sonnet

Poem-A-Day April 29: fully formed

What I Didn’t Know Before

was how horses simply give birth to other
horses. Not a baby by any means, not
a creature of liminal spaces, but already
a four-legged beast hellbent on walking,
scrambling after the mother. A horse gives way
to another horse and then suddenly there are
two horses, just like that. That’s how I loved you.
You, off the long train from Red Bank carrying
a coffee as big as your arm, a bag with two
computers swinging in it unwieldily at your
side. I remember we broke into laughter
when we saw each other. What was between
us wasn’t a fragile thing to be coddled, cooed
over. It came out fully formed, ready to run.

■

Hello Friends,

Today’s sonnet by the most recent Poet Laureate of the United States Ada Limón can be found in her 2018 collection The Carrying. If you enjoyed today’s poem, Limón was also featured for several previous poem-a-days, which you can peruse on the blog counterpart to this poem-a-day email list, meetmein811.org.

Thank you for celebrating poetry month with me!

— Ællen

Poem-A-Day April 23: Triple Sonnet

Hello Friends,
Dorothy Chan (she/they) features a number of triple sonnets in her latest poetry collection Return of the Chinese Femme (2024). In an interview about this book, Chan shares, “Poetry, and in particular, the sonnet, and even more specifically, The Triple Sonnet, contains conversational elements where my speakers use humor, seduction, storytelling, and direct narration to reveal their innermost vulnerabilities. I also believe that poetry is simply another medium of receiving information — but of course, it’s a much more lyric and musical medium — one that allows my speakers to bask in the glory of who they are. I 100% believe in my speaker, the queer Asian femme, being unapologetic at all times.”
Enjoy.
— Ællen

Triple Sonnet Because Boy, You’re Starstruck and I’m a Wonder

Boy, you’re starstruck. I love the way you rub
     the red lipstick off above my Cupid’s bow—
how you call it the halo of my face, because
     girliness equals goodness equals godliness
equals, let’s be real, Oh My Goddess, like that
     moment when Hades and Persephone meet
in the fractured Greek myth, and the Goddess
     of Spring chugs her can of pomegranate soda,
because her future lover is oh so fine, and check
     out that ass. They don’t make stories like this
anymore, do they? Boy, you’re my good afternoon
     delight as the Fountains at the Bellagio go off,
as the tourists at the bistro across the street
     much on Steak Béarnaise and Croque Monsieur

     and Wild Escargots de Bourgogne, as the water
dances to Sinatra’s Come Fly with Me,
     and I’ve just about named every cliché
in the romance book, minus the flowers—
     I had to stuff the Vegas Strip in there, but no,
let me start over now. F was right that day
     in Tallahassee when he traced the lines on
my palm and said the three long ones at the end
     meant I’d have many great loves in my life,
and how I laughed at F’s face after. And oh, Boy,
     was F right, I think, when X asks me on the phone
if I’ve ever been in love, and I say No too fast,
     and I might be lying to her, but who really
cares? I used to want to outsex everyone, make

everyone want, make everyone pant,
     make everyone chew their steak just a little
harder, order that extra shot of whiskey.
     And his lips go wild because I’ve just drank
bourbon—that extra tingle of tongue—
     the red lipstick that gets him all messy,
gets me all messy again, gives me the halo
     above my Cupid’s bow, and what’s it like
being in lust with a man and a woman
     at the same time—it’s like dancing in a corner,
your tank top about to slip off, exposing
     nipples, but you keep dancing. And Boy,
I’m a wonder, and when you kiss me,
     I think about her red lips kissing me.

■

Poem-A-Day April 25: If you ever woke in your dress at 4am

Hello Friends,
One of the remarkable things I want you to notice about today’s poem from Kim Addonizio is how much can be said without punctuation.
Enjoy,
Ællen

To the Woman Crying Uncontrollably in the Next Stall

If you ever woke in your dress at 4am ever
closed your legs to someone you loved opened
them for someone you didn’t moved against
a pillow in the dark stood miserably on a beach
seaweed clinging to your ankles paid
good money for a bad haircut backed away
from a mirror that wanted to kill you bled
into the back seat for lack of a tampon
if you swam across a river under rain sang
using a dildo for a microphone stayed up
to watch the moon eat the sun entire
ripped out the stitches in your heart
because why not if you think nothing &
no one can / listen I love you joy is coming

■

Poem-A-Day April 12: Incognito Grief

Incognito Grief: A Blues

Who knows the secrets in my gaze?
Who holds me back when I might choke?
Who sees beyond my taut hellos
To see the grief etched on my face?
Nobody knows what lurks within;
Nobody brings me back again.
Who needs to disappear for a while?
Who sings my name beyond the veil?
Who has my memories, my tales?
Who’s lurking in my carpet’s dust?
Nobody feels this weight beneath my skin.
Who knows I’m grieving as I walk?
Who has the list of gravity’s costs?
Nobody but the man I’ve lost.

■

Today’s sonnet by Allison Joseph was originally published as part of the Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day series on February 27, 2024.

Poem-A-Day April 8: Seeing the Eclipse

Hello Friends,
A number of poems have been written about eclipses, but what I like about today’s 1997 sonnet by Robert Bly is its emphasis on viewing the eclipse as a collective human activity, something you never do alone.
Enjoy.
Ællen

Seeing the Eclipse in Maine

It started about noon. On top of Mount Batte,
We were all exclaiming. Someone had a cardboard
And a pin, and we all cried out when the sun
Appeared in tiny form on the notebook cover.

It was hard to believe. The high school teacher
We’d met called it a pinhole camera,
People in the Renaissance loved to do that.
And when the moon had passed partly through

We saw on a rock underneath a fir tree,
Dozens of crescents — made the same way —
Thousands! Even our straw hats produced
A few as we moved them over the bare granite.

We shared chocolate, and one man from Maine
Told a joke. Suns were everywhere — at our feet.

■

Poem-A-Day April 29: Grocery List Poems

Hello Friends,
Today’s poem by Rhiannon McGavin appears in her 2021 collection Grocery List Poems. McGavin uses slant rhymes in this sonnet, like “loves” and “carves” or “driver’s” and “stranger’s.”
Enjoy.
Ællen

Manifesto in an unknown language

No, I couldn’t sleep, I’m building my loves
from the smell of rain and the bus driver’s
soft wave when I’m broke, from a sea that carves
cracked bottles into gems, and a stranger’s
laugh runs a vein of silver through the night,
a love cut from the dark when a kissing
scene fades on a film screen. Say the last time
someone touches me with a tender feeling
and I’ll eat the clock. Name the next time, win
all the lucky pennies I’ve thrown away
waiting for that love like a nasturtium,
the petals with their birthday candle flame,
hot and sweet. The kind of love in my steps
where empty rooms are only rooms you’ve left.

■

Poem-A-Day April 24: stalled in the driveway

Golden Oldie

I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway, swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.

The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air-conditioning off,

leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?—a lament
I greedily took in

without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.

■

Today’s sonnet by Rita Dove appears in her 1996 collection Mother Love: Poems.

As a bonus for today, my dear friend Michelle introduced me to a Tele-Poem Hotline established by the Oregon Poet Laureate Anis Mojgani: Just dial (503) 928-7008 to hear a poem! When I called in, the poem was even read by the poet herself. More in the Portland Monthly.

Poem-A-Day April 16: Every tongue unfurled

Hello Friends,

Every April 16, D.C. celebrates Emancipation Day — the date in 1862 that Abraham Lincoln signed an act freeing over 3,000 slaves in the district (nine months before the broader Emancipation Proclamation).

In the spirit of newfound freedom, today’s poem comes from Tyehimba Jess’s collection Olio (2016), which includes a crown of sonnets about the Fisk Jubilee Singers — a group of young people who, upon being freed, sought an education at the newly founded Fisk University and there formed a successful traveling a cappella group that popularized Black spirituals. For me, the poem has a feel of not being written by just one poet, but a whole chorus of voices — just like emancipation is not attributable to Lincoln or any one person, but to generations of people, and continues to be the work of generations of people.

In Olio, the top and bottom of the pages with the Fisk Jubilee Singers sonnets contain the names and years of Black churches that burned, adding context to the poems about the environment in which this a cappella group and the Black spirituals they sang flourished.

Tyehimba Jess comes from a slam poetry background, so I’m sure he would very much appreciate you listening to him explain and read this poem on YouTube much better than I ever could — instead of or in addition to reading the printed version below.

Fisk Jubilee Proclamation
(Choral)

O sing unto the Lord a new song… (Psalm 96)

O, sing…undo the world with blued song
born from newly freed throats. Sprung loose from lungs
once bound within bonded skin. Scored from dawn
to dusk with coffle and lash. Every tongue
unfurled as the body’s flag. Every breath
conjured despite loss we’ve had. Bear witness
to the birthing of our hymn from storied depths
of America’s sin. Soul-worn psalms, blessed
in our blood through dark lessons of the past
struggling to be heard. Behold—the bold sound
we’ve found in ourselves that was hidden, cast
out of the garden of freedom. It’s loud
and unbeaten, then soft as a newborn’s face—
each note bursting loose from human bondage.

■

Poem-a-Day April 5, 2015: fleecy

Hello Friends,

For Easter, I thought I’d send you the best use of the word oology in a poem — but I couldn’t find one! Such a poetic word, I’m certain there must be a poem-a-day-worthy oology poem out there in the world somewhere — perhaps you know of one? Please send it to me. Or write it and then send it to me.

In the meantime, the award for best use of lambent in a sonnet goes to Patty Seyburn — who deliciously considers the human condition at the intersection of believing in an afterlife and eating baby animals for dinner.

Enjoy.
Ellen

On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

I butterflied Australian rack of lamb
with shallots, garlic, parsley, butter, wine
(some in the pan, some for the palate).
Although the livestock loved in nursery rhyme
avoided clumps of mint, it served my family
nonetheless. I am no PETA zealot
(leather jacket, handbag, wallet, shoes)
but wonder if the deeds we do pursue
us in the afterlife. Does the fleecy
creature have a tenderable claim?
My lambent mind considers our short lease
on life, the oven hot. Am I to blame?
Who gave thee such a tender voice? asked Blake.
Myself am Hell. I watch the mutton bake.

“On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees” by Patty Seyburn was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 2, 2010.

For the Blake reference, see “The Lamb” (and “The Tyger”). Seyburn’s train of thought then transitions to Satan’s famous line from John Milton’s Paradise Lost — a work that greatly influenced Blake.

Poem-a-Day, April 2: On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

Dear Friends,

Due to travel delays and internet connection challenges beyond the anticipated scope, your Good Friday poem-a-day is arriving 24 hours late. My apologies. Cathy and I were supposed to be in San Antonio this weekend to watch the Stanford women’s basketball team compete in the Final Four. Unfortunately, Cathy’s uncle passed away, and we are now in Honolulu instead to spend time with family and attend his funeral.

Whether your plans for this weekend include a religious service, Final Four fever, bunnies and dyed eggs, drag queen nuns competing for best bonnet, or whether you’re simply trying to ignore all of the above, it’s certainly an apt occasion to reflect on the capacity of human languages, cultures, and religions to layer so many meanings on a single signifier — like an egg, an X, or a baby sheep.

Bon Appétit.
— Ellen

On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

By Patty Seyburn, as printed in the February 2010 issue of Poetry magazine.

For the Blake reference, see “The Lamb” (and “The Tyger”) by the illuminated 18th-century British poet William Blake. Seyburn’s train of thought then transitions to Satan’s famous line from John Milton’s Paradise Lost — a work that greatly influenced Blake.