Category: April 2026

Poem-A-Day April 10: Lost Dog

Hello Friends,

Elizabeth Bishop famously wrote in her masterpiece “One Art”, “Lose something every day.” I think of today’s poem by Ellen Bass as in conversation with Bishop. “Lost Dog” appears in Bass’s 2007 collection The Human Line.

Enjoy,
Ællen

Lost Dog

It’s just getting dark, fog drifting in,
damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint,
and though I call his name
until my voice cracks,
there’s no faint tinkling
of tag against collar, no sleek
black silhouette with tall ears rushing
toward me through the wild radish.

As it turns out, he’s trotted home,
tracing the route of his trusty urine.
Now he sprawls on the deep red rug, not dead,
not stolen by a car on West Cliff Drive.

Every time I look at him, the wide head
resting on outstretched paws,
joy does another lap around the racetrack
of my heart. Even in sleep
when I turn over to ease my bad hip,
I’m suffused with contentment.

If I could lose him like this every day
I’d be the happiest woman alive.

■

Poem-A-Day April 9: a soft landing

Love Poem: Cavafy

Coming back
from the ski trip
in the back of a van,

it had gotten dark

enough for
the steady hum
of the engine

to lull us all

into a deep sleep—
my best friend
and I having

the backseat

all to ourselves.
Have you ever felt
your body starting

to lean toward

its truest
intentions—head
hoping hard

for a soft landing

on your buddy’s
dozing shoulders?—
a journey in inches

that took me years.

■
Hello Friends,

Some may be curious about the title of today’s poem, “Love Poem: Cavafy” by Timothy Liu, which appeared in the November 2023 issue of Poetry Magazine. Cavafy (1863-1933) was a Greek poet who published little during his lifetime, instead circulating his poems among friends — possibly because he was gay and “his erotic poems make no attempt to conceal the fact” as W.H. Auden put it. But more specifically what does Cavafy mean to Timothy Liu? Well, Liu wrote in a book review (unrelated to this poem), “As Cavafy knows, love is not the actual moment of arrival in our longed-for Ithakas but in the journey all along — an almost endless foreplay in which the climax is sort of besides the fucking point! Romantic love more a condition of prolonged edging than climactic release!” Liu’s final lines “a journey in inches // that took me years” evokes that kind of long-drawn epic — similar to the journey Cavafy describes in his poem “Ithaka.”

I hope you’re enjoying poetry month! Thanks for reading.

— Ællen

Poem-A-Day April 8: We Have Not Long to Love

Hello Friends,

Queer love could be particularly fragile and difficult to hold onto during the lifetime of Tennessee Williams (1911—1983). Although better known as a playwright, he also published many poems. More, like this one, were published after his death: “We Have Not Long to Love” appeared in the February 1991 issue of Poetry Magazine.

Thank you again for celebrating poetry month with me.

— Ællen

We Have Not Long to Love

We have not long to love.
Light does not stay.
The tender things are those
we fold away.
Coarse fabrics are the ones
for common wear.
In silence I have watched you
comb your hair.
Intimate the silence,
dim and warm.
I could but did not, reach
to touch your arm.
I could, but do not, break
that which is still.
(Almost the faintest whisper
would be shrill.)
So moments pass as though
they wished to stay.
We have not long to love.
A night. A day….

■

Poem-A-Day April 7: What’s heavy

Ode to Friendship

     Edgewater Beach, 2019

The night so warm I could fall in love
with anything
including myself. My loves. You are the only people
I’d surrender my softness to.
The moon so blue. And yes, what’s gold
is gold. What’s real
is us despite
a country so grieved, so woke, so death.
Our gloom as loud as shells.

Listen. Even the ocean begs.
Put your hands in the sand, my friend.
It’s best we bury ourselves.
What’s heavy.          What’s heavy?
Becomes light.

■
Today’s poem by Noor Hindi appeared in Jellyfish Magazine (Issue 16 – December 2019).

Poem-A-Day April 5: Lies I’ve told my 3 year old recently

Hello Friends,

Today’s poem by Raul Gutierrez was first published on his blog and more recently featured on Read A Little Poetry.

Thank you again for celebrating poetry month with me.

— Ællen

Lies I’ve told my 3 year old recently

Trees talk to each other at night.

All fish are named either Lorna or Jack.

Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose.

Tiny bears live in drain pipes.

If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky.

The moon and the sun had a fight a long time ago.

Everyone knows at least one secret language.

When nobody is looking, I can fly.

We are all held together by invisible threads.

Books get lonely too.

Sadness can be eaten.

I will always be there.

■

Poem-A-Day April 4: On a day when rain surprised me

On a Day When Rain

     for Elizabeth

On a day when rain surprised me,
pain did too.
You kept rising in our conversation,
and we welcomed you.

I could feel your breathing,
in my breath.
In my consciousness of living,
your death.

Two of us who loved you
spoke your name
and you came.
Surprising rain.

■
Hello Friends,

Sometimes in poetry, the biggest emotions are held in beautiful tension with form, as in the quatrains and simple rhymes of today’s selection by Pat Schneider from her 2003 collection The Patience of Ordinary Things. The rhyme of “name” and “came” at the end of this poem comes as a surprise change in the rhyme scheme (the 2nd and 3rd line of the stanza rhyme instead of the 2nd and 4th) — the rhyme comes a line early, mimicking the surprise arrival of the memories of the lost loved one and of course the rain.

If you are moved by this poem, consider bringing back a loved one in a conversation today with someone who loved them too.

— Ællen

Poem-A-Day April 3: more or less mad for similar reasons

Hello Friends,

Yesterday’s poem-a-day discussed early warnings in the context of 2026. But we also find early warnings from the poets who came before us, as in this piece by Muriel Rukeyser, in which she grapples with exactly how poets (and others) can pass these warnings forward. For context, Rukeyser lived from 1913 to 1980, and this particular poem was published in Rukeyser’s 1968 collection The Speed of Darkness. When Rukeyser repeats the line “I lived in the first century of these wars,” I believe she does so in part to emphasize that first implies another century to come.

Thank you again for celebrating poetry month with me.

— Ællen

Poem (I lived in the first century of world wars)

I lived in the first century of world wars.
Most mornings I would be more or less insane,
The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,
The news would pour out of various devices
Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.
I would call my friends on other devices;
They would be more or less mad for similar reasons.
Slowly I would get to pen and paper,
Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.
In the day I would be reminded of those men and women,
Brave, setting up signals across vast distances,
Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values.
As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,
We would try to imagine them, try to find each other,
To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile
Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,
Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means
To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,
To let go the means, to wake.

I lived in the first century of these wars.

■

Poem-A-Day April 2: Early Warnings

Hello Friends,

Today’s very recent poem by Charles Rafferty appeared in the Winter 2026 issue of The Southern Review and was shared by my favorite poetry source on Instagram, @poetryisnotaluxury.

Thank you again for celebrating poetry month with me.

— Ællen



The Problem with Early Warnings

People don’t like to leave a party
unless the house is actually
on fire. Even then, if the flames
are far enough away
to be pretty, they’ll finish
their drink, take one more pass
at the hors d’oeuvres.
How things happen has always been
unclear. Hurricanes begin
in a place where no one lives.
Agents of the government start
to wear masks. Fascism is
a word my neighbors won’t use
yet. They are following
the law, they say, and the sirens
are coming for someone else.

■

Poem-A-Day April 1: Happy National Poetry Month 2026!

Hello Friends,

Happy National Poetry Month 2026! In celebration, I will be sending you one poem per day just for the month of April: 30 days, 30 poems, 30 poets.

My wish for you this month is that taking a moment to read a poem each day may provide a break in your racing thoughts — as the movement of the light and clouds does in today’s poem, written by Danusha Laméris, from her first poetry collection The Moons of August:



Thinking

Don’t you wish they would stop,
all the thoughts swirling around in your head,
bees in a hive, dancers tapping their way across the stage.
I should rake the leaves in the carport, buy Christmas lights.
Was there really life on Mars? What will I cook for dinner?
I walk up the driveway, put out the garbage bins.
I should stop using plastic bags, visit my friend
whose husband just left her for the Swedish nanny.
I wish I hadn’t said Patrick’s painting looked, “ominous.”
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called.
Does the car need oil, again? There’s a hole in the ozone
the size of Texas and everything seems to be speeding up.
Come, let’s stand by the window and look out
at the light on the field. Let’s watch how
the clouds cover the sun and almost nothing
stirs in the grass.

■

When Laméris writes, “Come, let’s stand by the window and look out,” I sometimes imagine the window in this poem looks out at another poem — maybe “The Meadow” by Marie Howe or “Pleasure” by Rick Barot. Perhaps one day soon a poem or a line becomes your next thought between “Was there really life on Mars?” and “What will I cook for dinner?”

For those of you new to this poem-a-day list: No prior poetry experience is required! I try my best not to send you some obtuse obscure long ode that’s impossible to understand. My selections do skew heavily, but not exclusively, to American poets writing in English — hence the name “Meet Me in 811,” the Dewey Decimal Code for American Poetry (and my favorite part of the library to wander around picking random books off the shelves).

This poem-a-day series is strictly for personal use only; in almost all cases, I do not have poets’ nor poetry publishers’ permission to reproduce their work. For a more official poem-a-day email list, please visit the Academy of American Poets (poets.org), the creators and sponsors of National Poetry Month (which is celebrating its 30th year this year!).

I do my best to preserve each poem’s format; however, please note that email clients tend to have minds of their own and may force a word onto the next line if a line is too long for your screen size.

Thank you for celebrating poetry month with me!

— Ællen