Hello Friends,
It’s the last day of April, and we’ve packed a lot into these 30 days: couplets, tercets, quatrains, a few sonnets, an ode, and plenty of free verse; poems from the 1600s, 1800s, 1900s, and 2000s; poems by Black, Latinx, Indigenous, Asian American, Arab American, and white poets; poems by transgender, queer, and straight poets; and more. Thank you so much for joining me in this month-long celebration of poetry.
If you had a favorite poem this month, I’d love to hear about it. Your replies all month long let me know someone out there is reading these poems I send out, so thank you.
I have one last poem for you from the Tunisian American poet Leila Chatti. This piece was originally published as part of the Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day series on January 3, 2023.
Enjoy,
Ællen
It’s the last day of April, and we’ve packed a lot into these 30 days: couplets, tercets, quatrains, a few sonnets, an ode, and plenty of free verse; poems from the 1600s, 1800s, 1900s, and 2000s; poems by Black, Latinx, Indigenous, Asian American, Arab American, and white poets; poems by transgender, queer, and straight poets; and more. Thank you so much for joining me in this month-long celebration of poetry.
If you had a favorite poem this month, I’d love to hear about it. Your replies all month long let me know someone out there is reading these poems I send out, so thank you.
I have one last poem for you from the Tunisian American poet Leila Chatti. This piece was originally published as part of the Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day series on January 3, 2023.
Enjoy,
Ællen
I Went Out to Hear
The sound of quiet. The sky
indigo, steeping
deeper from the top, like tea.
In the absence
of anything else, my own
breathing became obscene.
I heard the beating
of bats’ wings before
the air troubled above
my head, turned to look
and saw them gone.
On the surface of the black
lake, a swan and the moon
stayed perfectly
still. I knew this was
a perfect moment.
Which would only hurt me
to remember and never
live again. My God. How lucky to have lived
a life I would die for.
■
The sound of quiet. The sky
indigo, steeping
deeper from the top, like tea.
In the absence
of anything else, my own
breathing became obscene.
I heard the beating
of bats’ wings before
the air troubled above
my head, turned to look
and saw them gone.
On the surface of the black
lake, a swan and the moon
stayed perfectly
still. I knew this was
a perfect moment.
Which would only hurt me
to remember and never
live again. My God. How lucky to have lived
a life I would die for.
■