Sunday Ritual by Evyan Roberts | One Poem Only

Sparrowfall by Arch Budzar | One Poem Only

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. SPARROWFALL ARCH BUDZAR > While maybe I wasn’t the smartest > Or the strongest > I never thought unkindly of you > And I > always sang my song > And I > Saw you as an angel > Up until the very end. More from Arch Budzar ↓ * @archbudzar [https://www.instagram.com/archbudzar/] on Instagram * You can find more information about their life and work, as well as prints of their art at www.archbudzar.com [https://www.archbudzar.com/] Support + Stay Connected to OPO If you’d like to support the show, Substack [https://rembrandtscure.substack.com/] and Patreon [https://www.patreon.com/c/OnePoemOnly] 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.

Rash by Viviana Abnur | One Poem Only

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. RASH VIVIANA ABNUR > Everything I know about death > I learned the hard way > when I saw you go by on the stretcher > to intensive therapy > > I was an atheist like you and I only saw > a slight and strange body > pass at the speed of light > > is it that perhaps we live confused > or we are just light and nothing else > because I suddenly knew in an instant > that you were not > in that body > > they took you to the Emergency room > like a war trophy > there was a rush for the doctors to arrive > there was a rush to death > for fleeing the territory > > minutes before > you asked for a book > minutes before I hugged you and you told me > you are so good > > then the power outage in the hospital > the door half open > and I was spying on you and could see > how they surrounded you with candles > > still alive > like in a Poe story > > someone hugged me and I cried > we lost said the doctor > > and I knew death > is in a rush dad > and in the rush it's sloppy > because something was taken forever > I knew it > but something not > in that defeated body > you were not in. More from Viviana Abnur ↓ * @cruda.luz [https://www.instagram.com/cruda.luz/] on Instagram * Her book, Rash [https://www.academia.edu/119023770/Rash], is available now Support + Stay Connected to OPO If you’d like to support the show, Substack [https://rembrandtscure.substack.com/] and Patreon [https://www.patreon.com/c/OnePoemOnly] members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook. Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

Lilies by Madilyn Lopez | One Poem Only

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud. LILIES MADILYN LOPEZ > blood gushes from underneath my index fingers > underneath my thumbs > my eyes go white and pin-point black > bloodshot— my artery. > my throat seals itself shut like a wooden door stuck in humidity’s clutch > i tilt my chin to the popcorn ceiling > gasping for air that’s already escaped > > Lilies are my favorite flower by the way. > it is late. > 12:15am exactly. > my neck starts to itch where brittle bone holds nostalgic flesh imprints > the coffee on my wooden-chipped scarred nightstand has gone tepid > then frigid > it is late. > 12:17am exactly. > congealed blood gushes from my nose where I have never been hit only walked into steel and > concrete walls > my tear ducts know no repentance stuck in confession my chest feels like > tenmilliontrapdoorsleftunsealed > i scratch at the duct tape fastened around my goosebumped body clawing like a raved > rabid wretched animal wretched thing > salivating > foaming > aching > teeth baring > Lilies are my favorite flower by the way. > it is late. > 12:21 exactly. > Lilies. > > Lilies. Lilies. Lilies. > > Lilies. More from Madilyn Lopez ↓ * @v0guerat [https://www.instagram.com/v0guerat/] on Instagram * @maryshelleysmymother [https://www.tiktok.com/@maryshelleysmymother] on TikTok * @madilynlo [https://substack.com/@madilynlo] on Substack Support + Stay Connected to OPO If you’d like to support the show, Substack [https://rembrandtscure.substack.com/] and Patreon [https://www.patreon.com/c/OnePoemOnly] 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.

“Hija de tu madre.” by Elisha Fernandez | Handpicked Wednesday | One Poem Only

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. “HIJA DE TU MADRE.” ELISHA FERNANDEZ > “Eres hija de tu madre.” > “You are your mother’s daughter,” is a phrase I heard growing up, > from strangers, > family members, > friends, > most repeated by my own mother. > > I wanted to claw myself out of my skin > Panicked by the implication > That I did not belong to myself > I could not crawl above my station > > Limited to the constraints and expectations people thrust on me, > Like a hermit crab forced to stay in a shell too-small, > No room to grow or become my own person > Keeping me trapped against the wall, a doll stuck between pavement, > yearning to bloom > > My achievements, struggles, and experiences > No longer my doing, the credit stripped away > Loneliness taking over as I stay, rewatching the events of the past twenty-some years > Through the lens of someone else’s existence > It was so unbearable > I eventually avoided the topic altogether > > It felt easier to snip the thread we twined, connecting us, > so that I could cement my own self, my own role > In your mind, in mine > > The separation frayed us both, > But I learned that it was healthier for us to co-exist > Side by side, free from the harm we imposed on each other > Than to be attached at the hip > > And that time apart > Gave me the space to see you, truly, > To take you down from the pedestal, > To get to know you fully > > I think I’ve accepted that I am my mother’s daughter, > In the sense that it’s true, > I inherited her stubbornness and pride, > Her love for words and witty sayings, > Her craving to be important, the hunger to be accepted, > I inherited her precision and wide-eyed curiosity > > Beyond the superficial, it’s hard to admit that while she birthed me and learned me, > she also weaved her own insecurities and doubts into the fabric of my being > She tried, and failed, to love me in her way, staining me with blood and tears and loathing > She imparted her wisdoms and her wrongdoings, > I see the person I could’ve become, had circumstances been different > > I may have been born in her image, > But I stitched myself into the likeness of what I desired > I became unraveled; > A bolt of cloth to gather anew > I hemmed the tattered edges, patched up the holes, > And threw out the patterns I had always followed > > Soy hija de mi madre, > But can’t I also be my own? > Can’t I exist > Without relinquishing to the image of > An identity I don’t claim > And acknowledge > That I am also my mother’s daughter, > In the sense that I mothered myself More from Elisha Fernandez ↓ * @artistaelisha [https://www.instagram.com/artistaelisha/] on Instagram Watch Handpicked Wednesday A new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch on Instagram [https://www.instagram.com/reel/DY3JyZipFfU/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==] at @rembrandts.cure [https://www.instagram.com/rembrandts.cure/]. Support + Stay Connected to OPO If you’d like to support the show, Substack [https://rembrandtscure.substack.com/] and Patreon [https://www.patreon.com/c/OnePoemOnly] 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.

Unnamed Season by Jules Travers | One Poem Only

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. UNNAMED SEASON JULES TRAVERS > He lives in a peaceful territory > of his own, > relatively well-defined. > In conversation with his selves, > he navigates daily weather, > rainbows, > mirages, > sinkholes. > > Now, > > can he still live with himself, > with you? > > Your eyes align, > two shapes of water join, sun-lit, > know themselves reflected. > He feels your arms. > He broadens, > flattens > and retreats, > > enters spaces filled by air > and phantom. > He waits, he listens. > Voices surface. > He slips into marrow > lit by the gasping mouths > > of scattered self-sustaining fires. > He fractures. > He falls. > He pools heavy, > turns, raw, smolder. > > He scratches notes > and demolishes boxes of tissues. > While you drink your morning > coffee in the next room, > he makes his blanket > a mourning shroud, > he hibernates > in jumps and starts. > > He heaves open jammed windows, > specks of old white paint confetti his hair. > > Curtains bloom. > > Now, > > he perches on the roof. > > Now, > > he shows you proudly, > with some astonishment, > there’s a new row of feathers > in his wingspan -- > > pocked with blushes > and frowns of color, > asymmetrical, but his, > > a wave of growth unique to your shared ecosystem, > brought forth > by an unnamed season. More from Jules Travers ↓ * @jules_wordspics [https://www.instagram.com/jules_wordspics/] on Instagram * You can read more of their writing on their Linktree [linktr.ee/JulesTravers] Support + Stay Connected to OPO If you’d like to support the show, Substack [https://rembrandtscure.substack.com/] and Patreon [https://www.patreon.com/c/OnePoemOnly] members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook. Feed yourself poetry every day.