Adam Fenner's Blog, page 12

Floral Tribute – (A mini collection reviewed)

David W Don

The following Haikus and Senryūs are from David’s Floral Tribute collection, which you can find here.

Sweet alyssum, “down under”

sweet elysium
are you found east of eden (?)
…

Sweet alyssum, “down under”

Sage parsely

withered parsley
sauted by late summer’s burn
…

Sage parsely

Photinia love

redhead meets greenie
they care only for three words
…

Photinia love

Wonthaggi wisdom

library quiet
township of elders on coast
…

Wonthaggi wisdom

Waiting for passionfruit

this is the promise
in filaments a gesture
…

Waiting for passionfruit

Analysis

David W Don’s Floral Tribute collection is a series of haikus and senryus that capture the delicate balance between nature and human experience. The poems use the simplicity of the haiku form—five-seven-five syllables—to explore themes of love, time, loss, and renewal. In these short poems, Don takes nature as his primary lens to reflect on the larger human condition, reminding us of the cycles of life, the fleeting nature of moments, and the quiet wisdom that can be found in both the natural world and human relationships.

One of the collection’s first poems, “Sweet alyssum, ‘down under,’” places us in Australia, hinted at by the phrase “down under,” but the focus is less on geography and more on larger existential questions. The speaker asks, “sweet elysium / are you found east of eden / let’s have peace this side.” There’s a quiet longing in these lines, a search for peace that doesn’t look to some distant paradise but seeks it here and now. The simple question of whether peace can be found “this side” suggests a yearning for balance and harmony in the present moment. The tone is reflective, suggesting that the answers we seek—whether about peace or existence itself—are intertwined with the world around us.

In “Sage parsley,” Don turns to the natural process of decay, showing how life fades under the harshness of summer’s burn: “withered parsley / sautéed by late summer’s burn.” Yet even as nature withers, it holds the potential for new life: “seeds redemptively.” This juxtaposition of decay and renewal is central to the poem, echoing the cyclical nature of life. Even as the parsley fades, it offers seeds that may grow again. The poem’s tone is one of quiet acceptance, acknowledging that time moves forward, but there’s always the potential for renewal, for something to begin again.

“Photinia love” continues the exploration of cycles, but this time through human relationships. The image of two people—“redhead meets greenie”—suggests an initial meeting, but the real focus is on the enduring bond between them. The phrase “three words / rusted on partners” likely refers to the familiar words “I love you,” words that have been repeated so often they feel “rusted,” worn down by time. Yet, there’s an underlying sense of comfort and familiarity in this. The relationship may be weathered, but it’s also deep, anchored in these simple words. The tone here is warm, reflecting the quiet endurance of love over time, even when it’s not as fresh as it once was.

“Wonthaggi wisdom” evokes a quieter kind of knowledge, one that comes from observation and patience. The “library quiet” and the “township of elders on coast” paint a picture of a peaceful place where the passage of time is slow and steady. The line “not going downhill” suggests that wisdom doesn’t come from fast changes or loud declarations, but from resilience, from enduring the rhythms of life without losing direction. The tone is calm and reflective, suggesting that wisdom is not about grand gestures but about quiet endurance, much like nature itself.

Finally, “Waiting for passionfruit” wraps up the collection with a reflection on love that requires patience and time. The phrase “this is the promise / in filaments a gesture / of returning love” suggests that love, like nature, operates on its own cycle. The “filaments” could refer to the delicate threads that hold relationships together, and the “returning love” hints at the cyclical nature of affection—it comes back, just as plants grow, flower, and bear fruit. The tone here is one of quiet anticipation, suggesting that love, like nature, requires waiting, nurturing, and care.

What stands out in Floral Tribute is how effectively Don uses nature to reflect on human emotions and relationships. Each poem, with its simple structure, is able to convey complex ideas about life’s impermanence, love’s endurance, and the wisdom that comes with age. Don’s use of haiku and senryu—both of which are built on the power of brevity—allows him to distill moments and emotions into their purest form. The natural world isn’t just a backdrop in these poems; it’s a mirror for human experience. Whether he’s exploring the cyclical nature of life, the quiet wisdom of age, or the simple, enduring bonds of love, Don invites us to pause and reflect on our own connections to the world around us.

In just a few lines, Don captures something essential about life’s fragility and beauty. Nature’s cycles—decay and renewal, beginnings and endings—are woven into the fabric of the poems, making each one a quiet meditation on the passage of time. And through it all, there’s a sense of patience, acceptance, and hope. The collection is a reminder that even in the smallest moments, in the simplest images, there’s depth and meaning to be found. Floral Tribute is a celebration of nature, love, and the human experience, all told through the lens of a poetic tradition that prizes simplicity and reflection.

On Senryu

Senryū is a Japanese poetic form that mirrors the haiku in its 5-7-5 syllabic structure but diverges in subject matter and tone. While haiku traditionally focus on nature and often incorporate a seasonal reference (kigo), senryū center on human nature, highlighting the quirks and ironies of human behavior, frequently with a satirical or humorous twist.

The term “senryū” derives from the pen name of Edo-period poet Karai Hachiemon (1718–1790), known as Karai Senryū, who popularized this style through his anthology “Haifū Yanagidaru.” This collection showcased poems that, unlike the nature-centric haiku, delved into the human condition, often with wit and cynicism.

Structurally, both haiku and senryū consist of 17 syllables arranged in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, respectively. However, senryū typically omit the kigo and the cutting word (kireji) that are characteristic of haiku. This absence allows senryū to focus more directly on human experiences and societal observations.

In practice, senryū serve as a lens through which poets critique societal norms, explore personal relationships, and reflect on the ironies of life. Their accessibility and focus on everyday human experiences have contributed to their popularity both in Japan and internationally. Notably, many Western poems labeled as haiku are, in essence, senryū, due to their emphasis on human themes rather than nature.

In summary, senryū offer a concise and poignant medium for expressing the complexities of human nature, distinguished from haiku by their thematic focus and tonal qualities, while sharing a common structural foundation.

You may learn more here:
Poetry Society
Encyclopedia Britannica
Wikipedia

The Haiku

Haiku is a traditional form of Japanese poetry that emerged in the 17th century, characterized by its concise structure and evocative imagery. Originally known as hokku, it served as the opening stanza of a collaborative linked-verse poem called renga. In the late 19th century, poet Masaoka Shiki advocated for hokku to be appreciated as an independent form, renaming it haiku.

A haiku consists of 17 syllables arranged in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, respectively. This structure emphasizes brevity and precision, capturing a moment or scene in a few words. Traditional haiku often include a seasonal reference, known as kigo, and a cutting word, or kireji, which juxtaposes two images or ideas to evoke deeper meaning.

The thematic focus of haiku is typically on nature and the changing seasons, reflecting the transient beauty of the natural world. This emphasis encourages readers to find profound meaning in simple, everyday moments. The form has been embraced globally, with poets in various languages adapting its structure and themes to their own cultural contexts.

In summary, haiku is a minimalist poetic form that distills complex emotions and scenes into a simple 5-7-5 syllabic structure, traditionally focusing on nature and seasonal change. Its enduring appeal lies in its ability to convey depth and beauty through brevity and subtlety.

You may learn more here:
Poetry Foundation
Encyclopedia Britannica
Wikipedia

Photo by Thor Alvis on Unsplash

Persistence – Reviewed

Grace Y. Estevez

Regret can choke
till hopes are dead.
Ego will poke
in doubtful heads.

Tears cloud clear eyes,
fill steps with dread,
absorb faith dry,
so fears can spread.

Take a deep breath
attempt to try,
going the length
helps wishes fly.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Persistence (Published at Spillwords)

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

Analysis

“Persistence” is a poem about resilience, but it’s more than just the idea of pushing through tough times. It’s about understanding that hardship is an essential part of becoming strong. The poem doesn’t ignore the challenges of life, but instead, it acknowledges how hard those struggles can be, and how they can weigh us down. Yet it also suggests that these struggles don’t define us, and they’re not the end of the story. The real message here is that persistence—staying focused and continuing to move forward—is what helps us transform those difficulties into strength.

The poem uses a simple, clear structure, made up of eight quatrains with a consistent AABB rhyme scheme. The lines are short and straightforward, allowing the meaning to come through without unnecessary ornamentation. This makes the message feel accessible, like a reminder you’d tell yourself when things are tough. The rhyme scheme is steady and almost singsong, giving the poem a rhythm that mimics the steady march forward despite difficulty.

Lines like “Regret can choke / till hopes are dead” and “Tears cloud clear eyes” capture the heaviness of emotions that can hold you back. The poet doesn’t shy away from the truth about how tough life can feel. But instead of staying in the darkness, the poem offers clear, actionable steps for moving forward. It reminds you to take a breath, try again, and push through, even when it seems hard: “Take a deep breath / attempt to try.”

What’s effective about this simplicity is that when people are struggling, they don’t need flowery language or abstract ideas. They need clear, honest advice that they can act on right away. The poem doesn’t try to make things sound easier than they are, but it emphasizes that the way forward is persistence. “Going the length / helps wishes fly” isn’t about pretending that things will always go smoothly, but about doing the work, even when it’s tough. It’s a small but powerful reminder: keep moving, even if it’s just one step at a time.

As the poem progresses, it gives a few more pieces of advice. “Drown out distress, / fling goals up high” encourages focusing on what you want to achieve, not letting doubt or fear take over. It’s about narrowing your focus and not letting distractions derail your progress. The tone is practical, not overly optimistic. It doesn’t promise that everything will be easy, but it shows how persistence works by emphasizing inner strength and staying grounded. “Grasp inner light / defend attacks” is about finding that inner resolve and protecting it when everything around you is trying to make you doubt yourself.

By the end, the poem gives a sense of hope, but it’s a realistic hope. It’s the kind of hope that comes from putting in the effort, no matter how small, and from learning to move past the fear and doubt. The final lines—”Hearts shine so bright / erasing lack”—suggest that persistence doesn’t just help you succeed; it changes you. It fills the gaps left by fear and uncertainty and replaces them with strength and clarity.

“Persistence” isn’t about denying the difficulty of life. It’s about acknowledging it and moving through it, one step at a time. The poem’s simplicity is necessary for its message. It doesn’t need to overcomplicate things because what it’s offering is a clear, simple piece of advice: even when life gets tough, keep going. That’s the heart of resilience. By keeping the language direct and the message simple, the poem becomes an effective reminder that persistence, even in small doses, is the key to overcoming doubt and turning struggle into strength.

Photo by NEOM on Unsplash

Confessions – Reviewed

Benjamin Nambu

I’ve learnt to laugh
At my mistakes
To share my dark moments
And downfalls
I’ve learnt to admit my flaws
And to say sorry
Even to those who offended me
No grudge
will become a stumbling block
To my growth
What is life

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Confessions

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

If you’re a writer looking to ignite your creativity and stay consistently engaged, Eugi at Moonwashed Musings offers an excellent resource. Her weekly prompts are thoughtfully crafted to challenge your imagination and push your writing skills to new heights. Whether you’re seeking inspiration or simply a way to stay disciplined in your craft, Eugi’s prompts provide both structure and creative freedom, making them a valuable tool for writers at any stage of their journey.

Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Writer’s Choice*

Analysis

“Confessions” is a raw exploration of personal growth, vulnerability, and the power of humility. The poem doesn’t just reflect on the process of self-improvement—it shows the poet actively engaging in it. It’s not a polished presentation of wisdom from someone who’s figured everything out, but a heartfelt sharing of lessons still being learned. The poet opens up about their mistakes, dark moments, and personal struggles, and in doing so, invites the reader to join in the journey. The poem doesn’t offer answers; it simply shares a process—one that’s messy, imperfect, and ongoing.

The focus on humility is key throughout the poem. The poet repeatedly admits their flaws, acknowledging mistakes and awkward moments with no pretension. Lines like “I’ve learnt to laugh / At my mistakes” and “I’ve learnt to admit my flaws” are not declarations of finality, but steps in a continuous process of growth. There’s an openness in these confessions, a reminder that self-improvement is about accepting imperfections, not hiding from them. Humility isn’t just about recognizing your mistakes—it’s about acting on them, as the poet shows when they say, “I’ve learnt to say sorry / Even to those who offended me.” This willingness to forgive and let go of grudges is a form of humility that suggests growth is relational, not just internal. The poet isn’t just forgiving themselves—they’re seeking reconciliation with others, releasing the emotional weight that can hinder progress.

The metaphor of the eagle ties the idea of humility and growth together powerfully. The poet compares holding onto grudges and guilt to an eagle “carrying debris under its armpits.” This image is striking because it makes the weight of unresolved emotions tangible, showing how they hold us back from soaring to new heights. The idea is simple: to grow, to rise, we must let go of the emotional baggage we carry. The eagle can’t fly with debris weighing it down, just as we can’t grow while holding onto grudges or guilt. The metaphor connects the idea of personal growth to the freedom that comes with letting go, making it clear that true progress requires humility—releasing pride, anger, and the weight of past wrongs.

The tone of the poem further reinforces this theme of humility. The poet doesn’t speak from a place of authority or expertise. Instead, the voice feels grounded and conversational, as though the poet is speaking directly to the reader, sharing what they’ve learned without pretending to have all the answers. The poem feels like an ongoing reflection, a series of realizations still unfolding. There’s no sense of completion, no expectation that everything has been figured out. The poet says, “That is why I’ve made confessions / A daily habit,” suggesting that humility is not a one-time act but an ongoing practice. This makes the poem feel accessible and relatable, as if the poet is walking this path alongside the reader.

One of the strengths of the poem is how it balances vulnerability with empowerment. The poet acknowledges the discomfort of growth—awkward moments, lonely days, and the weight of past mistakes. But there’s also a sense of liberation in these admissions. The decision to laugh at past errors, to forgive, and to make confession a daily habit suggests that growth is not just about facing difficulties, but also about moving beyond them. In this way, the poem doesn’t just show the struggle—it highlights the freedom that comes with letting go. The metaphor of the eagle once again underscores this: letting go of emotional debris makes it possible to soar.

“Confessions” ultimately encourages the reader to see growth as an ongoing, imperfect process. It’s not about achieving an ideal version of yourself, but about confronting your mistakes, letting go of guilt, and forgiving others and yourself. The poem’s structure—free-flowing and almost conversational—adds to this sense of openness, as if the poet is still working through these ideas as they speak them. There’s no sense of finality, no neat conclusion. Instead, the message is that growth is a continuous journey, and humility is a necessary companion along the way.

In the end, “Confessions” is about the freedom that comes with vulnerability and humility. It’s a reminder that growth isn’t about perfection, but about the daily work of learning, letting go, and forgiving. The poet’s willingness to share their struggles, laugh at their mistakes, and admit their flaws creates a sense of connection with the reader, suggesting that we’re all on this path together. The poem leaves us with the understanding that growth is not a destination, but a practice—one that, through humility and honesty, allows us to soar.

Photo by Andre Benz on Unsplash

“When you see millions of the mouthless dead” – Reviewed

Charles Sorley

When you see millions of the mouthless deadAcross your dreams in pale battalions go,Say not soft things as other men have said,That you’ll remember. For you need not so.Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they knowIt is not curses heaped on each gashed head?Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,“Yet many a better one has died before.”Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should youPerceive one face that you loved heretofore,It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.Great death has made all his for evermore.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

You may find this and other poems here.

Background

Here’s a combined version of the essays:

Charles Sorley’s When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead was discovered among his belongings after his death in 1915. Sorley, only 20 years old, had been killed by a sniper at the Battle of Loos. Along with the poem, 36 other works of his were published posthumously, forming a grim and unsparing reflection on war. This sonnet, in particular, stands out for its unvarnished depiction of loss and its rejection of the comforting narratives often attached to wartime deaths. It’s frequently seen as a response to Rupert Brooke’s The Soldier, a poem that offers a far more romanticized view of dying for one’s country.

Rupert Brooke wrote The Soldier early in the war, before the full horror of the trenches became known. It opens with an idealistic vision of sacrifice: “If I should die, think only this of me: / That there’s some corner of a foreign field / That is forever England.” For Brooke, dying in battle seemed like a noble way to enrich one’s homeland. He never experienced the brutality of combat, dying of blood poisoning on his way to Gallipoli in 1915. His poems, including The Soldier, fit perfectly into the patriotic propaganda of the time, reinforcing the idea that war was honorable and glorious.

Sorley’s experience of the war was vastly different. He lived through the trenches and saw what modern warfare truly meant. When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead doesn’t glorify death or suggest any deeper meaning to the sacrifices made. Instead, it confronts the reader with grim imagery: “When you see millions of the mouthless dead / Across your dreams in pale battalions go.” There’s no talk of nobility or immortality here, just silence and finality. Sorley strips away the romantic veneer and replaces it with harsh reality. His poem doesn’t try to comfort; it forces people to face the cost of war directly.

The two poems reflect the poets’ experiences—or lack thereof. Brooke, writing before seeing any action, imagined war as clean and heroic. Sorley, writing from the trenches, saw it as chaotic and wasteful. Where Brooke painted a patriotic ideal, Sorley shattered it. The Soldier encourages pride and a sense of purpose; When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead brings discomfort and demands reflection.

Both poets’ works were published after their deaths. Brooke’s became a cornerstone of wartime propaganda, celebrated as an anthem of noble sacrifice. Sorley’s took longer to gain recognition, partly because it didn’t fit the optimistic narrative people wanted to believe in. Over time, though, his writing has been appreciated for what it reveals about the war’s grim reality.

Together, these two poets capture different stages of the war and its perception. Brooke represents the early enthusiasm, the belief in honor and glory. Sorley represents the disillusionment that followed, the understanding that war was about destruction more than anything else. Their poems don’t just tell the stories of two lives cut short—they show how the war itself evolved in the minds of those who lived through it.

Sorley’s refusal to glorify the dead makes his work essential. He doesn’t ask readers to feel proud or patriotic. Instead, he demands they see the dead for what they are: countless, voiceless, and gone forever. If Brooke’s The Soldier makes you feel hopeful, Sorley’s When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead makes sure you know the cost of that hope.

You may learn more at these links:
Wikipedia – When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Wikipedia – Charles Sorley
Wikipedia – Rupert Brooke
Wikipedia – The Soldier
War Poets.org – Charles Sorley

Analysis

Charles Sorley’s “When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead” offers a stark, unflinching look at the dead of war, challenging any attempt to imbue their deaths with meaning or nobility. Written during World War I and published posthumously after Sorley’s own death in battle, the poem cuts through the idealism and sentimentality surrounding soldiers’ deaths, offering a perspective that recognizes the futility of mourning or memorializing those who have been consumed by war. Sorley rejects the notion of honor, glory, or sacrifice, framing death in battle as a universal, indifferent force that erases everything, even identity.

From the opening lines, the poem presents a chilling image: “millions of the mouthless dead” marching across a dreamscape in “pale battalions.” These soldiers, reduced to faceless, indistinguishable bodies, symbolize the mass dehumanization that war creates. The “mouthless” soldiers are no longer individuals, and this absence of personal identity underscores the poem’s central theme—death in war is vast, impersonal, and irreversible. Sorley’s insistence that the dead have no mouths, no ability to speak or be heard, emphasizes the futility of the living’s attempts to connect with them. The dead are “deaf” and “blind,” beyond the reach of the living’s “soft things”—words of remembrance, tears, or praise. None of these gestures, no matter how comforting to the living, will ever touch the dead. Sorley’s bluntness is clear: the dead do not care, and neither does the war that killed them.

The poem directly confronts the impulse to find meaning in death, particularly in the context of war. Society often frames the deaths of soldiers as sacrifices for a noble cause, but Sorley rejects this notion. “Nor honour,” he writes, “It is easy to be dead.” In just a few words, Sorley cuts through the idea that there is anything heroic or dignified about dying in battle. Death, in his view, is not an elevation of the individual but a simple, inevitable end that strips away all meaning. The idea that some lives are “better” than others, or that one soldier’s death might hold more significance, is equally futile. In war, all deaths are ultimately the same, absorbed into the great, indifferent force of death itself.

The poem’s tone is detached and clinical, reflecting the speaker’s view of death as an unavoidable fact. There is no space for grief or emotional indulgence. The speaker urges us to simply acknowledge the dead as “dead” and to move on. This unemotional, almost indifferent tone challenges the reader to face the harsh reality that death in war does not bring glory or meaning; it only brings oblivion. The line “Say only this, ‘They are dead,’” repeated throughout the poem, reinforces this point—no matter how much we mourn or glorify, the dead remain beyond our reach, and their deaths do not change. In fact, “many a better one has died before,” further suggesting that individual deaths in war are not unique or elevated but part of an endless, tragic cycle.

One of the poem’s most unsettling moments comes when the speaker reflects on recognizing a familiar face among the dead. If you spot someone you once loved, it’s not truly that person, but a “spook”—a ghost, an empty shell. The death that war brings erases all identity, even the memory of who someone was. “Great death has made all his for evermore” implies that death claims everyone equally, erasing them from the realm of the living and turning them into something unrecognizable. War’s indifference to the individual is complete, and even the act of remembering becomes futile.

What Sorley is doing in this poem is forcing us to confront the brutal reality of war and its aftermath. There is no room for heroism or sentimentality in the face of mass death. The soldier who once had a name, a face, and a history is reduced to a faceless body in a “pale battalion.” War has stripped everything away—identity, memory, and meaning. The speaker does not call for anger or protest but for acceptance of death as an unavoidable, unchangeable reality. The dead are gone, and nothing can bring them back, no matter how much we grieve or try to honor them.

By rejecting the typical responses to death in war—praise, tears, remembrance—Sorley critiques the glorification of war and the hollow rituals that surround it. His poem offers no comfort, no idealized view of sacrifice. Instead, it is a meditation on the futility of trying to find meaning in the deaths of soldiers. The dead do not care about our tributes, and the war has already rendered all our efforts to memorialize them irrelevant. Sorley strips away the romanticism of war, forcing us to see it for what it is: a brutal, impersonal force that consumes lives indiscriminately, leaving nothing but the stark fact of death.

In conclusion, Sorley’s “When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead” is a powerful reflection on the meaninglessness of death in war. It challenges the reader to accept that death in battle is not noble, not heroic, and not something to be glorified or remembered in sentimental terms. The poem forces us to face the fact that death in war is inevitable, impersonal, and final, and that no amount of mourning or memorializing can change that reality. In the end, all that remains is the cold, unalterable truth: they are dead.

Photo by Museums Victoria on Unsplash

Silent Night, Sober Night – Review

Michael Jordahl

I stand here at the hotel window
And look down on a mostly empty street
All Lit up under a mostly cloudy moon.
I can’t believe how desolate it is now;
A few years ago, this place was booming.
This street would have been one big
Party on a Saturday night back then,
And, regretfully, I would have been one
Of the drunkest of the party-goers.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Silent Night, Sober Night

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Silent Night, Sober Night” offers a powerful reflection on change, loneliness, and sobriety, using a quiet, almost stark image of an empty street to draw attention to both the external world and the speaker’s internal transformation. The poem begins with the speaker standing in a hotel room, looking down at a “mostly empty street,” a place that was once lively and full of energy. The street’s emptiness is not just a physical description; it becomes a symbol of something deeper—the passage of time, the loss of a once-thriving neighborhood, or perhaps a commentary on broader societal changes. The line “a few years ago, this place was booming” hints at a decline, be it economic, cultural, or social. The speaker’s realization that this once-bustling street is now silent and still sets the stage for a broader reflection on how things—both external and personal—can change over time.

At the same time, the street’s emptiness also mirrors the speaker’s personal shift from a past of chaotic, drunken revelry to a present marked by sobriety and solitude. The poem explores this transition in a straightforward, unadorned way. The language is simple, direct, and conversational—there’s no attempt to dress up the speaker’s thoughts. This makes the poem feel more personal, almost like a conversation where the speaker is thinking out loud. The shift from past to present is smooth, with the speaker moving between memories of drunken nights and their quieter, sober reality. The use of plain language creates an honest reflection of someone who is not celebrating the change, but rather sitting with it, feeling the weight of it.

There’s a sense of tension in the poem between the speaker’s loneliness and their quiet acceptance of sobriety. In the past, the street would have been filled with party-goers, and the speaker admits they would have been one of the “drunkest of the party-goers.” The phrase “those days are a blurry memory” suggests that the speaker’s past is obscured by alcohol, and that now, in sobriety, the world feels clearer but quieter. This clarity comes with its own challenges—the “lonely traffic light” is a visual symbol of the speaker’s isolation, and the silence of the street, while peaceful, also underscores a kind of emotional emptiness. But the final line, “at least I’m not drunk,” provides a subtle shift in tone. It’s not an overt declaration of triumph, but rather a quiet acknowledgment of growth. The speaker may feel lonely, but there’s a sense of pride in the fact that they are no longer lost in the haze of alcohol.

The emptiness of the street is both a literal and metaphorical reflection of the speaker’s life. The once-vibrant place that was full of life now feels desolate, and in a similar way, the speaker’s past, full of noise and distractions, now feels distant and muted. The contrast between the chaotic past and the sobering present is evident, and it forces the speaker to confront the flaws of their former self. However, there’s an underlying acceptance of this change. The speaker doesn’t rush to resolve the loneliness or discomfort but simply acknowledges it as part of their new reality.

The poem also suggests that this change isn’t just about being physically sober—it’s about seeing the world differently. Where once there was the excitement of parties and drunken nights, now there is quiet and introspection. The speaker’s reflections on the street’s transformation parallel their own journey, where clarity has replaced chaos, and loneliness is now part of the emotional landscape. In this way, “Silent Night, Sober Night” becomes not just about a change in lifestyle, but a change in perspective. The poem doesn’t seek to make that change feel like a triumph; instead, it acknowledges the discomfort and complexity of living in a new, quieter reality.

In the end, the poem’s simplicity and directness are what make its themes resonate so powerfully. It’s not just about sobriety, but about coming to terms with how life has changed and how to live within that change. The speaker’s sober awareness of the emptiness around them mirrors their own internal transformation, and the quiet reflection of the poem allows us to feel the weight of both the external world’s decline and the speaker’s personal journey. Whether the emptiness is about economic decay or the sober recognition of a past that can no longer be reclaimed, the poem ultimately reflects on how we adapt to the inevitable changes in life, and how we come to understand and accept them, even when they bring feelings of loneliness and loss.

Photo by Weichao Deng on Unsplash

Ode till Aftonmånen – Review (Translation)

Arvid Lind

O, du aftonens måne,
lys på mig med ditt stillsamma ljus,
lys på min väg framåt här i livet,
så att jag kan se hur jag skall ta mig frammåt.

O, du aftonens måne,
kan du säga mig hur?
Hur skall jag lära mig att nöja mig med det jag har,
istället för att ständigt vänta mig mer?

…

You may find the rest of the poem here, in original Swedish. Translation below to English.

Ode till Aftonmånen

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Full translation with AI from original Swedish

Ode to the Evening Moon

Oh, you evening moon,
shine upon me with your quiet light,
light my path forward in this life,
so that I may see how to move forward.

Oh, you evening moon,
can you tell me how?
How shall I learn to be content with what I have,
instead of constantly expecting more?

Oh, you silver-colored stars,
who with wise glances look down upon me from the sky,
Shall I ever learn the noble art,
of looking at myself without evil.

There is still talk of your feats,
how you gods in the firmament fought monsters.
We all carry monsters within us,
but many are too cowardly to show them.

It is said that when you fall to the earth,
you shall bring good luck to those who wish.
I ask you for grace and peace,
all that I cannot give myself

It is whispered that when a new glimmer sets in the line of your eyes,
a soul goes out in us humans below.
That you are really the ones who have left us,
but that you have never forgotten us.l

Oh, you evening moon,
shine on me with your quiet light,
shine on my path forward in this life,
so that I can see how to move forward.

Analysis

“Ode to the Evening Moon” is a poem filled with quiet longing, self-doubt, and a search for peace. The speaker addresses the moon as a kind of ancient, wise god—something distant yet constant, illuminating both the physical world and the poet’s inner turmoil. The moon, as a symbol, represents more than just celestial light; it reflects the speaker’s desire for wisdom, clarity, and self-understanding. The poet seeks guidance not only for external circumstances but for the difficult internal journey of accepting themselves and finding contentment.

From the very beginning, the speaker calls upon the moon to “shine upon me with your quiet light,” asking for the kind of direction that might help them move forward in life. The moon’s light, while soft and serene, is not its own; it’s a reflection of the sun. Similarly, the wisdom the speaker seeks is not something inherent within them but something they hope to receive, something they can only interpret once it’s been reflected. The moon is a cosmic mirror, revealing not just the world outside but also the poet’s own struggles. The light it offers is not a direct solution, but a subtle illumination of the path forward.

The moon’s role as a reflection is crucial here. The speaker asks, “How shall I learn to be content with what I have, instead of constantly expecting more?” This line points to a universal struggle with desire and satisfaction. The moon, in many cultures, symbolizes enlightenment and understanding, and here it represents the poet’s hope for insight into how to find peace in the present moment, how to quiet their desires and be at ease with what they already possess. The moon’s light serves as a guide, but not one that can solve the poet’s inner conflict directly. It is up to the poet to reflect on it, to find contentment in what is.

Throughout the poem, there’s a clear tension between the serene, distant moon and the internal chaos the speaker describes. They speak of the “monsters” within, the parts of themselves they struggle to accept. These monsters may symbolize flaws, negative emotions, or personal demons—something the speaker fears to face. The moon, as a god in the sky, has seen and battled such monsters over time, yet its light doesn’t erase them. Instead, it reveals them, offering a kind of external wisdom that shows the speaker what they must confront within. The speaker’s inability to face these inner monsters complicates their search for peace. The moon, with its quiet and passive glow, becomes a reminder that wisdom isn’t a simple fix; it is something to be reflected upon, understood, and accepted.

The mention of the moon’s mythic qualities—how it “brings good luck” when it falls to earth—lends the poem a spiritual and divine quality. Here, the moon is not just a distant observer but a force that can offer something beyond the speaker’s own grasp: grace and peace. This is not the wisdom of self-reflection, but an external kind of intervention. The speaker yearns for peace that they feel they cannot give themselves, highlighting a deep vulnerability. They seek something from the moon, a kind of divine intervention that transcends human effort. The moon, in its role as an ancient god, is a reminder that we are sometimes powerless in the face of our own internal struggles. The wisdom we seek may not come from within, but from something greater than ourselves.

The poem also touches on the idea of human mortality. The speaker notes that when the moon’s light catches a new glimmer, “a soul goes out in us humans below.” This ties the moon to the cyclical nature of life, where death and renewal are inevitable. The moon’s light doesn’t just guide through darkness; it is connected to the flow of human existence—life and death, the fleeting nature of time. This deepens the moon’s symbolic role as an eternal witness to human suffering and growth, a divine entity that is not just a guide but a silent witness to everything we experience.

The structure of the poem also enhances its reflective tone. Written in free verse, with no fixed pattern or meter, the poem mirrors the speaker’s wandering thoughts. The repetition of the line “Oh, you evening moon” at both the beginning and end of the poem creates a sense of circularity, suggesting that the speaker’s search for peace is ongoing. The absence of rigid structure makes the poem feel more intimate and personal, capturing the feeling of uncertainty, the sense of seeking something without fully knowing what it is.

The speaker’s tone is one of quiet yearning and vulnerability. There’s no anger or frustration in their voice, only a subdued desperation. They are not angry at the moon for not offering immediate answers, but rather are aware of the moon’s distant, passive role. It’s as though the moon, as an old god, provides a steady presence, not to solve problems but to illuminate them, to help the speaker reflect on what is missing or needed within themselves. As the poem progresses, the tone becomes more introspective, especially as the speaker contemplates the moon’s connection to life, death, and the wisdom that comes with age. This shift deepens the emotional resonance of the poem, as the speaker not only seeks practical answers but also confronts larger existential questions about the nature of life itself.

In the end, the poem returns to its original plea. The speaker once again asks for the moon’s quiet light to guide them on their path. The repetition of this line reinforces the idea that the search for peace, understanding, and self-acceptance is never truly resolved. The moon remains a distant, constant presence in the sky, offering illumination without offering complete answers. The speaker’s need for that light, for some form of clarity, remains as strong as ever. It’s a relationship of continual reflection—both literal and metaphorical. The moon, in its unwavering glow, symbolizes wisdom that is always available, but one that must be actively sought and reflected upon to be understood.

Ultimately, Ode to the Evening Moon presents the moon as both a guide and a mirror, a symbol of wisdom and self-reflection. The poem captures the complexity of seeking contentment in a world full of internal and external struggles. The moon’s quiet, passive light mirrors the poet’s own quest for inner peace, a reminder that wisdom is something to be reflected on, not something that can be easily acquired or imposed from the outside. The moon, as an ancient god, offers no easy answers, but it remains a steady presence, a beacon for those who seek understanding in the dark. The search for peace, understanding, and self-acceptance is ongoing, but like the moon’s steady glow, it offers a kind of quiet comfort in the midst of uncertainty.

Analys in Swedish (AI translated)

“Ode till kvällsmånen” är en dikt fylld av stilla längtan, självtvivel och ett sökande efter frid. Talaren tilltalar månen som en slags uråldrig, vis gud – något avlägset men ändå konstant, som belyser både den fysiska världen och poetens inre kaos. Månen, som en symbol, representerar mer än bara himmelskt ljus; det återspeglar talarens önskan om visdom, klarhet och självförståelse. Poeten söker vägledning inte bara för yttre omständigheter utan för den svåra inre resan att acceptera sig själva och finna tillfredsställelse.

Redan från början uppmanar talaren månen att “lysa på mig med ditt tysta ljus”, och ber om den typ av riktning som kan hjälpa dem att gå vidare i livet. Månens ljus, även om det är mjukt och fridfullt, är inte dess eget; det är en reflektion av solen. På samma sätt är den visdom som talaren söker inte något inneboende inom dem utan något de hoppas få, något de bara kan tolka när det har reflekterats. Månen är en kosmisk spegel som avslöjar inte bara världen utanför utan också poetens egna kamper. Ljuset den erbjuder är inte en direkt lösning, utan en subtil belysning av vägen framåt.

Månens roll som reflektion är avgörande här. Talaren frågar: “Hur ska jag lära mig att vara nöjd med det jag har, istället för att ständigt förvänta mig mer?” Denna linje pekar på en universell kamp med lust och tillfredsställelse. Månen, i många kulturer, symboliserar upplysning och förståelse, och här representerar den poetens hopp om insikt om hur man kan finna frid i nuet, hur man kan tysta sina önskningar och vara tillfreds med det de redan har. Månens ljus fungerar som en vägledning, men inte en som kan lösa poetens inre konflikt direkt. Det är upp till poeten att reflektera över det, att finna belåtenhet i det som är.

Genom hela dikten finns en tydlig spänning mellan den fridfulla, avlägsna månen och det inre kaos som talaren beskriver. De talar om “monstren” inom sig, de delar av sig själva som de kämpar för att acceptera. Dessa monster kan symbolisera brister, negativa känslor eller personliga demoner – något som talaren fruktar att möta. Månen, som en gud på himlen, har sett och kämpat mot sådana monster över tiden, men dess ljus raderar dem inte. Istället avslöjar den dem, och erbjuder ett slags yttre visdom som visar talaren vad de måste konfrontera inombords. Talarens oförmåga att möta dessa inre monster komplicerar deras sökande efter fred. Månen, med sitt tysta och passiva sken, blir en påminnelse om att visdom inte är en enkel lösning; det är något att reflektera över, förstå och acceptera.

Omnämnandet av månens mytiska egenskaper – hur den “bringar lycka” när den faller till jorden – ger dikten en andlig och gudomlig egenskap. Här är månen inte bara en avlägsen observatör utan en kraft som kan erbjuda något bortom talarens eget grepp: nåd och frid. Detta är inte visdomen av självreflektion, utan en extern typ av intervention. Talaren längtar efter fred som de känner att de inte kan ge sig själva, vilket lyfter fram en djup sårbarhet. De söker något från månen, ett slags gudomligt ingripande som överskrider mänsklig ansträngning. Månen, i sin roll som en uråldrig gud, är en påminnelse om att vi ibland är maktlösa inför våra egna inre kamper. Den visdom vi söker kanske inte kommer inifrån, utan från något som är större än oss själva.

Dikten berör också tanken på mänsklig dödlighet. Talaren noterar att när månens ljus får en ny glimt, “slocknar en själ i oss människor nedanför.” Detta knyter månen till livets cykliska natur, där död och förnyelse är oundvikliga. Månens ljus leder inte bara genom mörkret; den är kopplad till flödet av mänsklig existens – liv och död, tidens flyktiga natur. Detta fördjupar månens symboliska roll som ett evigt vittne till mänskligt lidande och tillväxt, en gudomlig varelse som inte bara är en guide utan ett tyst vittne till allt vi upplever.

Diktens struktur förstärker också dess reflekterande ton. Dikten är skriven på fri vers, utan fast mönster eller mätare, och speglar talarens vandrande tankar. Upprepningen av raden “Oh, du kvällsmåne” i både början och slutet av dikten skapar en känsla av cirkuläritet, vilket tyder på att talarens sökande efter fred pågår. Frånvaron av stel struktur gör att dikten känns mer intim och personlig, och fångar känslan av osäkerhet, känslan av att söka något utan att helt veta vad det är.

Talarens ton är en tyst längtan och sårbarhet. Det finns ingen ilska eller frustration i deras röst, bara en dämpad desperation. De är inte arga på månen för att de inte ger omedelbara svar, utan är snarare medvetna om månens avlägsna, passiva roll. Det är som om månen, som en gammal gud, ger en stadig närvaro, inte för att lösa problem utan för att belysa dem, för att hjälpa talaren att reflektera över vad som saknas eller behövs inom dem själva. Allt eftersom dikten fortskrider, blir tonen becär mer inåtvänd, särskilt när talaren funderar på månens koppling till livet, döden och den visdom som kommer med åldern. Detta skifte fördjupar diktens känslomässiga resonans, eftersom talaren inte bara söker praktiska svar utan också konfronteras med större existentiella frågor om själva livets natur.

Till slut återgår dikten till sin ursprungliga grund. Talaren ber återigen om månens tysta ljus för att vägleda dem på deras väg. Upprepningen av denna linje förstärker tanken att sökandet efter fred, förståelse och självacceptans aldrig riktigt löses. Månen förblir en avlägsen, konstant närvaro på himlen och erbjuder belysning utan att ge fullständiga svar. Talarens behov av det ljuset, för någon form av klarhet, är fortfarande lika starkt som någonsin. Det är ett förhållande av ständig reflektion – både bokstavlig och metaforisk. Månen, i sitt orubbliga sken, symboliserar visdom som alltid är tillgänglig, men en som aktivt måste sökas och reflekteras över för att bli förstådd.

I slutändan presenterar Ode till kvällsmånen månen som både en guide och en spegel, en symbol för visdom och självreflektion. Dikten fångar komplexiteten i att söka belåtenhet i en värld full av inre och yttre kamper. Månens tysta, passiva ljus speglar poetens egen strävan efter inre frid, en påminnelse om att visdom är något att reflektera över, inte något som lätt kan förvärvas eller påtvingas utifrån. Månen, som en uråldrig gud, erbjuder inga enkla svar, men den förblir en stadig närvaro, en ledstjärna för dem som söker förståelse i mörkret. Jakten på fred, förståelse och självacceptans pågår, men liksom månens stadiga sken erbjuder den ett slags tyst tröst mitt i osäkerheten.

Photo by Luca on Unsplash

Fall, Flow, Seek – Review

Katy Rachel Martin

Water falls into
depths unseen. Yet like crystals,

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Fall, Flow, Seek

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Fall, Flow, Seek” uses water as a metaphor to explore life’s beauty, mystery, and impermanence. In just a few lines, the poem reflects on how life flows, changes, and eventually fades, but also emphasizes the ongoing search for meaning and clarity. Water in the poem represents both the unknown and the light we seek within it, capturing life’s constant motion and the depths we navigate in our search for purpose.

The first line, “Water falls into depths unseen,” sets the stage by suggesting mystery and the unknown. It evokes a sense of something beyond our reach, much like life itself, where not everything is visible or easy to understand. Water moving into unseen depths speaks to the vastness of life’s mysteries, reminding us that there are parts of our existence that are hidden from view, just as the water falls out of sight. This image pulls us into the idea that life, like water, often moves beyond our comprehension, leaving us with both wonder and uncertainty about what lies beneath the surface.

The poem quickly shifts focus in the next lines: “Yet like crystals, it reflects, refracts, ripples.” Here, the water becomes more dynamic. It’s not just falling into darkness; it has the potential to reveal beauty. The imagery of crystals reflects how water can bend light, offering new perspectives. Water’s ability to ripple, reflect, and refract speaks to how life, too, can shift, revealing different facets depending on how we approach it. Even in the darkness or uncertainty, there are moments of clarity, and even the most obscure aspects of life can offer glimpses of understanding.

Then comes the line, “Life flows, then fades,” which brings a sense of finality. Life, like water, is in constant motion, but it doesn’t last forever. It flows on, but it eventually fades away. This line highlights the impermanence of all things—everything, from our experiences to our lives themselves, is temporary. The poem doesn’t dwell on loss or sorrow but quietly acknowledges the truth that nothing endures forever. This moment of reflection adds depth to the earlier imagery of water, showing that even beauty and movement come with an inevitable end.

Despite this recognition of life’s fleeting nature, the poem ends on a note of hope: “Still, we seek the light within.” This line suggests that, despite the impermanence and uncertainty of life, the search for understanding, clarity, and purpose continues. The light here is a symbol of insight or truth—something enduring we seek, even in the midst of constant change. It’s a reminder that, no matter how fleeting or unclear life might seem, there’s always the possibility of finding something meaningful within ourselves. The phrase “seek the light within” suggests that the answers we search for might not always be out there in the world but can be found by looking inward.

The tone of the poem is contemplative but not despairing. It moves from mystery to beauty, then to acceptance of impermanence, and finally to a hopeful call to continue seeking. The structure of the poem, with its short lines flowing into one another, mirrors the movement of water, creating a feeling of continuity and change. There’s no abrupt ending or conclusion, just a smooth progression from one idea to the next, much like the way water moves freely and uninterrupted.

Overall, “Fall, Flow, Seek” offers a meditation on life’s paradoxes. It uses the metaphor of water to explore how we navigate both its clarity and its depths, its beauty and its darkness. The poem reflects on the constant motion of life, the inevitable fading of moments, and the ongoing search for light and meaning. Through its quiet tone and simple structure, it invites the reader to reflect on the rhythms of existence and the possibility of finding purpose, even in the midst of uncertainty. Life flows and fades, but there is always something worth seeking.

Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash

Daybreak – Review

Ali Grimshaw

Each day a chance
for new green to reach us
for listening to happen in a way
that has never happened before.

For air to clear.
And for us to come together
instead of apart.

For healing to blossom
forgiveness heard, shame shifting
to break the cycle of old chains.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Daybreak – Poem by Ali Grimshaw

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Daybreak” is a poem that moves with the natural rhythm of life itself—through cycles, repetition, and gradual shifts. From the first line, “Each day a chance,” the poem offers a hopeful meditation on renewal and healing, inviting the reader to reflect on the quiet moments of transformation that happen every day. The structure of the poem is key to understanding its meaning: the lines expand and contract, like the natural ebb and flow of the day, mimicking the cycle of light and darkness. This rhythm—the rise and fall of the lines—mimics the cycles of day and night, life and death, healing and rest, giving the poem a sense of continuity, a constant rhythm that feels both inevitable and comforting.

There’s no rush in this poem, no need to hurry toward an endpoint. Each line feels like a moment to breathe, to pause, and to take in the air. The tone is quiet, patient, and full of potential. This is not a poem about dramatic change, but rather the everyday acts of healing, growth, and connection. It speaks to the power of small shifts—like the air clearing, the chance to come together, or the possibility of forgiveness. These are not grand gestures, but acts of renewal that happen in their own time, like the slow opening of a flower. For someone healing, this subtle progress is deeply meaningful. The poem’s rhythm mirrors this: at times expansive, like the early morning light, then short and sharp, like a breath of clarity. The shorter lines—such as “For air to clear” or “For us to come together / instead of apart”—bring us back to the present moment, with urgency and focus. These moments feel grounded and immediate, while the longer lines—such as “For healing to blossom / forgiveness heard, shame shifting”—stretch out, inviting reflection and contemplation, like the slow unfolding of the day itself.

The cyclical nature of the poem is crucial to its message. Trauma, healing, and growth are not linear processes. The poem acknowledges that these things happen in waves, not all at once, but rather in gradual, repeating cycles. The structure reflects this truth: there is no straight path to healing or growth. Sometimes, there are moments of rest, like the image of “dormancy to begin again / or throw off its covers / to jump out of bed.” This playful image feels like an invitation to rise, to begin again, at our own pace. The line lengths mirror this sense of a natural, unhurried progression, as though the poem itself is breathing along with us.

The line “forgiveness heard, shame shifting / to break the cycle of old chains” speaks to the power of these small, subtle changes. Healing often begins with the quiet act of listening—being heard without needing to explain or justify. Trauma often leaves us feeling isolated or misunderstood, but the poem offers a new kind of possibility: a space where “listening to happen in a way / that has never happened before.” This is not about dramatic action but about creating room for understanding, for shifting shame, for offering forgiveness—not just in words, but in the way we see each other. This gentle process of change, slow and organic, is part of what the poem invites us to consider: the healing that can happen when we simply make space for it, day by day.

The imagery of nature in the poem strengthens this sense of renewal and growth. The “new green” reaching us, the “Earth and sky” rebalancing, all suggest the interconnectedness of life and the constant shifts that make space for something new to emerge. This cyclical imagery is a reminder that we are always in motion, always returning to something, starting over again, even after the darkest nights. There is power in the repetition of day and night, of breath, of seasons. These are constant, and like them, we too are always moving through phases of rest and awakening, of healing and growth. The final lines of the poem—“For dormancy to begin again / or throw off its covers / to jump out of bed”—are an invitation to rise, to embrace the day, even if we’re still uncertain. It’s a light, playful image, but it carries the weight of a quiet revolution, the chance to wake up again, each day.

Ultimately, “Daybreak” is about the possibility that each new day brings. It’s not about expecting everything to change at once or for healing to happen in a straight line. Instead, the poem suggests that every small moment of connection, of healing, of being heard, has its own quiet power. The fluctuating line lengths, the slow build-up and quiet return, mirror the rhythms of life, offering reassurance that even the smallest steps matter. Each day brings the chance for growth, for connection, and for healing, in ways we might not always see but can always feel. The poem invites us to breathe, to listen, and to allow for the gradual unfolding of transformation, trusting that with each new day, there is always the chance to begin again.

Photo by Simone Dinoia on Unsplash

Daybreak

Ali Grimshaw

Each day a chance
for new green to reach us
for listening to happen in a way
that has never happened before.

For air to clear.
And for us to come together
instead of apart.

For healing to blossom
forgiveness heard, shame shifting
to break the cycle of old chains.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Daybreak – Poem by Ali Grimshaw

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Daybreak” is a poem that moves with the natural rhythm of life itself—through cycles, repetition, and gradual shifts. From the first line, “Each day a chance,” the poem offers a hopeful meditation on renewal and healing, inviting the reader to reflect on the quiet moments of transformation that happen every day. The structure of the poem is key to understanding its meaning: the lines expand and contract, like the natural ebb and flow of the day, mimicking the cycle of light and darkness. This rhythm—the rise and fall of the lines—mimics the cycles of day and night, life and death, healing and rest, giving the poem a sense of continuity, a constant rhythm that feels both inevitable and comforting.

There’s no rush in this poem, no need to hurry toward an endpoint. Each line feels like a moment to breathe, to pause, and to take in the air. The tone is quiet, patient, and full of potential. This is not a poem about dramatic change, but rather the everyday acts of healing, growth, and connection. It speaks to the power of small shifts—like the air clearing, the chance to come together, or the possibility of forgiveness. These are not grand gestures, but acts of renewal that happen in their own time, like the slow opening of a flower. For someone healing, this subtle progress is deeply meaningful. The poem’s rhythm mirrors this: at times expansive, like the early morning light, then short and sharp, like a breath of clarity. The shorter lines—such as “For air to clear” or “For us to come together / instead of apart”—bring us back to the present moment, with urgency and focus. These moments feel grounded and immediate, while the longer lines—such as “For healing to blossom / forgiveness heard, shame shifting”—stretch out, inviting reflection and contemplation, like the slow unfolding of the day itself.

The cyclical nature of the poem is crucial to its message. Trauma, healing, and growth are not linear processes. The poem acknowledges that these things happen in waves, not all at once, but rather in gradual, repeating cycles. The structure reflects this truth: there is no straight path to healing or growth. Sometimes, there are moments of rest, like the image of “dormancy to begin again / or throw off its covers / to jump out of bed.” This playful image feels like an invitation to rise, to begin again, at our own pace. The line lengths mirror this sense of a natural, unhurried progression, as though the poem itself is breathing along with us.

The line “forgiveness heard, shame shifting / to break the cycle of old chains” speaks to the power of these small, subtle changes. Healing often begins with the quiet act of listening—being heard without needing to explain or justify. Trauma often leaves us feeling isolated or misunderstood, but the poem offers a new kind of possibility: a space where “listening to happen in a way / that has never happened before.” This is not about dramatic action but about creating room for understanding, for shifting shame, for offering forgiveness—not just in words, but in the way we see each other. This gentle process of change, slow and organic, is part of what the poem invites us to consider: the healing that can happen when we simply make space for it, day by day.

The imagery of nature in the poem strengthens this sense of renewal and growth. The “new green” reaching us, the “Earth and sky” rebalancing, all suggest the interconnectedness of life and the constant shifts that make space for something new to emerge. This cyclical imagery is a reminder that we are always in motion, always returning to something, starting over again, even after the darkest nights. There is power in the repetition of day and night, of breath, of seasons. These are constant, and like them, we too are always moving through phases of rest and awakening, of healing and growth. The final lines of the poem—“For dormancy to begin again / or throw off its covers / to jump out of bed”—are an invitation to rise, to embrace the day, even if we’re still uncertain. It’s a light, playful image, but it carries the weight of a quiet revolution, the chance to wake up again, each day.

Ultimately, “Daybreak” is about the possibility that each new day brings. It’s not about expecting everything to change at once or for healing to happen in a straight line. Instead, the poem suggests that every small moment of connection, of healing, of being heard, has its own quiet power. The fluctuating line lengths, the slow build-up and quiet return, mirror the rhythms of life, offering reassurance that even the smallest steps matter. Each day brings the chance for growth, for connection, and for healing, in ways we might not always see but can always feel. The poem invites us to breathe, to listen, and to allow for the gradual unfolding of transformation, trusting that with each new day, there is always the chance to begin again.

Photo by Simone Dinoia on Unsplash

tired feet — Review

Ricardo Sexton

Slowly come to this side
With a brisk pace to decide
Borrow a dress from someone
Sell those old photo frames
Dig out the safe-keep rings
Grab few things and come on

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

tired feet

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

In “Tired Feet,” the poem presents a quiet, reflective exploration of the small moments that make up a life and the weight they carry. It captures both resignation and the faintest glimmer of hope. The speaker moves through tasks and moments that, on the surface, might seem unremarkable, but these actions accumulate to reveal a deeper emotional landscape—one shaped by the weariness of life’s experiences and the decision that, though unspoken, looms just beyond the horizon.

The poem begins with a series of simple, almost mundane tasks: “borrow a dress from someone,” “sell those old photo frames,” “dig out the safe-keep rings.” These small acts suggest both a sense of letting go and a hesitation to fully release the past. Borrowing a dress may symbolize trying on a different identity or way of being, but it’s temporary, just as selling the photo frames and rings feels like clearing out, but not necessarily moving on completely. There’s a subtle sadness in these actions, but they also hint at something more—a process of sorting through life’s small remnants. “Grab a few things and come on” captures the movement forward, but without urgency or clarity. The feet may be tired, but they still continue, moving without the need for big decisions or resolutions.

The second part of the poem shifts to a more reflective tone, describing a “beautiful afternoon” and an “ideal coffee-shop corner seat.” These moments, though peaceful, are also tinged with fatigue. The phrase “overhead & arm were beaten” suggests physical exhaustion, and yet the speaker remains passive, observing without engagement. The image of the coffee shop, combined with the quiet resignation of “nothing was said nor written,” underscores a feeling of stillness. The speaker seems to be caught in a moment of pause, perhaps waiting for something—though it’s unclear what—that will signal a decision, a shift, or a change.

The line “No harm summed by tired feet” brings the poem full circle. It speaks to the exhaustion of life’s journey but also to a quiet acceptance of that fatigue. The feet have carried the speaker thus far, but they remain tired, suggesting that while nothing is resolved, the journey continues regardless. The speaker may not have fully acted, but there’s a sense that action is on the horizon, just not yet taken. This ambiguity leaves the poem suspended in a quiet space, between resignation and hope.

Throughout the poem, the tension between resignation and hope is palpable. The speaker’s movements are slow, deliberate, and weary, but there’s also a faint undercurrent of possibility. The decision the speaker must make is never explicitly stated, yet it hovers in the background of the poem. The speaker’s actions—no matter how small—accumulate into something larger, a series of choices and memories that weigh on them but still push them forward. This quiet hope lies not in any grand decision but in the mere act of continuing, of taking one more step even when the path ahead is unclear.

The structure of the poem reflects this feeling of slow, careful movement. The short lines and deliberate pacing create a sense of reflection and space, as if the speaker is taking time to weigh each action, each thought, without rushing to any conclusion. There’s no grand epiphany or dramatic shift; instead, the poem shows us that life is made up of small, sometimes unnoticed moments, decisions, and memories that add up over time. The weariness of the speaker’s feet is not tragic, but part of the process—a part of living, of moving through life even when it feels too heavy or unclear.

In the end, “Tired Feet” is about the accumulation of these small moments—the mundane, the meaningful, and the forgotten. It’s about how the weight of life can sometimes feel like a series of quiet actions, each one building on the last. The poem doesn’t offer a resolution, but it doesn’t need to. There’s a beauty in the ongoing movement, the tired feet that continue on despite the weariness. It’s a quiet acknowledgment of how time passes, and how even when we’re uncertain about the future, we still keep going, step by step, toward something that remains just out of sight.

Photo by Brandon Mowinkel on Unsplash