Adam Fenner's Blog, page 14

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

Silent Sounds From Within – Review

Ernest Federspiel

I am no Adonis having a body ripped with great looks
Warren Buffet would not be jealous of my financial savvy
I am but a uncommon man in thoughtful pursuit of love
Dreaming of the day of making some lady in this life happy
Are you listening?

My past is not that of a common man who has walked the line
It’s more of a solitary journey of many bumpy roads travelled

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Silent Sounds From Within

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Ernie also has a new book on the way, you may learn more about Ink Stained Love here.

Ink Stained Love Debut

Analysis

“Silent Sounds From Within” is a poem that digs deep into the personal struggles of self-doubt, insecurity, and the search for love, while also examining the gap between self-perception and unattainable ideals. The speaker reflects on his own flaws, grapples with feelings of inadequacy, and wonders if love or acceptance are even possible for someone like him. The poem doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities of self-reflection, offering a raw, almost confessional look at the poet’s inner turmoil and his pursuit of a connection that feels just out of reach.

From the very first lines, the speaker admits that he doesn’t measure up to society’s traditional ideals. He isn’t “Adonis,” and he doesn’t have the financial success of someone like Warren Buffet. These references serve as symbols of unattainable perfection—physical beauty and financial power—which the speaker feels he can never achieve. This isn’t just about comparing physical or financial attributes; it’s about a broader sense of not being good enough. The poem sets up this tension between the flawed, “uncommon” speaker and the larger-than-life figures of perfection, revealing how the poet’s internal struggle is shaped by a feeling of inadequacy. Yet, despite this, there’s a persistent longing for connection, a desire to make someone happy. The repeated line “Are you listening?” serves as a quiet cry for validation, as though the speaker is trying to convince himself that his desires are legitimate and worthy of attention.

As the poem progresses, the focus shifts from comparing himself to unattainable ideals to reflecting on his past. The speaker describes his life as a “solitary journey,” one filled with “bumpy roads” and turmoil. These roads represent the mistakes, failures, and emotional scars that have shaped him. The poet acknowledges that, despite his search for happiness, his past relationships have unraveled, leaving him with a sense of responsibility for the pain and chaos that followed. The idea that the speaker has chased “complete happiness” but ended up alone deepens the emotional weight of the poem. The turmoil isn’t just external—it’s internal, a struggle between the hope for love and the weight of past failures.

In the third stanza, the speaker confronts the idea of being “the perfect image” that women might expect. He admits to his flaws and past mistakes, acknowledging that his actions may have driven his lovers away. This self-awareness highlights the vulnerability of the speaker and the tension between his desire to be loved and his belief that he can never meet the expectations of others. The poem reaches a moment of raw honesty when the speaker asks, “Is there a woman out there that can find peace in loving this man?” This question reflects the deep uncertainty of the poet—whether love and acceptance are even possible for someone so deeply flawed. It’s a painful, almost hopeless reflection, yet one that resonates with anyone who has ever wondered if they can be loved for who they truly are, flaws and all.

The poem closes on a softer note with the line, “I am listening…” This ending suggests a shift, though not a definitive resolution. The speaker may be starting to realize that the key to moving forward lies not in comparing himself to others or striving for unattainable perfection but in listening to himself, in acknowledging his flaws and learning to accept them. There’s a glimmer of hope, though still uncertain, that personal growth and change are possible. This ending invites the reader to consider that the journey to love and self-acceptance doesn’t require perfection but a deeper understanding of who we are.

The structure of the poem is straightforward, with no complicated rhyme or meter, which allows the speaker’s thoughts to flow naturally. This simplicity mirrors the unpolished nature of the speaker’s reflection, making it feel more like a conversation than a formal poem. The repetition of “Are you listening?” creates a feeling of isolation, as if the speaker is trying to communicate something important but fears that it won’t be heard or understood. It also reflects the cyclical nature of self-doubt, as the speaker repeatedly questions whether anyone, especially a potential partner, can truly understand and accept them. This repeated questioning draws the reader into the speaker’s internal world, making the poem feel more intimate and personal.

The tone throughout the poem is one of quiet introspection—there’s no grand declaration or dramatic conclusion, just a soft, almost hesitant honesty. The poet doesn’t try to present themselves in an idealized light, but instead exposes their vulnerabilities. The lack of pretension in the language allows the poem to resonate on a deeply personal level, making it feel like a candid reflection. There is no bitterness or resentment, just a recognition that love, acceptance, and personal fulfillment might look different than imagined.

“Silent Sounds From Within” is ultimately about the tension between who we are and who we think we should be in order to be loved. The poem speaks to the universal experience of struggling with personal imperfections and the desire to be accepted despite them. It reminds us that love is not about meeting an external ideal, but about being heard and understood for who we truly are. The poet’s reflection is not one of self-pity but an honest attempt to reconcile past mistakes, personal flaws, and the hope that love is still possible—even for someone who feels “uncommon.” In the end, the poem is about learning to listen to ourselves, to accept our imperfections, and to recognize that, despite the uncertainties, there’s always room for growth and change.

Photo by Redd Francisco on Unsplash

Acceptance – Review

Allan Gould

Was it ever thus, this way of life,
time together as husband and wife?
Babies born and young children soon raised,
empty nest at last, dear Lord be praised.
When two become one, life works out well,
time flies by so quickly, its hard to tell
when you first begin to lose a step,

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Acceptance

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

The poem “Acceptance” paints a quiet yet poignant picture of a lifelong marriage, using the passage of time to reflect on the inevitability of change, aging, and loss. It doesn’t try to capture life as one big, dramatic arc but instead looks at it as a journey—slow, steady, and often marked by small moments that accumulate over the years. The poem takes us through the various phases of a relationship, from the early days of youthful love to the heart-wrenching solitude that comes when one partner inevitably passes away.

The poem’s theme revolves around the cyclical nature of life. It starts with the joy of young love and the shared experiences of raising children, moving toward the quieter, more reflective moments of aging. The speaker doesn’t just chronicle the highs but also captures the slow changes that come over time: “strength slowly ebbing,” the fading of romantic gestures, and the eventual shift from shared dependence to painful solitude. Time moves forward almost imperceptibly, leaving its mark on both the body and the relationship, until the moment arrives when one partner must leave.

The structure of the poem mirrors the passage of time in an organic way. Written in simple quatrains with an ABAB rhyme scheme, it reflects the rhythms of daily life, capturing the feeling of steady, unremarkable movement. The poem’s repetitive structure—especially the refrain “Was it ever thus, this way of life?”—creates a cyclical pattern, reinforcing the idea that life, though filled with change, often seems to move in circles, coming back to familiar points. This repetition gives the poem a reflective quality, encouraging us to think about how life, with all its changes, still feels strangely similar as we look back on it.

One of the most striking aspects of “Acceptance” is the way it portrays love not as a series of grand, romantic gestures, but as the small, everyday actions that define a long life together: sharing a mug of coffee, exchanging a kiss at the end of the day, or offering a wink across the room. The poem reminds us that love isn’t always about big moments—it’s about the quiet persistence of daily connection. The line “some stuff doesn’t get done, that’s OK” stands out as a reminder that life isn’t about perfection, and love doesn’t require constant effort to be meaningful. These small, almost invisible moments build the foundation of a marriage, turning them into something much deeper and more enduring over time.

The poem also acknowledges the inevitability of aging and the gradual loss of strength and energy that comes with it. There’s no grand statement about growing old, just the quiet observation that things change slowly, day by day, until one partner is left to navigate life alone. Even as the body slows down and memories fade, the speaker shows resilience, continuing the journey in the face of loss: “You struggle on, trying to keep up.” The final image of holding a photograph, “tears in your eyes,” evokes both grief and the quiet power of memory—showing that even in loss, love persists. It’s a poignant reminder that while time may take away, it doesn’t erase the significance of the moments shared.

Tone-wise, the poem is steady, somber, and gently reflective. The speaker doesn’t shy away from the sadness of aging or loss, but neither does it dwell on it. There’s a quiet acceptance that runs through the lines, as if the speaker has come to terms with the ebb and flow of life. The simple language, free of embellishments, makes the poem feel like a personal reflection—something anyone could experience. It’s a balance of bittersweetness and hope, showing that while life may be filled with sorrow, it’s also filled with resilience and a kind of quiet grace.

Ultimately, “Acceptance” is a meditation on the journey of life—not as a singular event, but as an ongoing process of change and growth. It acknowledges the inevitability of loss and the passage of time, but it also finds beauty in the small, everyday moments that accumulate over the years. The poem doesn’t promise answers or resolutions, but instead offers a quiet peace with life’s unpredictable rhythm. It’s not about avoiding hardship, but about accepting it and finding meaning in the simple acts of living. The journey is marked not by grand achievements or moments of success, but by the ongoing effort to keep going, to love, and to remember.

In the end, the poem reminds us that life is fleeting, but the love we share with others—though it may shift and change—never truly leaves. It carries on in the small, unnoticed gestures, the daily routines, and the memories that continue to sustain us long after the journey has taken its final turn.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Acceptance

Allan Gould

Was it ever thus, this way of life,
time together as husband and wife?
Babies born and young children soon raised,
empty nest at last, dear Lord be praised.
When two become one, life works out well,
time flies by so quickly, its hard to tell
when you first begin to lose a step,

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Acceptance

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

The poem “Acceptance” paints a quiet yet poignant picture of a lifelong marriage, using the passage of time to reflect on the inevitability of change, aging, and loss. It doesn’t try to capture life as one big, dramatic arc but instead looks at it as a journey—slow, steady, and often marked by small moments that accumulate over the years. The poem takes us through the various phases of a relationship, from the early days of youthful love to the heart-wrenching solitude that comes when one partner inevitably passes away.

The poem’s theme revolves around the cyclical nature of life. It starts with the joy of young love and the shared experiences of raising children, moving toward the quieter, more reflective moments of aging. The speaker doesn’t just chronicle the highs but also captures the slow changes that come over time: “strength slowly ebbing,” the fading of romantic gestures, and the eventual shift from shared dependence to painful solitude. Time moves forward almost imperceptibly, leaving its mark on both the body and the relationship, until the moment arrives when one partner must leave.

The structure of the poem mirrors the passage of time in an organic way. Written in simple quatrains with an ABAB rhyme scheme, it reflects the rhythms of daily life, capturing the feeling of steady, unremarkable movement. The poem’s repetitive structure—especially the refrain “Was it ever thus, this way of life?”—creates a cyclical pattern, reinforcing the idea that life, though filled with change, often seems to move in circles, coming back to familiar points. This repetition gives the poem a reflective quality, encouraging us to think about how life, with all its changes, still feels strangely similar as we look back on it.

One of the most striking aspects of “Acceptance” is the way it portrays love not as a series of grand, romantic gestures, but as the small, everyday actions that define a long life together: sharing a mug of coffee, exchanging a kiss at the end of the day, or offering a wink across the room. The poem reminds us that love isn’t always about big moments—it’s about the quiet persistence of daily connection. The line “some stuff doesn’t get done, that’s OK” stands out as a reminder that life isn’t about perfection, and love doesn’t require constant effort to be meaningful. These small, almost invisible moments build the foundation of a marriage, turning them into something much deeper and more enduring over time.

The poem also acknowledges the inevitability of aging and the gradual loss of strength and energy that comes with it. There’s no grand statement about growing old, just the quiet observation that things change slowly, day by day, until one partner is left to navigate life alone. Even as the body slows down and memories fade, the speaker shows resilience, continuing the journey in the face of loss: “You struggle on, trying to keep up.” The final image of holding a photograph, “tears in your eyes,” evokes both grief and the quiet power of memory—showing that even in loss, love persists. It’s a poignant reminder that while time may take away, it doesn’t erase the significance of the moments shared.

Tone-wise, the poem is steady, somber, and gently reflective. The speaker doesn’t shy away from the sadness of aging or loss, but neither does it dwell on it. There’s a quiet acceptance that runs through the lines, as if the speaker has come to terms with the ebb and flow of life. The simple language, free of embellishments, makes the poem feel like a personal reflection—something anyone could experience. It’s a balance of bittersweetness and hope, showing that while life may be filled with sorrow, it’s also filled with resilience and a kind of quiet grace.

Ultimately, “Acceptance” is a meditation on the journey of life—not as a singular event, but as an ongoing process of change and growth. It acknowledges the inevitability of loss and the passage of time, but it also finds beauty in the small, everyday moments that accumulate over the years. The poem doesn’t promise answers or resolutions, but instead offers a quiet peace with life’s unpredictable rhythm. It’s not about avoiding hardship, but about accepting it and finding meaning in the simple acts of living. The journey is marked not by grand achievements or moments of success, but by the ongoing effort to keep going, to love, and to remember.

In the end, the poem reminds us that life is fleeting, but the love we share with others—though it may shift and change—never truly leaves. It carries on in the small, unnoticed gestures, the daily routines, and the memories that continue to sustain us long after the journey has taken its final turn.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Christmas Wish – Review

Michelle Ayon – Navajas

it’s not bad to wish for more,
but i am sad as i shut my door
for Christmas wishes that may not come true
or hopes that will make us forever blue.

nevertheless, let me tell you this
i wish this Christmas would be full of bliss
for all of us anywhere in the world
as we pray or bow down and curled.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here, where it was published in full at Masticadores.

“Christmas Wish” by Michelle Ayon – Navajas

Michelle’s page can be found here.

“Christmas Wish” by Michelle Ayon – Navajas

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Christmas Wish” offers a striking contrast to the commercialized version of Christmas that dominates American culture. While the holiday in the U.S. has become synonymous with materialism—gifts, decorations, and a feel-good cheer—the poem instead focuses on a wish for something far more ambitious and meaningful: peace and joy for children who are suffering in war-torn regions. The speaker’s desire for something so grand, so seemingly impossible, points to the painful reality that Christmas, a time meant for warmth and celebration, is also a reminder of the vast inequalities that persist in the world, especially for the most vulnerable.

The poem juxtaposes the idealized Christmas, filled with joy and fulfillment, with the harsh realities that many children face—particularly those living in conflict zones. The speaker expresses a yearning for a Christmas where the simple joys of childhood aren’t overshadowed by violence. It’s a desire for “bliss for all of us anywhere in the world,” but this wish feels almost “greedy” in its scope. After all, why ask for so much? Why not settle for something personal and achievable? Yet, this “greed” isn’t about material gain; it’s about a deep empathy for the suffering of others, especially children who can’t even experience the basic joys of childhood, let alone the peace and comfort most people take for granted during the holidays.

What’s striking here is how the speaker challenges the typical capitalist view of Christmas. In a culture where happiness is often packaged and sold—through consumer goods, the “perfect gift,” or the ideal holiday dinner—the speaker rejects these superficial desires in favor of a more profound wish for global peace. The desire for world peace is framed as a longing for something that’s not just nice but necessary. The wish to see children in “war-torn lands” be able to say “Merry Christmas, let’s celebrate” without the threat of “guns, no bombs, just pure faith” is simple yet heartbreaking in its contrast to the violence these children experience. This contrasts sharply with the consumer-driven Christmas many Americans enjoy, where the season is about indulgence and excess, not survival.

The speaker’s request is modest yet meaningful. The wish for “every child” to get their Christmas wish—even something as simple as a “goldfish”—underscores how little it would take to make a difference in these children’s lives. The speaker isn’t asking for extravagant gifts, just for the possibility of a moment of peace, a moment where the innocence of childhood can shine through. Yet this wish, though small, seems impossible in a world marked by violence, where even the most basic desires go unfulfilled. The line “but, damn! this isn’t happening” serves as a jarring wake-up call, reminding us that for many, the holiday season is not a time of joy, but of survival.

The tone of the poem reflects this frustration, moving between sorrow and defiance. There’s an understanding that these wishes may never come true, but the speaker refuses to remain silent. The raw, almost conversational language of the poem—especially the bluntness of lines like “but damn! this isn’t happening”—forces the reader to confront the world’s cruelties head-on. The speaker’s desire for peace isn’t an unrealistic fantasy, but a necessary plea, one that refuses to be drowned out by the noise of consumerism and the apathy of a world that continues to ignore its most vulnerable.

At the same time, the poem also exposes the tension between personal desires and global suffering. The speaker acknowledges the sadness that comes with wishing for something so grand, recognizing that such a wish may never come true. Yet, in this recognition, there’s also an insistence on hope—no matter how impossible it may seem. The speaker’s “greed” for a better world, one where every child can experience joy and safety, is rooted in compassion. It’s not about asking for more for oneself, but about wanting more for others. This kind of “greed”—the desire for a world where children can live without fear—reveals the depth of the speaker’s empathy and frustration, as well as their determination to voice these hopes, even in the face of an unjust and violent world.

“Christmas Wish” challenges us to look beyond the materialism that has come to define the holiday season and think about what really matters: the safety, peace, and well-being of the world’s most vulnerable, especially children. The poem forces us to reflect on the gap between the Christmas many celebrate and the reality faced by those who cannot afford to celebrate, whose lives are marked by trauma and fear. It’s a call to remember that the holiday should be about more than just giving gifts—it should be about giving hope, giving peace, and giving a future to those who need it most.

Ultimately, “Christmas Wish” is a plea not just for a different kind of Christmas, but for a different kind of world, one where the dreams of children are not overshadowed by war, poverty, or violence. It’s a reminder that while the perfect Christmas may never come, the wish for a better world—no matter how impossible it seems—should never stop being voiced. The poem asks us to reflect on the ways in which we, as individuals and as a society, can make that dream a reality, even if it’s just in small, meaningful ways.

Photo by zhengtao tang on Unsplash

Crafty Christmas – Review

Punam

My
happy
happy tree
was not fell but
dressed up craft-ily

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Crafty Christmas

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Crafty Christmas” plays with the idea of the Christmas tree in a way that feels both lighthearted and subtly rebellious. The poem takes aim at the traditional practice of cutting down a real tree for the holidays, offering an alternative that doesn’t come with the usual guilt or harm to nature. Through its playful tone, visual shape, and structure, the poem gently pushes back against the norms we associate with Christmas, particularly when it comes to our relationship with nature and how we celebrate.

The poem contrasts the dreariness of December with the cheer and light of the crafted tree. December, with its cold, dark days, can often feel heavy, pushing people indoors to escape the winter gloom. The speaker presents their “happy tree” as a form of rebellion against that dullness. Rather than surrendering to the season’s bleakness, the crafted tree is “dressed up craft-ily” to bring light to both the home and the earth. This is not just about decoration; it’s a way of fighting back against the natural world’s heaviness by creating something that feels alive, warm, and festive, even if it doesn’t come from the earth.

The poem also takes a clear stance against the traditional Christmas tree, which involves cutting down a live tree. The speaker’s tree is “not fell,” a deliberate choice to avoid the “sorry end, nor slow dying” of a real tree. The word “fell” carries a heavy connotation of loss, yet the speaker’s crafted tree avoids that fate entirely, choosing instead to dress up something that isn’t plucked from nature but created. This rejection of the need for a real, sacrificed tree pushes back against the cultural norm that links Christmas to cutting down nature for a brief moment of joy.

This rebellion is visually reinforced by the poem’s shape. The lines of the poem mimic the form of a Christmas tree, from the trunk at the bottom to the expanding branches above. The repetition of “happy” at the top and bottom echoes the star atop a tree, signaling joy and light. The tree here is crafted, artificial, but still full of life and happiness. It suggests that the celebration doesn’t have to be tied to something natural or consumed from the earth—it can be a creation of art, a way of bringing joy without taking from nature.

The tone of the poem is both festive and serious. While the speaker is clearly celebrating the holiday with their “happy tree,” there’s a quiet commentary about how we can celebrate without the environmental cost that typically comes with holiday traditions. By choosing a crafted tree, the poem sidesteps the typical debates about real versus fake trees. It doesn’t suggest that real trees are inherently wrong, but it offers an alternative that avoids the guilt and destruction associated with cutting down a tree. It’s an invitation to rethink how we celebrate without sacrificing nature in the process. The speaker’s choice to create a tree that is “dressed up craft-ily” reflects a deeper understanding of sustainability and a desire to find joy in a way that doesn’t harm the environment.

In its simplicity, “Crafty Christmas” offers a powerful message. The speaker doesn’t lecture or condemn; instead, they offer a cheerful and thoughtful alternative to the traditional Christmas tree. The crafted tree may not be real, but its “happy” spirit is no less valid than that of a natural tree. The joy and light it brings to the home are just as genuine, and perhaps even more sustainable. The poem captures a sense of liberation—celebrating Christmas without the baggage of tradition that comes with environmental costs. It’s a quiet rebellion that feels both creative and full of life, much like the holiday season itself when we step outside of tradition and create our own ways of celebrating.

Photo by Dave Michuda on Unsplash

Play The Game – Review

Jessie Pope

Twenty-Two stalwarts in stripes and shorts
Kicking a ball along,
Set in a square of leather-lunged sports
Twenty-two thousand strong,
Some of them shabby, some of them spruce,
Savagely clamorous all,
Hurling endearments, advice or abuse,
At the muscular boys on the ball.

Stark and stiff ‘neath a stranger’s sky
A few hundred miles away,
War-worn, khaki-clad figures lie,
Their faces rigid and grey
Stagger and drop where the bullets swarm,
Where the shrapnel is bursting loud,
Die, to keep England safe and warm
For a vigorous football crowd !

Football’s a sport, and a rare sport too,
Don’t make it a source of shame.
To-day there are worthier things to do.
Englishmen, play the game!
A truce to the League, a truce to the Cup,
Get to work with a gun,
When our country’s at war we must all back up
It’s the only thing to be done!

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You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

Jessie Pope’s “Play The Game” is a striking example of wartime propaganda, but it also serves as a sharp critique of a public that sits safely at home while others are sent to die in their place. On the surface, the poem frames war as a thrilling competition, likening it to a football match—a beloved national pastime. Beneath this seemingly carefree portrayal, however, lies a biting challenge to those who passively cheer from the sidelines, urging them to recognize that the real issues of war demand more than mere entertainment and complacency.

From the outset, the poem captures the fervor of a football match, describing “Twenty-two stalwarts in stripes and shorts / Kicking a ball along,” cheered on by an enthusiastic crowd. The image of the “savagely clamorous” spectators evokes a society that has grown too comfortable in its distractions, focused more on sport than on the very real struggles of its soldiers. Football, here, is weaponized—elevated to the level of patriotic duty. Pope’s metaphor places those watching from the stands in sharp contrast to the soldiers fighting on the front lines. It suggests that the public is living in a false sense of security, caught up in their own leisure while others bear the burden of defending the nation.

The true challenge of the poem emerges in its second half, where Pope starkly contrasts the excitement of sport with the grim reality of war. The soldiers, described as “war-worn, khaki-clad figures,” are no longer the heroic images of battle, but rather victims of a brutal conflict. Yet Pope recontextualizes their sacrifice by claiming they die “to keep England safe and warm / For a vigorous football crowd.” This line underscores the poem’s harshest criticism: the soldiers are dying not for lofty ideals, but to ensure the continued comfort and entertainment of those who are safely removed from the horrors of war. Pope uses this juxtaposition to expose a disturbing disconnect between the idealized “game” of war and the public’s failure to take responsibility for its true cost.

Pope’s critique is clear: those cheering from the stands, wrapped up in football, are not living up to the standards their country demands in times of crisis. The war, in Pope’s eyes, is not a spectacle to be watched from afar, but a duty to be shared. It is a moral challenge to the public, urging them to recognize that war is not a pastime—it is a burden that demands active participation. The poem’s central message is an indictment of a society that enjoys the fruits of war without facing its consequences. While the football crowd celebrates, the soldiers fight and die to ensure that those at home can continue their leisurely lives.

Pope’s line of attack is unforgiving: while the crowd cheers, the men who actually face the horrors of battle are making the ultimate sacrifice. “Play The Game” is not just a call to arms—it is a moral judgment of those who fail to engage with the real issues at hand. The poem insists that those who benefit from the sacrifices of others must also take part in securing the future. It’s a sharp reminder that complacency, in the face of such sacrifice, is not an option.

The poem’s structure and tone amplify this moral urgency. In the first stanza, the rhythm mimics the pace of a football match, with its quick, lively beat and chant-like repetition. This creates an almost festive atmosphere, a call to action, urging the reader to join the “game” with enthusiasm. But as the poem progresses, the tone shifts. The language becomes more direct, even harsh, as Pope moves from celebrating sport to urging men to “get to work with a gun.” The meter slows down, mirroring the gravity of the final call to action. This shift mirrors the transition in public perception of war, from an idealized pursuit to a painful, unavoidable duty.

At its core, “Play The Game” presents war as a national duty, one that requires sacrifice. The poem is jingoistic in tone, urging men to act without hesitation, portraying war as something noble and exciting. By aligning war with the metaphor of sport, Pope strips it of its brutal reality, making it seem like just another competition to be won. The final plea to “play the game” underscores the urgency of participation, suggesting that those who do not enlist are somehow less patriotic or unworthy of the national pride the poem celebrates.

This simplistic, idealized view of war is a key feature of the poem’s propaganda. By linking the excitement of sport with the reality of battle, Pope encourages men to see war as a challenge to be faced with enthusiasm. However, this portrayal glosses over the true horrors of war. The poem offers no hint of the brutal conditions soldiers would endure—no mention of trench warfare, constant death, or the psychological trauma caused by battle. “Play The Game” presents war as a cause worth fighting for, but it fails to acknowledge the cost of that fight. It simplifies the complexities of war into something easily digestible, and in doing so, it becomes a dangerously naive portrayal of the conflict.

The simplicity of Pope’s message was undoubtedly effective in its time. By presenting war as a clear-cut moral obligation, the poem contributed to the nationalistic fervor that drove many young men to enlist. Yet, in doing so, it also obscured the brutal realities of war and encouraged men to join without fully understanding what they were sacrificing. This idealized view of war was later challenged by poets like Wilfred Owen, who wrote with the visceral knowledge of what war truly entailed. Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est” stands in stark contrast to Pope’s glorification of war, exposing the brutality of battle and condemning the idea that it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.

Ultimately, “Play The Game” is a masterclass in propaganda, using the familiar and beloved imagery of sport to make war seem both exciting and accessible. It simplifies the message of war, removing its complexities and dangers, and appeals to a nationalistic fervor that demands active participation. However, it also serves as a biting critique of a public that enjoys the benefits of war without engaging in the fight itself. By urging the public to recognize their moral duty, Pope challenges them to stop hiding behind their distractions and take part in the real struggle. The poem presents war as a collective responsibility—one that cannot be avoided, and one that demands every citizen’s contribution. While “Play The Game” succeeded in rallying men to enlist, it also reveals the dangers of simplifying war into a “game” and ignoring its brutal consequences.

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Red Lips Are Not So Red – Review

Wilfred Owen

Red lips are not so red
  As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
  When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

Your slender attitude
  Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed ,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce Love they bear
  Cramps them in death’s extreme decrepitude.

Your voice sings not so soft, —
  Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft, —
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear
  Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

Heart, you were never hot,
  Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
  Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

Wilfred Owen’s “Red Lips Are Not So Red” challenges conventional ideas of love and beauty by placing them against the brutal realities of war. While the title suggests a romantic poem, it quickly becomes apparent that Owen is not speaking to a lover but to the memory of the soldiers he fought with, men who have been torn apart by the violence of war. The poem is less about idealized love and more about the deep grief Owen feels over his fallen comrades—brothers who died before they could fully live.

From the first line, Owen contrasts romantic symbols with the harsh, bloody reality of war. “Red lips are not so red / As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.” The “red lips” of love are no match for the bloodstains of soldiers who’ve died in battle. In this comparison, Owen undermines the conventional associations of red lips with desire, affection, or passion, replacing them with the grim reality of death. This initial image sets the tone of the poem, as Owen reflects on how war turns traditional symbols of love into something hollow and distant.

As the poem unfolds, Owen continues to dismantle the idea of romantic love. The speaker addresses “Love,” but the affection being described isn’t the tender feelings of a lover—it’s the raw, painful connection between soldiers, forged in the suffering of war. The “slender attitude” of a lover is trivial compared to the grotesque imagery of soldiers’ “knife-skewed limbs,” their bodies twisted and broken by the violence of battle. What might have once been romantic or delicate in a lover’s form is replaced by the dehumanizing violence of war. Owen paints a picture of how love becomes distorted in the trenches, unable to protect anyone from the destruction around them.

The poem’s imagery of the “pitiable mouths” of soldiers, whose voices have been silenced by death, deepens this contrast between idealized love and the harsh realities of war. The once-sweet voice of a lover, “gentle and evening clear,” seems irrelevant when compared to the soldiers who now lie dead, their mouths “stopped.” Where once there might have been laughter, conversation, or tenderness, there is now only silence. The soldiers’ love, in Owen’s eyes, is more pure and painful than anything a lover could understand. Yet, it’s a love that leads to death, underscoring the futility of romantic love in the face of such violence.

The final stanza shifts the focus to the heart, another symbol of love, and here Owen’s grief becomes even clearer. His heart, he admits, is “not hot, / Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot.” The hearts of soldiers, filled with courage and love for one another, are contrasted with the speaker’s own heart, which feels pale and detached. The soldiers’ hearts, “made great with shot,” are filled with a fierce love—one that leads them to sacrifice their lives for each other. Owen’s own heart, unable to match the intensity of the soldiers’ devotion, feels inadequate in comparison.

In the end, Owen realizes that even though he weeps for his fallen comrades, he can never “touch them.” Their death has severed the connection between them, and his grief is helpless. The distance between the living and the dead feels insurmountable, and the love Owen feels for them—love born of shared hardship and sacrifice—is a kind of love that can never be reciprocated or fully realized.

Through “Red Lips Are Not So Red,” Owen mourns the loss of the soldiers and the bond they shared, a bond that transcended the conventional ideas of love. His grief is deepened by the realization that the kind of love he once understood—romantic and tender—has been replaced by something darker, a love that is defined by suffering and death. The poem forces us to confront how war strips away everything human, even the most cherished emotions, replacing them with the brutal realities of violence and loss. For Owen, the love he feels for his fallen comrades is a love that leads only to death, a love that can never return to the innocence of affection. It is a love bound by suffering, a connection that transcends conventional notions of love but is forever lost to the horrors of war.

Commentary on Reintegration

The transition that Wilfred Owen and his comrades would have faced when returning to civilian life after World War I was not only a physical adjustment but also a profound emotional rupture. In his poetry, such as “Red Lips Are Not So Red,” Owen depicts the intense, selfless love forged in the trenches—a bond built on shared suffering and the ever-present threat of death. This “love,” though not romantic, transcended ordinary affection and became a defining part of the soldiers’ identities. It was a love born from the brutal realities of war, where comrades relied on each other for survival in ways that no civilian relationship could replicate.

For Owen, the reintegration into civilian society would have felt alienating, as the relationships he had once known—whether romantic, familial, or social—would seem trivial in comparison. The intense connections formed during the war were forged in a context of shared trauma, and these bonds couldn’t be transferred to a world that had moved on. Romantic love, which Owen criticizes as “pale” and “insufficient,” felt irrelevant when compared to the fierce, sacrificial loyalty between soldiers. For survivors, the challenge was not just adjusting to new routines, but dealing with the emotional chasm left by relationships that no longer fit the world they returned to.

This sense of disconnection is often misunderstood, and seldom discussed, yet it profoundly affects every generation of soldiers coming home from war. Whether ancient or modern, the emotional void left by the intense bonds of battle is difficult to bridge. The love that soldiers experience in combat is unlike anything in civilian life, and attempting to return to “normal” relationships can feel like a betrayal of the depth and urgency of that bond. For many, the reintegration process is not just about finding a new place in society, but about mourning the loss of a world that no longer exists for them.

Owen’s repeated return to the battlefield, despite knowing the futility of the war, suggests that these bonds were stronger than anything civilian life could offer. His death in 1918 underscores the tragedy of a man caught between two worlds—the intense, brotherly loyalty of war and a civilian world that had no room for it. The tragedy is that the love formed in battle, though deeply real, could not be sustained in peace. For Owen and many others, reintegration into society was a struggle not just with the physical realities of war, but with the emotional void left by the bonds they could never replace.

For many soldiers, the bonds of war become stronger and more meaningful than anything civilian life can offer. The love and loyalty between comrades in arms, though genuine and life-affirming, can’t survive in peace. This sense of loss, and the struggle to reintegrate, is a challenge that every generation of soldiers faces, often in silence, as they find themselves unable to fully return to a world that has left them behind. Or in many ways, they have left behind.

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Dreamers – Review

Siegfried Sassoon  

Soldiers are citizens of death’s gray land,
Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

Siegfried Sassoon’s “Dreamers” offers a raw and painful insight into the inner lives of soldiers during World War I. Rather than glorifying their sacrifices or celebrating heroism, Sassoon focuses on the small, almost mundane dreams of soldiers—dreams of simple comforts and ordinary routines from their pre-war lives. These dreams, full of longing and nostalgia, stand in stark contrast to the brutal reality of war, emphasizing the deep disillusionment soldiers experience as they struggle to hold onto memories of a life that feels increasingly out of reach.

From the start, the poem paints a grim picture of the soldiers’ existence. Sassoon describes them as “citizens of death’s gray land,” suggesting a hopelessness and inevitability in their fate. These soldiers are trapped in a world where time holds no promise, and survival is their only focus. They are not fighting for some future glory but merely for a fleeting chance to stay alive in a conflict that seems endless and without meaning. The harshness of their reality is highlighted in the repeated phrase “Soldiers are,” which emphasizes their roles as soldiers first, while their humanity—their memories, desires, and dreams—seems secondary and fading.

The soldiers’ dreams, when they do surface, are shockingly simple. Far from longing for heroism or victory, they think of “firelit homes, clean beds, and wives,” things that once seemed trivial but are now deeply cherished. This desire for normalcy, for returning to the peaceful, everyday life they once knew, is both heartbreaking and tragic. In these dreams, Sassoon underscores how far the soldiers have been removed from the comforts of civilian life. They are no longer soldiers of any noble cause but men yearning for basic human comforts—things like “balls and bats,” “bank-holidays,” or “picture shows.” These dreams, though seemingly simple, expose the soldiers’ isolation and the painful realization that they are cut off from the world they used to inhabit.

Sassoon’s use of imagery adds to the poignancy of these dreams. The soldiers, living in “foul dug-outs” and “ruined trenches,” are in physical conditions that strip them of their dignity and sense of self. They are “gnawed by rats” and “lashed with rain,” their bodies enduring the same suffering as their minds. The brutality of war forces them to dream of the ordinary—going to the office or wearing spats—as if such things could offer a sense of comfort in the face of the chaos around them. These small dreams, in their ordinariness, are even more tragic because they remind us of the life these men will never return to.

What’s also striking in the poem is the tone. There’s no overt anger or bitterness in Sassoon’s portrayal of the soldiers; instead, there’s a quiet, resigned sadness. The soldiers are not dreaming of escape from the war but of a return to a simpler time. The reality of their situation is inescapable, and their dreams are not of freedom or hope, but of the mundane pleasures that have been taken from them. The gap between what they once had and what they now endure seems impossible to bridge.

The structure of the poem, with its two eight-line stanzas, mirrors the simplicity and regularity of the soldiers’ desires. The steady rhythm of the lines contrasts with the chaos of war, highlighting the soldiers’ desperate longing for some form of order and stability in their shattered world. The simplicity of the structure also reflects the simplicity of their dreams. There’s no grandeur, no heroism, just the quiet yearning for a life that feels forever lost.

Ultimately, “Dreamers” is a powerful meditation on the dehumanizing effects of war. The soldiers are reduced to dreamers, their lives reduced to longing for the simple, everyday comforts they once knew. Sassoon highlights how war strips away everything human, leaving soldiers with nothing but memories of a life they can never return to. Their dreams—so small, so human—are filled with an almost cruel irony. They dream of the things they once took for granted, but those things are now as distant as the life they left behind.

In the end, the true tragedy of “Dreamers” isn’t the soldiers’ deaths, but the fact that their lives have been so fundamentally altered by the war that even their most basic human desires have become unattainable. The soldiers are left with nothing but memories of a life they can never reclaim, and it is these lost dreams that make the poem so haunting.

Photo by Austrian National Library on Unsplash