths.I have healed and regenerated from battles only I can feel.My scars are worn proudly, the memories everlasting.I am MotherMore from Melissa Norton ↓@hairnhips on Instagram@hairnhips on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Tangerines and AlcoholismLabanya DeyMy mother peels tangerines Carefully scaling the orange fleshUntil her nails dig into the sour crevices Of the orange ballThe juices drip between her nails and fingertips As she puts them on a plateOn a bright afternoonAs she waits for them to be savouredAppreciated with the delicate eyes she yearns for.She sits by the table, nails scratching through the skinThe sweet juices bubble through her veins She sits and waits Where the threshold loses its colour and the window panes seem blue She watches the door with careful eyesAt 12:00 when she cleans up her day The corpses of red headed flies with sweetness sticking in their tonguesLay beside the musk amber of leftover liquidSmiling at her - "you couldn't even keep him" So she keeps, her orange peels and her whiskey scent And sunny days with dark afternoonsAnd vibrant smiles with leftover tangerinesDrowned with glistening, golden bubbles of life and laughter Because my mother peels tangerinesWhether seasons meet their end Or the waves meet the earth.More from Labanya Dey ↓@labanyaaa._ on Instagram@yapseshs on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are a double feature: one poem here on the podcast, and one more by the same poet shared on Instagram.Memory weighs more than boneCharlotte DawnYou can’t see the ghostsuntil you’re almost one—until your breath learns how to hesitate,until mirrors stop recognising youwithout thinking.They gather in the quiet margins:hospital hallways at 3 a.m.,old songs that bruise instead of heal,names you don’t say aloud anymore.The living pass straight through them,laughing, late for something,arms full of tomorrow.They don’t feel the cold.But you—you slow down enough to noticehow memory weighs more than bone,how absence has a voice,how survival leaves footprints backward.That’s when the ghosts turn their faces.Not to haunt you—but to ask if you rememberwho you werebefore you learned how to disappear.More from Charlotte Dawn ↓@wordsbycharlottedawn on Instagram@charlottedawn1 on SubstackWatch the Second PoemYou can watch and listen to Hash browns by Charlotte Dawn as part of our Wednesday double feature on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.HarmonySeán TateHarmony, intermingled with melody, falls lightly from the heavensto coat the parched earth.Rough flakes made smooth by a rich flowing sequence.And the rhythm; listen as the rhythm courses down throughcracks to slumbering seeds.Listen to that steady beat: tap, tap, tap.Seeds aroused from peaceful repose, strumming and humming to their ownwild chorus; a deep dissonance.Compacted soil parts in compressed rattles, giving room for the buildingcrescendo.More from Seán Tate ↓@seantatepoet on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. Presence of ChoiceAlecia LewisI hold no one.They can come or go.Freely.Unbound.They may disconnectOnlineor in person.People may condemn me.I remain unshaken.Judgment falls.I do not carry it.If exiting brings peace,I let them go.With love.With grace.I hold only thoseWho choose to stay.The rest are shadows.I release them gently.More from Alecia Lewis ↓@neutralmuse73 on Instagram and SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsSame Fire by Diana JoharResist by Francesca AcquavivaThe -ness of things by SanjeevaniWomen in Me by AyushiLast Year by Samah AyeshaTo Imagination by Emily BrontëPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadPrattle On Maggie DeversA bird in a backpack walked byTweeting plaintively from insideAnd the crows kept up their racketWith little varianceBut I think they were surprised,And wondering how this chirp was stuck insideAnd I think the prisoner wondered tooWhat it would be like to be outsideReally outHigh in the palm treesSinging her song as she swayed in the sunJust for the sound of it.More from Maggie Devers ↓My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poetsFind links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry is better when it’s lived with. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.To Imagination Emily Brontë When weary with the long day's care,And earthly change from pain to pain,And lost, and ready to despair,Thy kind voice calls me back again:Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,While then canst speak with such a tone!So hopeless is the world without;The world within I doubly prize;Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,And cold suspicion never rise;Where thou, and I, and Liberty,Have undisputed sovereignty.What matters it, that all aroundDanger, and guilt, and darkness lie,If but within our bosom's boundWe hold a bright, untroubled sky,Warm with ten thousand mingled raysOf suns that know no winter days?Reason, indeed, may oft complainFor Nature's sad reality,And tell the suffering heart how vainIts cherished dreams must always be;And Truth may rudely trample downThe flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:But thou art ever there, to bringThe hovering vision back, and breatheNew glories o'er the blighted spring,And call a lovelier Life from Death.And whisper, with a voice divine,Of real worlds, as bright as thine.I trust not to thy phantom bliss,Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,With never-failing thankfulness,I welcome thee, Benignant Power;Sure solacer of human cares,And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Last YearSamah Ayeshai spent the better half of last yearstaring at the ceiling,watching it bend more crookedthe longer i looked.but it wasn't just the ceilingit was the walls, the floor,maybe my footing,maybe my mindfrom being indoors too long.each time i completed ablution,each time i laid down my mat to pray,it seemed off too.i checked the compass,adjusted,checked againbut the mat wouldn't straighten.or was it my footing?i wasted the better half of last yeartrying to stop walking in circles.or was it a triangle?the doorways.the roof.all of them slanted.and i'm still not sureif i ever fixed the mator just learned to pray at an angle.More from Samah Ayesha ↓@samah.ayesha on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Women in MeAyushiI think I gather dreams like picking up stonesnear an abandoned highway wherethe road leads nowhere,where the wind pants like a tiger breathingand the woman in me returns to lookfor the girl she had lost years agoperhaps the salt in me will return to the seaand the light in me will break opena door, a wound, a memory, that no one can shuta spring thunder, bolts me awake from a dreamI am dragging my earthy-body towardsthe rivers of you, branching out like tendonsslowly the sun dissolves like sugar in waterall I hear are murmurs of momentskindness, kindness, kindnessits December and I am wrappedby the warmth of an afterthoughta kind of a forgiveness to all yourpast revolting selves.More from Ayushi ↓@artofmoon__ on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are a double feature: one poem here on the podcast, and one more by the same poet shared on Instagram.The -ness of thingsSanjeevaniSadness incurable. Hopelessness, hold on—brink of collapse—unstable ecosystems, volatile geopolitics,anthropological coldness.Kindness—let the spider live.Closeness—us two, are we corrupt too?A likeness—before the doom, a thought of younearly smothers me in blue.Fondness—find me after the apocalypse,remember, black holes decay—oneness.Madness—this world and I,an intrinsic brokenness.Wilderness—A state of being.I lose, and I losein this cruel forest.Lightness, take me in.My -ness floats through. Premature nights and abandoned homes.My -ness sinks. Untouched ocean beds and fossils of creaturesveiled by archaeological secrecy. My -ness feels.More from Sanjeevani ↓@sanjpoems on InstagramWatch the Second PoemYou can watch and listen to Deer killers and Careless Lovers by Sanjeevani as part of our Wednesday double feature on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.ResistFrancesca AcquavivaA burning wickof resistancein two seasof indifferencebitter coffeewith the sweetnessof the vehemencewith which the windwhispersI resistto desirein more than one headto becomecloversto sew togetherthe pagesthe speakersthe soft notestables pushed togetherclosewhile on the napkinsone knitsa validfutureto embroiderto knitthe handfulsof grainsto be sanda free beachwe have litwe want to lightamong the ruinsthe fingerprintsthe encephalogramthe commas stillstained with inkthe typingthe unionthe gaitthe way of speakingthe way of dressingsometimes deemedwrongthe only thing wrong isthe yoke of the dustof the old—not the ancient—of those who squeezethe throatbut we are alivein the commas, even ifbelatedin the necessary periodsin the efforts madewith pairs ofbicepsin the snowsin the mountains ofdoing, not justsayingwe are alivein the life that descends upon usfrom abovethat rises to usfrom belowMore from Francesca Acquaviva ↓@a.cquaviv.a on InstagramHer book, La Tela, is an Italian collection of poems, published by PAB EditoreSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.