Unnamed Season by Jules Travers | One Poem Only

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.

Life Is the Backside of Embroidery by Aasfa Siddiqui | 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. LIFE IS THE BACKSIDE OF EMBROIDERY BY AASFA SIDDIQUI AASFA SIDDIQUI > I’ve been thinking about it lately > life feels like the backside of embroidery. > All I see are the knots, > threads pulling in opposite directions, > lines crossing with no pattern, > like someone stitched it blindfolded. > > But then > flip it. > Turn it over. > And there it is. > The picture you never thought was forming > flowers blooming where only knots existed, > > Maybe that’s just my side of the cloth. > Maybe God sees the other. > The one I’m not allowed to touch yet. > The side where these very knots > hold the picture together. > > Maybe heartbreak is just a red thread > meant to shape the outline of something larger. > Maybe loneliness is a dark patch > that gives contrast to all the light. > Maybe even the useless stitches, > the ones we regret, > add texture, > depth, > weight. > > When the fabric is turned, > perhaps at the very end, > we’ll see it > every knot holding the shape, > every crooked line > part of the symmetry. > The mess will finally look like meaning, > and the backside will make sense > everything we called chaos > will glow with perfect order. > > Faith > isn’t about seeing the image at all, > but walking through the confusion, > believing that nothing here is wasted. > That even the ugliest loops > are part of a beauty > I can’t see from this side. > > And so > I stop trying to untangle everything. > I let the threads dangle where they want. > I trust that someone’s hands > gentler than mine > know what they’re weaving. > > And if being lost in these tangle > still means I’m stitched into His design, > then let me remain here > knotted, confused, > but never outside the pattern. > > So yes, > life is the backside of embroidery, > and God is the One who sees the picture. > We are just the threads > moving in loops, > crossing over one another, > wondering why it hurts, > never knowing we’ve been part of beauty > all along. > > Until then, > we keep living in the knots, > trusting the Weaver. > Because life, as we know it, > is never the front side. > > It’s the backside More from Aasfa Siddiqui ↓ * @readwithshifa [https://www.instagram.com/readwithshifa/] on Instagram * @readwithshifa [https://substack.com/@readwithshifa] 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 slows us down. Thank you for listening.