Adam Fenner's Blog, page 7

The Song of Sheffield – Reviewed

Robert H. Beck

Shells, Shells, Shells!
The song of the city of steel;
Hammer and turn, and file,
Furnace, and lathe and wheel.
Tireless machinery,
Man’s ingenuity,
Making a way for the martial devil’s meal.

Shells, Shells, Shells,
Out of the furnace blaze;
Roll, Roll, Roll,
Into the workshop’s maze.
Ruthless machinery
Boring eternally
Boring a hole for the shattering charge that stays.

Shells, Shells, Shells!
The song of the city of steel;
List to the devil’s mirth,
Hark to their laughter’s peal:
Sheffield’s machinery
Crushing humanity
Neath devil-ridden death’s impassive heel.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“The Song of Sheffield” is not about soldiers or battlefields. It does not mention victory, duty, or even the people fighting the war. It focuses on the factories, the machines, and the endless work of making weapons. Sheffield is known for its steel, and in this poem, that steel is shaped into shells, over and over, without end. The poem does not celebrate this work, but it does not fully condemn it either. It presents Sheffield as part of the war machine, a city caught in the process of making destruction.

The poem is built on repetition. “Shells, Shells, Shells!” is the first thing the reader sees, and it returns at the start of every stanza. The word is repeated three times, like the pounding of metal, like the rhythm of machines that never stop. The city does not sing about pride or craftsmanship. Its song is about production, about turning raw material into something deadly. The first stanza sets this up: “Hammer and turn, and file, / Furnace, and lathe and wheel.” The work is detailed, skilled, but there is no mention of the people doing it. The workers are not individuals in this poem. They are not described at all. The focus is on the machines, as if the people running them have become part of the system, as if Sheffield itself is just another piece of the war effort.

There are two ways to read this. One is that the poem is criticizing the way industry has been consumed by war. The phrase “Making a way for the martial devil’s meal” suggests that all of this effort is feeding war itself, as if war is a living thing that eats whatever it is given. The machines are “tireless,” the work is “ruthless.” The poem never describes rest or hesitation. It does not say whether the workers believe in the cause, whether they feel proud of what they are making. It only describes the process—the fire, the metal, the movement, the endless creation of weapons. The second stanza reinforces this, describing how the shells move forward: “Out of the furnace blaze; / Roll, Roll, Roll, / Into the workshop’s maze.” The word “Roll” repeats, just like “Shells” before it, giving the sense of something that keeps going whether anyone wants it to or not. The machines do not care what they are making. They only move forward. The work is “Boring eternally,” the holes in the shells “for the shattering charge that stays.” This is not temporary. The shells will be used. They will explode. The workers are not making tools or structures. They are making things designed to destroy.

The final stanza is the harshest. The poem shifts from describing the work itself to the consequences of it. The laughter of war appears: “List to the devil’s mirth, / Hark to their laughter’s peal.” There is no sorrow in these lines, no regret—only a dark amusement, as if war itself finds the whole process entertaining. Then the poem ends with its strongest statement: “Sheffield’s machinery / Crushing humanity.” It does not say whether this means the people far away, the ones who will be killed by these shells, or the people in Sheffield itself, the ones making them. The line suggests both. The industry that keeps Sheffield alive is the same industry that fuels destruction. The people working in the factories are part of something that does not care about them.

But the poem does not clearly blame the workers. It does not say they are doing something wrong. It does not accuse them of war profiteering or enjoying their role in this system. The poem shows that this work takes skill and effort. The line “Man’s ingenuity” suggests that what is happening in Sheffield is not mindless—it takes knowledge, craftsmanship, and discipline. The shells do not appear out of nowhere. They are carefully shaped, processed, completed. This is labor, not just destruction.

Even the final lines, which seem like a direct condemnation, can be read in more than one way. “Crushing humanity” might mean that war destroys people, but it might also mean that war forces people into roles they cannot escape. The workers are not villains in this poem. They are barely visible at all. The focus is on the machines, the process, the endless cycle of production. But that does not mean the workers are at fault. It could mean they are trapped, caught up in something much bigger than themselves.

The poem does not tell the reader how to feel about Sheffield’s role in war. It simply presents the facts: the machines, the fire, the rolling shells, the endless work. It does not say whether this is necessary or tragic. It does not describe the workers as heroes, but it does not call them monsters either. It leaves the question open. Is Sheffield’s industry a necessary part of war, or is it part of the problem? The poem does not answer. It only repeats—“Shells, Shells, Shells.” The work does not stop. The machines do not stop. The war does not stop.

Sheffield, UK Armaments Industry

In the early 20th century, Sheffield was a key player in Britain’s armament industry. The city housed major manufacturers like Vickers, Cammell Laird, John Brown, Firths, and Hadfields, all located within a compact area in the Don Valley. These companies produced essential military materials, including armor plates, shells, and gun components. Together, they employed around 25,000 workers.

With the onset of World War I, the demand for munitions surged. Sheffield’s steel industry ramped up production to meet this need. However, by 1915, it became evident that traditional manufacturing couldn’t keep pace with the war’s requirements. In response, the British government enacted the Munitions of War Act in June 1915, establishing the Ministry of Munitions to oversee and boost armament production. In Sheffield, an existing committee led by Colonel Hughes was officially recognized as the Sheffield Committee on Munitions of War, coordinating local efforts to enhance output.

Companies like Hadfields adapted their operations to focus on munitions. Their East Hecla Works specialized in manufacturing artillery shells, contributing significantly to the war effort. The workforce expanded rapidly, with women playing a crucial role in filling positions left vacant by men who had enlisted. By 1915, over 5,000 women were employed at Thomas Firth and Sons’ National Projectile Factory in Templeborough. During the war, this facility produced over 4 million shells and 2 million steel helmets. Hadfields grew to employ more than 15,000 workers by the end of the conflict, making it Sheffield’s largest employer.

The war also prompted infrastructure developments to support the booming industry. In 1916, new lodgings were constructed in areas like Tyler Street, Petre Street, and Tinsley to accommodate the influx of workers. These efforts ensured that Sheffield remained a vital hub for armament production throughout World War I.

You may learn more at the Imperial War Museum and the Sheffield City Council.

Photo by Taton Moïse on Unsplash

War – Reviewed

Guillaume Apollinaire

Central branch of combat
Contact by listening
Or pull in the direction of “the noises heard”
The young people of the class of 1915
And these electrified wires
Do not cry over the horrors of war
Before it we had only the surface
Of the earth and the seas
After it we will have the abysses
The subsoil and the aviary space
Masters of the helm
After after
We will take all the joys
Of the victors who relax
Women Games Factories Commerce
Industry Agriculture Metal
Fire Crystal Speed
​​Voice Look Tact apart
And together in the tact come from far
From even further
From Beyond this earth

You may find this and other poems here.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“War” does not dwell on horror, loss, or destruction. It does not try to make war seem tragic or heroic. Instead, it presents war as something that happens, something that moves forward without question. It does not pause for grief. It does not dwell on individual experiences. War is not an interruption—it is a process, something mechanical, something that reshapes people and the world in ways they do not control.

The poem does not describe battle. It does not mention weapons, blood, or direct combat. Instead, it talks about communication. “Contact by listening / Or pull in the direction of ‘the noises heard.'” War here is not about charging forward with a clear purpose. It is about waiting, reacting, responding to signals. The mention of “electrified wires” reinforces this idea. The wires do not feel, they do not “cry over the horrors of war.” They are part of the system, carrying messages and orders, keeping war running without emotion. The poem does not ask the reader to feel anything about war. It does not describe it as something to be mourned. It just shows how it works.

It also shows how war absorbs young people without emotion. “The young people of the class of 1915” are not described as individuals. They are not portrayed as scared or brave, hopeful or broken. They are just there, caught in the structure of war, pulled along by it. The poem does not ask what happens to them. It does not focus on their suffering or their sacrifices. They are mentioned, and then the poem moves on. War does not stop for them.

Then the poem shifts from people to the world itself. Before war, the world was “only the surface / Of the earth and the seas.” Life existed within limits, what was visible, what was known. But after war, those limits disappear. “We will have the abysses / The subsoil and the aviary space.” War pushes people to dig deep into the ground, to build trenches, to explore underground spaces. It pushes them into the sky, into the air, into aviation and new technologies. War does not just take—it expands. It forces people into new spaces, new ways of seeing the world.

This is how the young people of the class of 1915 grow up. They do not learn about the world in a normal way. They do not see it as a place for life, for discovery, for progress on human terms. They see it as something shaped by war, something to be conquered and controlled. They do not experience youth in the way previous generations did. War moves too fast. It forces them forward too quickly.

Then the poem moves to “After after.” The war is over, but there is no return to normal. There is only what comes next. The poem lists things rapidly: “Women Games Factories Commerce / Industry Agriculture Metal / Fire Crystal Speed.” These are not images of rest. They are images of motion, production, and industry. War does not end in peace—it turns into something else. The world does not slow down. It speeds up, moving into factories, technology, business, and industry. The young people who fought do not return to a quiet life. They return to a world that has changed, that keeps pushing forward. There is no reflection, no pause.

The last lines are abstract: “Voice Look Tact apart / And together in the tact come from far / From even further / From Beyond this earth.” It is unclear what exactly they mean, but they suggest distance, expansion, something stretching beyond what was once known. War does not just change individuals. It changes how people see the world, how they interact with it. The young people who lived through war will never see things the way their parents did. They have been forced to look further, to think differently, to move in a world that is larger, faster, and colder than before.

The tone of the poem is not sad, not angry, not patriotic. It does not try to make a statement about war being good or bad. It simply moves through its ideas, showing how war changes people and the world. War does not stop. It does not end when the fighting is over. It keeps moving, shaping everything that comes next. The poem does not tell the reader what to think or how to feel. It just presents war as something unstoppable, something that absorbs people, changes landscapes, and pushes the world forward, whether anyone wants it or not.

Photo by Bailey Zindel on Unsplash

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

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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