Adam Fenner's Blog, page 6

At the Somme – Reviewed

Mary Borden

This is the song of the mud.
The pale yellow glistening mud that covers the naked hills like satin,
The grey gleaming silvery mud that is spread like enamel over the valleys,
The frothing, squirting, spurting liquid mud that gurgles along the road-beds,
The thick elastic mud that is kneaded and pounded and squeezed under the hoofs of horses.
The invincible, inexhaustible mud of the War Zone.

This is the song of the mud, the uniform of the poilu.
His coat is of mud, his poor great flapping coat that is too big for him and too heavy,
His coat that once was blue, and now is grey and stiff with the mud that cakes it.
This is the mud that clothes him –
His trousers and boots are of mud –
And his skin is of mud –
And there is mud in his beard.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“At the Somme” is a poem about mud. It does not focus on soldiers charging into battle or the sound of gunfire. It does not mention bravery or sacrifice. It stays on one thing—the mud. The mud is not just a detail of the battlefield; it is the battlefield. It stretches across the landscape, coats the soldiers, and swallows everything. The poem turns mud into something more than just dirt and water. It becomes an active force, something relentless and inescapable.

The repetition of “This is the song of the mud” sets the tone. The poem does not tell a personal story. There is no single soldier at the center of it. There is only mud, repeated again and again, as if to say that nothing else matters. The phrase “song of the mud” almost sounds mocking. Songs are usually uplifting, carrying some sense of joy or celebration. But this is not a song of triumph—it is a chant, a rhythm of exhaustion. It moves forward steadily, just as the war drags on without relief.

The structure of the poem reinforces this. It begins with descriptions of the landscape. The mud is “pale yellow glistening,” “grey gleaming silvery,” “frothing, squirting, spurting.” At first, it almost seems beautiful, like something natural. The word “satin” in the first line suggests smoothness, something soft and delicate. But that illusion does not last. The mud is “thick elastic,” “kneaded and pounded.” It is not just something to walk through—it resists, swallows, clings. The imagery becomes heavier, more suffocating. The mud is alive in the worst way.

Then the focus shifts. The mud is not just in the trenches; it is on the soldiers. The poilu, the French infantryman, does not wear a uniform anymore—he wears mud. His coat, once blue, is “grey and stiff with the mud that cakes it.” His trousers, his boots, even his skin are covered. There is mud in his beard. It is as if he is no longer separate from the battlefield. He is not a person anymore; he is just another thing sinking into the earth.

The poem was written during World War I, a time when many still spoke of war in terms of duty and honor. But by the time the Battle of the Somme ended, those ideas seemed empty. The war was not about quick victories or noble sacrifice. It was a war of waiting, of being trapped in trenches, of watching men die in mud-filled craters. This poem reflects that. There is no enemy here, no sense of progress, no larger purpose attached to the suffering. There is only mud.

It strips the soldier of identity. He is no longer an individual. The poem does not describe his thoughts or emotions. He does not have a name. He is just another body in the trenches, another figure covered in dirt. This reflects the reality of World War I—soldiers were not seen as people but as numbers, as parts of a machine that kept going no matter how many men it crushed. The poem does not need to state this outright. It shows it.

There is no moment of relief, no contrast to suggest that life exists beyond the trenches. The mud is “invincible, inexhaustible.” It does not go away. Soldiers might die, battles might end, but the mud remains. That is what makes the poem feel so bleak. It does not try to make sense of the war. It does not search for meaning. It just describes what it was like to exist in that world.

There is also a biblical weight to this. In Genesis, man is made from the earth, shaped from dust and given life. But here, the same earth does not create—it destroys. It smothers, drowns, buries. The soldier is forced back into the mud before he has even died. His body disappears into it, his uniform loses its color, his face is caked with dirt. He is no longer something separate from the battlefield. He is becoming part of it.

The mud in this poem is not natural. It is not the rich soil of a farm or the dirt that nourishes life. It has been broken down by war, churned by hooves, mixed with blood. It is “frothing, squirting, spurting.” It moves like a living thing, swallowing whatever is left in its path. The biblical idea of mud is tied to creation, but here, creation is ruined. The soldier was once whole, but now he is “grey and stiff with the mud that cakes him.” He is weighed down, unrecognizable.

Mud is usually temporary. It dries, hardens, washes away. But not here. This mud is permanent. Even if the soldiers survive, they will carry it with them, in their bodies, in their minds. The war does not end when they leave the trenches. It stays with them. They have become part of the mud, and it has become part of them.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

JOURNEY TO THE SPRATLY ISLANDS – Reviewed

Tô Thuỳ Yên
Translated to english by Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm

Toujours il y eut cette clameur,
Toujours il y eut cette fureur…
Saint-John Perse

Trường Sa! Trường Sa! Ðảo chuếnh choáng.
Thăm thẳm sầu vây trắng bốn bề.
Lính thú mươi người lạ sóng nước,
Ðêm nằm còn tưởng đảo trôi đi.

Mùa Ðông Bắc, gió miên man thổi
Khiến cả lòng ta cũng rách tưa.
Ta hỏi han, hề, Hiu Quạnh Lớn
Mà Hiu Quạnh Lớn vẫn làm ngơ.

…

Paracel! Paracel! An island out of nowhere.
Surrounded soundly on all four fronts in blatant sadness.
A handful of awkward sailors riding the waves,
Asleep on an island seemingly drifting away.

A northern winter in an endless gale
The tale of a tattered heart.
I grovelled, I begged, the Great Wall of Silence
But the Great Wall of Silence begged ignorance.

The island even by the devil himself, abandoned
The original flora with their forgotten names taking over
A chilling green growing in layers
Over the bodies standing frozen in time.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

JOURNEY TO THE SPRATLY ISLANDS – TRƯỜNG SA HÀNH | Tô Thuỳ Yên

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

The Spratly Islands look like paradise from a distance, but up close, they are something else entirely. Journey to the Spratly Islands captures that contrast. The poem begins with “An island out of nowhere,” setting the tone of isolation. The ocean surrounds the land, but instead of peace, there is “blatant sadness.” This isn’t just about a remote island. It’s about what lingers there—memories, loss, and the weight of history.

These islands were never just islands. They were outposts, battlegrounds, places where men stood guard, waited, and wondered if home still remembered them. The opening line, “Paracel! Paracel!” recalls another set of disputed islands, another history of conflict. The islands drift in and out of memory, just as the people stationed there have. They are claimed, abandoned, and reclaimed, but never truly cared for.

The poem offers glimpses of beauty—the “dreamy aqua waters of the bay,” the “shimmering shiny bed” of the sea. But those images are always undercut by something heavier. The “shiny clumps of seaweed” are caught in “infinite shifting layers of sadness.” The afternoon sun is “verging on tears.” Nature exists as it always has, but history will not let it be peaceful. Even beauty carries weight.

And then there is the distance. “Four hundred nautical miles of unreachable yearning.” The ocean, which should connect places, becomes a barrier. It isolates rather than unites. It doesn’t lead home—it traps.

The worst part is the silence. The “Great Wall of Silence.” In places like this, silence is law. No complaints, no questions. Orders come, orders are followed. But the silence cuts deeper than discipline. It is the silence of history moving on, of the world pretending not to hear. The islands are important enough to fight over, but not important enough to be remembered.

“The island even by the devil himself, abandoned.” That’s how it feels. Barren land, barely able to sustain life, overrun by salt and wind. Yet men stood guard, ate their rations, tried to survive on land that could not hold them. Nature erases them. “A chilling green growing in layers / Over the bodies standing frozen in time.” The dead are swallowed, forgotten under creeping vines.

And that’s the heart of this poem. It isn’t just about war or politics. It’s about being erased. The waves wash away footprints. The wind carries away voices. “The self-inflicted pain of both laughter and cries.” That’s how men survive in places like this—by making jokes out of misery, by pretending the loneliness doesn’t get to them.

And history repeats. “The Eastern front is lost, replaced by the West.” The wind shifts, the powers shift, but for the men stationed there, nothing changes. The trees are “uprooted waiting to be skinned alive,” and it’s not just about trees. It’s about men sent to these islands, used, and forgotten.

Then the poem cracks open. The speaker isn’t just remembering. He is breaking apart. “Who is shouting within me each night / Like someone dying in the dark.” Even after leaving, war stays inside you. It rips through you in the quiet moments, when no one is looking.

And then, that plea: “Oh mainland, can you hear me?” It’s the cry of every soldier who has ever felt abandoned. The repetition of “lighten, lighten up” is desperate, as if the weight is unbearable.

The poem ends with a grave. “Time rest in peace cemented in decomposition, / I will use it as a tombstone in Thy memorial.” There is no resolution. No hero’s welcome. Just memory, decay, and the quiet knowledge that something important is disappearing.

This poem understands the Spratlys in a way only someone who has lived there could. It isn’t about treaties or maps. It’s about the men who were sent there, who stood watch while the world moved on. It asks, at the end of it all, if anyone even remembers.

Spratly Islands

The Spratly Islands are a scattered group of reefs, atolls, and small islands in the South China Sea. For most of history, they were uninhabited and largely ignored. Fishermen from nearby coasts visited, but no country made a serious effort to control them. That changed in the 20th century when people started realizing the region’s potential value. The islands are in the middle of major shipping routes, and the waters around them have rich fishing grounds. There is also the possibility of oil and gas beneath the seabed.

In the 1930s, France claimed the Spratlys as part of its colony in Vietnam. Japan took control during World War II but gave them up after losing the war. After that, different countries started making claims. The Philippines, Vietnam, China, Malaysia, and Taiwan all see parts of the Spratlys as their own. Some built military outposts or placed markers to reinforce their claims.

China has been the most aggressive in recent decades, expanding its presence in the area. In the 1980s, China and Vietnam clashed over the islands. In the 2010s, China started building artificial islands, turning reefs into military bases with airstrips and radar stations. Other countries protested, but China pushed forward.

The Spratly Islands are still a source of tension. Countries continue to stake their claims, and naval patrols from different nations cross paths. Though small and remote, the islands play a big role in the region’s politics, shaping relationships and military strategies.

For more information you may reference Wikipedia, Encyclopedia Britannica, and a more targeted article on the dispute over these islands from Wikipedia.

Photo by Mary Borozdina on Unsplash

A Child’s Dream – Reviewed

Isha Garg

There was an ocean outside my house

You could only see it in the morning
from the little pane in the cassette room
…when the mist and fog became one

Looking out then,
I took a dip
on a frosty morn
as someone played a tune
I recognised years later as Clairde lune

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

A Child’s Dream

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

This poem moves like a memory but feels like a dream. It doesn’t follow a strict timeline—images appear, fade, return, and shift. The ocean outside the house stands out. It isn’t always there, only visible in the morning mist. This makes it seem unreal, like something that exists only under certain conditions, the way memories and dreams do. The speaker doesn’t question it. They accept it the way we accept strange things in dreams. The poem moves between what is happening and what might have happened, like someone trying to recall a moment that was once clear but has softened over time.

The structure adds to this feeling. The short lines, the ellipses, and the repetition of phrases like “the brighter it became” and “I can’t remember what she said” create the sense of a memory surfacing in fragments. Some parts are vivid, others unclear. The poem unfolds in real-time as the speaker remembers it. Music reinforces this idea. The mention of Clair de Lune—a piece tied to nostalgia and dreams—acts as a link between past and present. The speaker hears it in childhood but only recognizes it years later, mirroring the way meaning often emerges long after an experience.

Light and water play a key role. The ocean becomes brighter as the speaker goes deeper, reversing the usual idea that depth brings darkness. This makes it feel otherworldly, reinforcing the dreamlike atmosphere. Maybe the ocean represents understanding, memory, or even a spiritual space. The way it glows suggests something just beyond reach, something waiting to be realized.

Then there’s the angel. The speaker sees it but can’t describe its form. There’s no fear, only recognition. It is tied to the speaker’s grandmother, yet her response is lost. The repeated line “I can’t remember what she said” emphasizes the gaps in memory. Even though the words are forgotten, the emotions remain—love, warmth, something “profound, familiar, true.” The angel could represent many things. It could be the grandmother, someone lost but still present in another way. It could be the speaker, a moment of self-recognition. Or it could be someone the speaker has yet to meet, a connection that only becomes clear in the future. The poem plays with time, making past and present blur together.

The ending brings everything together. The angel, the ocean, and the dream connect to someone the speaker recognizes later in life. This delayed recognition makes the poem feel like a premonition, like certain relationships exist before we even understand them. The poem never gives a clear answer, and that’s what makes it powerful. It captures the way memories work—blurry in places, sharp in others, full of details that don’t always make sense but still feel important. The poem leaves behind not just an image but an emotion—something gentle, something wistful, something true.

Photo by Matthias Münning on Unsplash

#my words…# – Reviewed

Destiny

my words, they know me ~
me
when joy elates and pains a sigh ~
I
in shades between lurid  and soft ~
oft
I write, and my words, they  know me ~
me
weeping blue tears upon crisp pages ~

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

#my words…#

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“#my words…#” is about what it means to be a writer, not just in the sense of putting words together but in the way writing shapes identity and emotion. The speaker doesn’t just use words; they depend on them. Words are a reflection of self, a way to process feelings, a way to exist. The poem starts with confidence, with a clear statement: “My words, they know me.” This is more than just saying that the speaker writes. It suggests a relationship, a kind of understanding between the writer and their words. Writing is how they make sense of the world and how they recognize themselves.

But that certainty doesn’t last. The poem moves through emotions, showing that writing isn’t always easy. There is joy, but there is also pain. The speaker’s words hold both, mixing together in the lines. “Weeping blue tears upon crisp pages” is an image that stands out. Blue could mean sadness, but it could also suggest depth, creativity, or thoughtfulness. Writing isn’t just about getting words down—it’s about pouring something of oneself into them. The speaker’s emotions live on the page, and that makes writing more than just a skill. It’s a release, a way of being.

The way the poem is structured adds to this feeling. The repetition of words at the end of lines—“me,” “I,” “oft,” “ages,” “tenses”—creates a rhythm. It feels like thoughts cycling through the mind, shifting slightly but always connected. This reflects how writing works. Ideas don’t always come fully formed; they grow and change. The repetition also gives a sense of holding on. By repeating words, the speaker reinforces their connection to them, as if afraid of letting them slip away.

Then the shift happens. The poem moves from confidence to doubt, from steady creative flow to fear. “This flow for living in the midst of words I fear.” Writing isn’t just a hobby for the speaker—it’s life. But what happens if that flow stops? The fear of words failing isn’t just about struggling to write. It’s about losing something essential. The final lines hit hardest. “The moment my words fail, break, fall apart.” The structure starts to unravel, mirroring the idea of words breaking down. “By part disintegrating this me and I / and my thoughts left to feel wordless.” It’s not just about silence—it’s about loss of self. If words are how the speaker understands who they are, then losing them means losing that understanding.

This poem captures something that many writers feel but don’t always say out loud. Writing isn’t just about communication. It’s about making sense of yourself and your emotions. When words come easily, everything feels clear. When they don’t, it’s unsettling, even frightening. The way this poem moves—from certainty to fear, from presence to absence—shows that shift in a way that feels natural, like thought itself.

What makes this poem work is how it doesn’t over-explain. It lets the repetition and rhythm do the work. The reader feels the creative flow, then feels it breaking apart. It’s not just a poem about writing—it’s a poem about what happens when words fail. And that’s what makes it powerful. It speaks to anyone who has ever depended on words, anyone who knows what it feels like when they won’t come.

Photo by Jake Colling on Unsplash

Seeing farther – Reviewed

Dave Williams

It was when
I peered through
a toilet paper tube

(like a sailor with a spyglass)

and you didn’t
laugh at me
or 

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Seeing farther

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Seeing Farther” is about a small moment that carries a much deeper meaning. It starts with something simple—someone looking through a toilet paper tube like a spyglass. On the surface, it’s playful, even silly, but the response to it changes everything. Instead of laughter or criticism, the speaker is met with a suggestion: “You might see farther if you use a paper towel tube.” It’s an ordinary sentence, but it holds a kind of quiet encouragement. The poem isn’t just about this one interaction—it’s about what it represents. It’s about acceptance, trust, and how relationships are built on small moments of understanding.

The way the poem is structured makes it feel personal, like a memory being recalled. The short lines and line breaks slow everything down, making each thought feel deliberate. The speaker doesn’t just say they felt accepted—they show us why. The pauses in the lines, especially in “and you didn’t / laugh at me / or / nail me with sharp criticism,” highlight the tension in that moment. It’s not just about playing with a cardboard tube. It’s about expecting judgment and receiving something else instead. The way the line “nail me with sharp criticism” is broken up makes it hit harder, emphasizing how much the speaker might have been bracing for a harsh reaction.

Instead, they’re met with something different—not just kindness, but engagement. The response isn’t just acceptance; it’s participation. The other person doesn’t tell the speaker to stop or dismiss what they’re doing. They offer a way to take it further. They don’t shut the door on the moment; they open it wider. That’s where the deeper meaning comes in. “Seeing farther” isn’t just about looking through a longer tube. It’s about perspective. It’s about a future. It’s about realizing that this is someone who won’t make them feel small for being themselves. It’s about recognizing that this is the kind of person who will encourage them to see more, do more, be more.

The poem keeps everything simple. There’s no unnecessary embellishment, no flowery language. The straightforward phrasing makes it feel honest, like something that actually happened. That simplicity also makes it feel bigger. There’s no need to over-explain because the meaning is already there. The last lines—“that was when / I felt accepted”—land with a quiet weight. There’s no dramatic realization, just a calm recognition of what matters.

What makes Seeing Farther work is how much it says in so few words. It doesn’t have to spell out its message because the moment itself is enough. A single exchange shows what acceptance looks like, how love can exist in the smallest gestures, and how something as simple as letting someone be themselves can mean everything. It’s about more than just that day. It’s about a future, about knowing that this is someone who will always help them see a little farther.

Photo by Rob Wingate on Unsplash

Gesture – Reviewed

Grace Y. Estevez

A drop of love,
can change a life,
sent from above,
to dissolve strife.

Swiftly travels,
through space and time,
to unravel,
powerful climbs.

Compassion grows,
deeply within,
heartfelt smiles show,
positive wins.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Gesture

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Gesture” is a poem about how small acts of kindness spread, creating something bigger than the moment they began. It starts with a simple image—“a drop of love”—and follows that drop as it moves outward, touching lives and making a difference. The message is clear: kindness doesn’t have to be grand to be meaningful. It only takes a little to set something in motion, and once it starts, it keeps going. The poem invites the reader to see themselves as part of this process, someone capable of affecting change in ways they might not even realize.

The structure reflects this idea of movement and growth. Each stanza is short and follows the same pattern, with a steady rhythm and a rhyme scheme that keeps everything flowing. There’s no shift in format, no unnecessary complexity—just a simple, repeating structure that mirrors how small actions build up over time. The steady pacing makes kindness feel effortless, as if it’s something that naturally moves from one person to the next.

The tone is warm and hopeful. There’s no doubt or hesitation in the words. The poem treats kindness as an undeniable truth, something that exists and continues whether or not we see the full impact. The phrase “swiftly travels, through space and time” makes kindness feel bigger than a single moment. It suggests that what we do today might touch someone far beyond what we expect. This gives the poem a sense of quiet confidence—it doesn’t try to convince the reader that kindness matters; it simply states it as fact.

As the poem moves forward, it reinforces this idea in different ways. “Compassion grows, deeply within” suggests that kindness isn’t just an outward action but something that changes people from the inside. A kind gesture doesn’t stop when it’s given; it plants something in the person receiving it. That connects to the line about smiles—“heartfelt smiles show, positive wins.” A smile might seem small, but it carries weight. It spreads, just like kindness does.

Nature imagery also plays a role in making kindness feel universal. “Fulfillment flies until it lands, brightens blue skies, kisses warm sand.” The movement here is important. Kindness isn’t static—it travels, reaches new places, and takes root. Comparing kindness to elements like the sky and sand makes it feel natural, as if it’s something that happens as effortlessly as the wind shifting or the sun rising.

Then comes a reminder that small things matter. “The smallest pinch, is all it takes.” The poem makes it clear that kindness isn’t about big gestures or dramatic moments. It’s about the small, everyday things. “Just an inch” can be enough. Even the tiniest act of kindness can ripple outward, affecting more people than we realize. The line “joy will not break” reinforces this. Kindness isn’t fragile. It doesn’t disappear after one moment. It lingers, spreads, and continues even when we aren’t looking.

The last stanza ties everything together with a direct call to action. “Reflect good will to all around.” The poem isn’t just describing kindness—it’s handing it over to the reader, saying, “Now it’s your turn.” The final thought, “affection spills, harmony found,” shows how kindness grows beyond individual actions. The word “spills” is important—it suggests that kindness doesn’t stay contained. It overflows, touching more people than we might intend.

What makes Gesture stand out is how it captures the way kindness works without making it seem complicated. It doesn’t talk about massive efforts or life-changing sacrifices. Instead, it focuses on small things, showing that those small things don’t stay small for long. One action inspires another, and before long, kindness has traveled farther than anyone could have expected. The poem makes kindness feel easy, natural, and most of all, powerful.

Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash

Valentine’s Day, the Sassy Way – Reviewed

Phoebe ~ Drops of Ink

Roses are red, violets are blue,
you stole my heart—so now I’ll sue.
Just kidding, babe, you know it’s true,
there’s no one else I’d rather annoy than you.

Chocolate’s sweet, but you’re the prize,

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Valentine’s Day, the Sassy Way

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Valentine’s Day, the Sassy Way” takes a different approach to love poetry. It doesn’t drown in deep emotions or get lost in bitterness. Instead, it leans into humor, teasing, and a little bit of playful attitude. It’s the kind of love poem that feels real, because it doesn’t treat romance like something serious and dramatic. It’s about the fun side of being in a relationship—the banter, the jokes, the way love and laughter go hand in hand.

It starts with the most classic setup possible: “Roses are red, violets are blue.” But instead of following it with a sweet declaration, it throws in a legal threat. “You stole my heart—so now I’ll sue.” Right away, that tells you what kind of poem this is. It’s affectionate, but not in a traditional way. There’s no dramatic poetry about soulmates or destiny. Instead, the speaker makes it clear that love, for them, is about playing around. And just in case there was any doubt, the next line clears it up—“Just kidding, babe, you know it’s true.” That push and pull between teasing and sincerity runs through the whole poem.

The structure plays a big part in keeping that energy going. The rhyme scheme is smooth, making it feel light and easy to read. It’s not overly poetic or complicated—it’s more like something you’d say to your partner with a smirk, something that rolls off the tongue naturally. That makes it feel personal, like it was meant for someone specific rather than written to impress a crowd. The rhythm moves quickly, which matches the playful tone.

The humor makes the poem stand out. The jokes aren’t just random—they actually say something about the relationship. The fake lawsuit is over-the-top in the best way, making it clear that this isn’t the kind of love poem that takes itself too seriously. Then there’s the line, “There’s no one else I’d rather annoy than you.” That sums up a lot about the relationship. It’s not just about admiration or passion—it’s about knowing each other so well that teasing is just another way of saying “I love you.”

The second stanza keeps that same energy but adds a flirty confidence. The speaker shrugs off traditional gifts like chocolate and instead hypes up their partner’s “smug little smirk” and “bedroom eyes.” It’s a mix of charm and humor that feels effortless. Then they take it one step further, turning themselves into the Valentine’s Day gift: “I wrapped myself up, but skipped the bow.” There’s something bold about that—an awareness that love isn’t just about giving things, but about showing up, being present, and, in this case, making someone laugh.

Then comes the last stanza, which starts off romantic—candles, wine, a toast to love. But just when it seems like the poem is settling into something sweet, it throws out a last-minute threat: “But if you forget this day next year… you’ll wake up single—crystal clear?!” It’s funny, but it also says something real. Maybe it’s just a joke, or maybe it’s based on experience—maybe this day has already been forgotten once before, and this is a not-so-subtle way of making sure it doesn’t happen again. Either way, it makes a point. Love isn’t just about feelings—it’s about showing up, making the effort, remembering the little things. The speaker isn’t actually saying they’ll leave over one missed Valentine’s Day, but they’re making it very clear that forgetting isn’t an option.

What makes this poem work so well is how easy it is to connect with. It doesn’t rely on big declarations of love or complicated metaphors. Instead, it stays honest, straightforward, and fun. It’s the kind of poem that feels modern because it captures how relationships actually work for a lot of people. It’s not about over-the-top romance; it’s about knowing each other well enough to joke, flirt, and remind each other (even with a little threat) that love should never be taken for granted.

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

The Noticing – Reviewed

Ali Grimshaw

In the grocery store parking lot I stopped.
I stopped when I saw her shining above.

What glory, she captivated the sky
and the cold felt fresh, an awakening to

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

The Noticing – Poem by Ali Grimshaw

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

The moon is always there, but how often do people actually see it? The Noticing is about that—about paying attention, about remembering to look. It starts in the most ordinary place, a grocery store parking lot, where the speaker suddenly stops. That pause is important. It breaks the rhythm of daily life, like they’ve caught themselves mid-step, pulled out of routine by something simple but undeniable.

It’s just the moon. Nothing unusual. Not an eclipse, not a rare alignment, just the same moon that’s always been there. But in this moment, it feels different. The way the poem slows down after that first abrupt line mirrors the shift in awareness. The speaker isn’t just glancing at the moon—they’re seeing it. The words settle into a quiet rhythm, unforced, giving space between thoughts. There’s a kind of reverence in how it’s described: “What glory, she captivated the sky.” It’s awe, but not exaggerated. It feels real, like a breath caught in cold air.

And then comes the key phrase: the noticing. It’s not about discovering something new; it’s about remembering what’s already there. That’s the heart of the poem. The speaker is aware of how easy it is to forget, how often people move through the world without looking. The noticing isn’t just seeing—it’s paying attention, being present, breaking out of the haze of everyday distractions. The poem doesn’t fill the moment with unnecessary details. Just the moon, a planet nearby, the quiet dark, and a breath held in the cold. That’s all it needs.

The structure of the poem mirrors this moment of clarity. The short lines slow everything down, creating pauses that make the reader feel the same stillness the speaker feels. The phrasing is simple, unpolished, letting the experience speak for itself. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just the moment, held open.

And then the last turn. “How lucky that the noticing / still lives within me.” There’s relief in that—maybe even a little surprise. The speaker hasn’t lost this ability, even if they weren’t sure it was still there. But then comes the weight of the final line: “So many have forgotten to look up.” That’s the quiet sadness underneath it all. The poem never directly says what’s been lost, but it lingers in that ending.

Forgetting to look up isn’t just about missing the moon. It’s about losing something deeper—the ability to pause, to pay attention, to step outside of routine and see something beyond it. The poem doesn’t try to make a grand statement. It just recreates a moment, one that feels both personal and universal. It doesn’t tell the reader what to do, but by the time it ends, the question is already there: When was the last time you looked up?

Photo by Andrés Gómez on Unsplash

Retreating To – Reviewed

Kevin

Cold, uncaring
I’ve become
I used to once
But now I’m numb
My heart is blacker
Than the night
I used to think
I’d found the light
Now I see
That’s not the case
I don’t belong

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Retreating To

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Retreating To” is about isolation, not just as an experience but as a choice. The speaker presents themselves as someone who has grown cold and detached, someone who once felt deeply but now feels nothing. But as the poem goes on, it becomes clear that they still care, even if they don’t want to admit it. They describe their pain in a way that contradicts their claims of numbness, showing that their retreat into solitude is not relief but another form of suffering. The poem doesn’t ask for sympathy or offer explanations. It simply states what is, in a way that feels final and unchangeable.

The structure of the poem reflects this emotional detachment. The lines are short, sometimes just a few words each, making everything feel restrained and controlled. There is no elaboration, no reflection beyond the bare minimum. It’s as if the speaker doesn’t have the energy to say more or doesn’t see the point. The rhythm is steady, unbroken, moving forward without hesitation, much like despair itself. The speaker isn’t searching for a way out. They are simply stating what they see as the truth.

The poem opens with the speaker acknowledging that they have changed. “Cold, uncaring / I’ve become” suggests that this isn’t who they always were, but something they have become over time. The second line reinforces this: “I used to once / But now I’m numb.” The vagueness of “I used to once” is important—it leaves out exactly what was lost, making it feel even more distant. They don’t dwell on the past, only the fact that it is gone. If they were truly numb, though, would they even need to say this? The fact that they reflect on their change, even in such a detached way, suggests that they are not as unaffected as they claim.

The next lines reinforce this idea. “My heart is blacker / Than the night” is a heavy statement, not just about emptiness but about a complete loss of warmth. But then comes the contrast: “I used to think / I’d found the light.” This suggests that they once believed in something good, something worth holding onto. That hope, whatever it was, is gone now. “Now I see / That’s not the case” is blunt, emotionless. But that lack of emotion feels like a mask. The poem doesn’t explain what happened, only that the speaker no longer believes in what they once did.

From here, the poem shifts toward the speaker’s isolation. “I don’t belong / I’m out of place” makes it clear that they feel disconnected, but the way they phrase it suggests that they still wish they did belong. If they truly didn’t care, why state it at all? “A stranger here / Without a friend” reinforces the loneliness. They claim to be numb, yet their words are full of loss. There is frustration in how plainly they say it, as if they are trying to convince themselves that this is simply the way things are.

Time passing becomes another weight on them. “The time it ticks / To toll the end” suggests a sense of inevitability. They aren’t waiting for change. They are simply waiting for things to reach their natural conclusion. But again, the fact that they focus on this, that they describe this waiting, shows that they are aware of the passage of time. They are not as disconnected as they might want to be.

The final lines bring the poem to its bleak conclusion. “No long goodbyes / No fond farewell” suggests a quiet departure, but one that is not peaceful. There is no expectation that anyone will care, no belief that any goodbye will matter. The last lines—”Retreating to / My private Hell”—confirm that the speaker is not escaping pain but moving deeper into it. The word “retreating” is important. It suggests a step away from others, but it is not a step toward peace. It is just another kind of suffering, one they have chosen, even if it is no better than what they left behind.

“Retreating To” is not about overcoming despair or looking for answers. It is about accepting isolation as the only option, even when it brings its own pain. The speaker insists they have stopped caring, but every part of the poem suggests otherwise. Their words are filled with longing, regret, and an awareness of what they have lost. They are not just numb—they are hurt, and they know it. The poem does not offer hope, just the quiet certainty that this is where they are now, whether they want to admit it or not.

Photo by Kyle Johnson on Unsplash

To C.H.V. – Reviewed

Robert Vernède

What shall I bring to you, wife of mine?
When I come back from the war?
A ribbon your dear brown hair to twine?
A shawl from a Berlin store?
Say, should I choose you some Prussian hack
When the Uhlans we overwhelm?
Shall I bring you a Potsdam goblet back
And the crest from a prince’s helm?

Little you’d care what I laid at your feet.
Ribbon or crest or shawl—
What if I bring you nothing, sweet,
Nor maybe come home at all?
Ah, but you’ll know, Brave Heart, you’ll know
Two things I’ll have kept to send:
Mine honour for which you bade me go
And my love–my love to the end.

You may find this and other poems here.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“To C.H.V.” is a poem about war, duty, love, and sacrifice, but it is also about the perspective of the person left behind. The soldier writing to his wife acknowledges that he may not return, but even if he does not, he wants her to find comfort in what he leaves behind. His honor and his love are the two things that will endure no matter what happens to him. The poem moves from lighthearted suggestions of gifts to the weight of uncertainty, showing the shift from imagining a future to confronting the possibility of loss.

At first, the poem seems focused on what the soldier will bring back. He lists different kinds of gifts, starting with small, personal things like a ribbon for her hair and moving to extravagant war trophies. These objects are symbols of status and victory, the kinds of things soldiers might collect as proof of their experience. But there is something uneasy about the way he keeps listing them. The gifts feel like a distraction, a way to avoid admitting that he may never have the chance to give her anything again. There is an underlying hesitation in his words, as if he is trying to hold on to a sense of certainty, even as he knows he may not return.

The structure of the poem reflects this shift. The first stanza is filled with questions, each one presenting a different possible gift. This creates a sense of movement, as if the speaker is imagining different futures, picturing himself coming home. The second stanza slows down. He stops asking and starts answering for himself. “Little you’d care what I laid at your feet.” He realizes that none of these things would truly matter to her. A ribbon, a crest, a shawl—none of them could replace what she really wants, which is for him to come home. Then, he directly acknowledges the fear that has been underneath his words the whole time: “What if I bring you nothing, sweet, / Nor maybe come home at all?” The question lingers. There is no answer because there is no certainty.

In the final lines, he turns from uncertainty to something solid. He may not know what will happen, but he knows what he will leave behind. “Ah, but you’ll know, Brave Heart, you’ll know / Two things I’ll have kept to send.” He promises her the things that cannot be lost, even in death: his honor and his love. The phrase “for which you bade me go” suggests that she plays a role in his duty. Her support gives him purpose, and his commitment to honor is not just about country, but about living up to what she believes in. If he dies, she will still have the knowledge that he fought with integrity. If he returns, it will not be the gifts he carries that matter, but the fact that he remained true to himself and to her.

The tone of the poem is both tender and resigned. There is love in the way the speaker addresses his wife, but there is also an understanding of the cost of war. The shift from casual questions about gifts to the weight of what might be his last message makes the poem feel deeply personal. It does not dwell on fear or grief, but rather on the quiet certainty of devotion. The simplicity of the language and the directness of the emotion make it clear and powerful.

“To C.H.V.” is not a poem about the glory of war. It does not describe battle or heroism. Instead, it focuses on what remains when everything else is uncertain. It is about the personal sacrifices made for duty, the things left unsaid, and the love that endures even in the face of possible loss. The soldier knows he may not return, but he wants his wife to have something to hold on to, something that cannot be taken away. Whether he comes back or not, his love and honor will remain.

Photo by Álvaro Serrano on Unsplash