Let us be thankful—not only because Since last our universal thanks were told We have grown greater in the world’s applause, And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old— But thankful for all things that come as alms From out the open hand of Providence:— The winter clouds and storms—the summer calms— The sleepless dread—the drowse of indolence. Let us be thankful—thankful for the prayers Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, That they might fall upon us unawares, And bless us, as in greater need we prayed. Let us be thankful for the loyal hand That love held out in welcome to our own, When love and only love could understand The need of touches we had never known. Let us be thankful for the longing eyes That gave their secret to us as they wept, Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise, Love’s touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept. And let us, too, be thankful that the tears Of sorrow have not all been drained away, That through them still, for all the coming years, We may look on the dead face of To-day.
About the Poem
As we move into Thanksgiving week—a short one for many of us, and hopefully a peaceful one—it feels right to slow down, take a breath, and sit with a poem that understands the holiday not as perfection, but as presence. James Whitcomb Riley’s “Thanksgiving” is simple on its surface, yet gently profound in its reminder that gratitude often lives quietly in the ordinary spaces of our lives.
Riley is sometimes called the “Hoosier Poet,” known for his nostalgic portrayals of Midwestern life. But “Thanksgiving” reaches far beyond its setting. The poem invites us to be grateful not just for success or blessings that shine, but also for the quieter graces—calm days, sufficient bread, moments of peace in a noisy world.
It’s a gentle reminder that gratitude doesn’t only come wrapped in celebration. Sometimes it comes in small mercies: time off before a holiday, a quiet office, or even the chance to sit with memories of those we’ve loved and lost. For many LGBTQ+ people, Thanksgiving can be complicated, but Riley’s poem offers a form of gratitude that doesn’t require perfection—just awareness.
This week, many of us juggle traditions, emotions, travel, absence, and the bittersweet ache of remembering those who won’t sit at the table with us anymore. Gratitude can be tender, even painful. And yet, as Riley writes, we “are richer than we know,” not because everything is easy, but because blessings—large and small—still find their way into our days.
For LGBTQ+ folks especially, finding spaces where we can breathe, belong, or simply rest is a blessing worth naming.
As we enter this holiday week, may we find gratitude in whatever form it takes—joyful, quiet, complicated, or tender. May we honor the memories that still ache, the friends who steady us, the moments of peace that carry us through. And may we remember that grace often hides in the ordinary.
Wishing everyone a gentle and meaningful Thanksgiving week.
About the Poet
James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916) was one of America’s most beloved popular poets. Sometimes sentimental, often nostalgic, he captured a vision of everyday American life rooted in kindness, simplicity, and warmth. His work was widely read in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, often recited at gatherings and printed in holiday editions of newspapers and magazines. “Thanksgiving” reflects the accessible, heartfelt tone for which he was known.
The college boys have pulled their shirts off and are playing football on the lawn. Their farmer tans pink in the afternoon sun. They toss
and jog, slight fake and almost tackle. One puts his face too close to another one’s stomach, grabs the guy’s waist—steady—to keep
from falling; then a damp armpit on the back of his neck, as a blond wraps his arm around him in a quick guy-hug. I am old- er and pretend not to see, furtive
in sunglasses, looking at them, past them, at them. I could ruin the game by watching the wrong way—professor gawking at students; even a shift between them
could change everything: a hand more than smacking an ass, someone pressed too long against a humid chest. Crash of skin, body pushing body into perfect crush.
Their biceps bulge, un-bulge, bulge again. It’s not that I want them. I’ve had enough men, and yet I can’t stop looking at them while trying not to look at them.
About the Poem
Aaron Smith has a way of holding up a moment—one we might otherwise dismiss as simple, ordinary, harmless—and revealing all the longing, all the humor, all the complicated ache underneath. His poem “Spring Rush” captures a scene many of us know all too well: young men tumbling across a sunlit lawn, roughhousing with the kind of careless intimacy that adulthood slowly chisels away.
The poem opens with a tableau of shirtless college boys playing football, their “farmer tans pink in the afternoon sun,” their bodies moving with effortless confidence. It’s a familiar choreography to anyone who has watched young men at play—how easily they invade each other’s space, how unselfconscious their closeness is, how they grab, steady, press, and laugh without a second thought. Smith catches each gesture with almost photographic clarity:
one puts his face too close to another one’s stomach… a blond wraps his arm around him in a quick guy-hug.
What he’s really capturing, though, is the speaker watching. Not intrusively, not predatory, but with a mix of wistfulness and restraint—half nostalgia, half desire, and a healthy dose of gay self-awareness. “I am older and pretend not to see,” he admits, slipping on the protection of sunglasses, watching but trying not to watch. Smith renders the tension of that gaze with startling honesty. He knows how easily a moment like this can break, how a look held too long can change the boys’ play, turning innocent roughhousing into something self-conscious, something policed.
It’s the familiar queer balancing act: seeing without being seen seeing.
One of the most poignant lines comes near the end:
It’s not that I want them. I’ve had enough men, and yet I can’t stop looking at them while trying not to look at them.
It’s a line that resonates with age, experience, and the complicated beauty of queer desire. Wanting isn’t always erotic; sometimes it’s longing for a kind of ease, a kind of freedom, a kind of uncomplicated belonging that many of us never got to fully inhabit in our younger years. The poem complicates the gaze—it’s not a hunger for the boys, but a hunger for the days when closeness wasn’t dangerous.
Spring Rush is tender, observant, and unflinchingly honest. It holds space for that bittersweet place where desire, memory, and self-restraint overlap—where we both relish and mourn the distance between who we were and who we have become.
About the Poet
Aaron Smith is an award-winning American poet known for his candid, queer-centered writing that blends desire, humor, vulnerability, and sharp cultural observation. A graduate of the MFA program at the University of Pittsburgh, he is the author of several acclaimed collections, including Blue on Blue Ground, Appetite, and Primer. Smith’s work often explores gay identity, aging, pop culture, and the messy intersections of intimacy and longing. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Yale Review, Court Green, and Best American Poetry.
“If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England.” — Rupert Brooke, “The Soldier”
Each year on November 11, we pause to honor the men and women who have served in the armed forces. Known originally as Armistice Day, this date marks the end combat for World War I in 1918, when the guns finally fell silent on the Western Front. What began as a commemoration of peace after “the war to end all wars” evolved into Veterans Day in the United States—an annual moment of gratitude for all who have worn the uniform.
World War I not only reshaped geopolitics and society; it also transformed art and literature. Poetry, in particular, became the most immediate and emotional record of soldiers’ experiences. From the idealism of 1914 to the disillusionment of the trenches, poets captured both the nobility and the horror of modern warfare. Three poems—Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier,” John McCrae’s “In Flanders Fields,” and Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est”—trace the arc of changing attitudes among soldiers during the Great War.
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The Soldier
By Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier” (1914) reflects the early optimism of Britain’s entry into the war. Written before he ever reached the front lines, Brooke’s sonnet presents death in battle as noble and redemptive. The poem imagines the fallen soldier as eternally consecrating foreign soil with his English spirit—a vision steeped in idealism and romantic patriotism.
Brooke’s language is pastoral and spiritual: England is “richer dust,” “flowers,” and “laughter.” His tone conveys the belief that sacrifice in service of one’s country was beautiful and pure. Tragically, Brooke never witnessed the grim realities of trench warfare; he died of blood poisoning in 1915 on his way to Gallipoli. For many early in the war, his poems embodied a kind of naïve heroism that would soon fade in the face of unimaginable loss.
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In Flanders Fields By John McCrea
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
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By 1915, the tone of war poetry had begun to darken. Canadian army doctor John McCrae wrote “In Flanders Fields” after presiding over the funeral of a friend who died in battle. The poem’s haunting image of red poppies growing among soldiers’ graves made it one of the most famous pieces of war poetry ever written.
“In Flanders Fields” bridges two worlds: the patriotic call of Brooke’s generation and the emerging sorrow of a war that had already claimed millions. McCrae gives voice to the dead, who urge the living to “take up our quarrel with the foe.” Yet the repetition of poppies and crosses hints at the futility of such endless sacrifice. The poem’s enduring symbol—the poppy—has become a global emblem of remembrance, worn each November to honor veterans and the fallen alike. McCrae himself died of pneumonia in 1918, just months before the war ended.
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Dulce et Decorum Est By Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin, If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, Bitter[note 1] as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,– My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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If Brooke and McCrae wrote from faith and duty, Wilfred Owen wrote from the mud, blood, and gas-filled trenches of the Western Front. His poem “Dulce et Decorum Est” (“It is sweet and fitting [to die for one’s country]”) exposes the brutal truth behind that patriotic ideal. Owen describes exhausted soldiers “bent double, like old beggars under sacks” and a gas attack that leaves a comrade “guttering, choking, drowning.”
By ending the poem with the biting phrase “The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” Owen rejects the glorification of war that poets like Brooke once embraced. His work gives a voice to the generation that witnessed industrialized slaughter on a scale never before seen. Owen was killed in action in November 1918—just one week before the Armistice.
During World War I, poetry became both a weapon and a refuge. Soldiers scribbled verses in trenches, hospitals, and letters home, using poetry to process trauma, question authority, and preserve humanity amid chaos. Newspapers published patriotic sonnets beside dispatches from the front, and later, the war poets’ raw testimonies helped shape public memory of the conflict.
The evolution from Brooke’s idealism to Owen’s bitter realism mirrors society’s loss of innocence. Through their words, we witness not just the cost of war, but the courage to speak truth against false glory.
The armistice signed on November 11, 1918, marked not only the end fighting in World War I but also the birth of a day of remembrance. In 1954, the United States renamed Armistice Day as Veterans Day to honor all those who have served, in every war and in peacetime. The poetry of Brooke, McCrae, and Owen reminds us why this day endures—not merely as a celebration of victory, but as a solemn reflection on sacrifice, service, and the cost of freedom.
A century later, these poems still speak across the silence of the graves and trenches. Brooke reminds us of the hope that sends soldiers to battle; McCrae gives us the grief that lingers after; Owen forces us to confront the truth of what war does to the human soul. Together, they form a poetic memorial as powerful as any monument of stone—a reminder that remembrance begins not with ceremony, but with empathy.
So this Veterans Day, as poppies bloom once more in our collective memory, may we honor not only the fallen, but also the living—those who have carried the burdens of service with courage, faith, and love.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
“Once Upon a Midnight Dreary”
There’s no poem more synonymous with Halloween than Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” Even if you’ve never read the whole thing, you probably know the rhythm of its most famous lines:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…
It’s a poem that practically sounds haunted. Poe’s mastery of meter—specifically trochaic octameter—creates that heartbeat of dread, the steady pulse of something inevitable drawing closer. It’s hypnotic, musical, and just a little bit claustrophobic, which is exactly what makes it unforgettable.
First published in 1845, “The Raven” cemented Poe’s reputation as a master of the macabre. It’s a simple enough story: a grieving man, alone at night, haunted by memories of his lost love Lenore, and visited by a mysterious talking raven whose only word is “Nevermore.” But that single refrain becomes a psychological echo chamber. The poem isn’t just about a bird—it’s about despair, loss, and the way grief has of turning every question we ask into the same hopeless answer.
The imagery is classic Gothic: midnight shadows, rustling curtains, lamplight, and a chamber filled with memory. The bird itself feels almost supernatural, perched high above the door like a prophet of doom—or perhaps the physical embodiment of the narrator’s own unraveling mind.
So why has “The Raven” endured for nearly two centuries as the quintessential spooky poem? Because it captures the feeling that true horror doesn’t come from monsters or ghosts—it comes from our own thoughts in the dark. The fear that we’ll never escape our sorrow. The whisper that maybe hope really is gone forever.
And yet, there’s a strange beauty in it too. Poe’s language is lush and musical, the kind of poetry that demands to be read aloud by candlelight on a chilly October night. Every “tapping,” every “Nevermore,” pulls us deeper into the darkness until we almost welcome it.
The Voice of Vincent Price
For me—and I suspect for many others—the poem truly comes alive through Vincent Price’s iconic reading. That smooth, sinister voice, tinged with both elegance and dread, feels as though it was made for Poe’s words. Price doesn’t just recite the poem; he inhabits it. Every syllable trembles with tension and theatrical flair. You can hear the madness building, the grief curdling into obsession, until that final “Nevermore” echoes like a spell being cast.
It’s impossible for me to read “The Raven” without hearing Price’s voice in my mind—a voice that turns the poem from literature into pure atmosphere. His performance reminds us that Halloween isn’t only about visuals; it’s about sound—the creak of the floorboard, the rustle of wings, the trembling cadence of a haunted heart.
Maybe that’s why, year after year, we return to “The Raven.” It reminds us that Halloween isn’t just about fright—it’s about fascination. The allure of the unknown. The comfort of knowing that even in our deepest gloom, someone else—perhaps Poe himself—has been there before.
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore.
Happy Halloween, everyone—and if you’ve never listened to Vincent Price read “The Raven,” treat yourself. There’s no better way to spend an October night.
About the Poet
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre. Born in Boston and orphaned at a young age, Poe led a turbulent life marked by poverty, loss, and artistic brilliance. He is often credited with pioneering the modern detective story, influencing early science fiction, and perfecting the Gothic short story. His poems—especially “The Raven” and “Annabel Lee”—combine musical rhythm with haunting emotion, exploring love, death, and madness. Though he died at only forty, Poe’s legacy continues to cast a long and ghostly shadow over American literature—and Halloween wouldn’t be the same without him.
“All life is built from song” In youth’s young morn I sang; And from a top-near hill The echo broke and rang.
The years with pinions swift To youth’s high noon made flight, “All life is built from song” I sang amid the fight.
To life’s sun-setting years, My feet have come—Alas! And through its hopes and fears Again I shall not pass.
The lusty song my youth With high-heart ardor sang Is but a tinkling sound— A cymbal’s empty clang.
And now I sing, my Dear, With wisdom’s wiser heart, “All life is built from love, And song is but a part.”
About the Poem
When did you first realize that you had gotten older?
For me, it happened when I received an email from a young Marine. He addressed me as Sir and kept referring to me as Mr. ________. I know he was only being polite—showing respect as Marines are trained to do—but it stopped me in my tracks. That single word, Sir, carried a weight I hadn’t quite felt before. It wasn’t the formality that struck me, but the realization that I’d somehow become the older person in the conversation.
I’m the oldest person at the museum now, and though I have friends who are older, most of the people around me are younger—college students with endless energy and a sense that life stretches far ahead of them. I work with them every day, and I see in them the same bright spark I once had. Over the past year, especially with my health issues, I’ve come to accept what I used to quietly resist: I am middle-aged. Not just in years, but in how others see me—and in how I’m beginning to see myself.
Charles Bertram Johnson’s “Now and Then” captures that awareness of time’s passage with both poignancy and grace. It traces a journey from youth’s exuberant song to the quiet wisdom of later years. The refrain that begins as “All life is built from song” evolves into something deeper: “All life is built from love.” Johnson reminds us that while youthful joy may fade, it transforms into something richer—an understanding shaped by love, endurance, and perspective.
In the gay community, that realization often feels even sharper. We live in a culture that idolizes youth—smooth skin, perfect bodies, the illusion that desire belongs only to the young. But aging brings its own kind of beauty, one rooted in truth rather than performance. When we let go of chasing who we were, we can begin to appreciate who we are.
My youth may have left nearly twenty years ago, but it left behind something far more lasting: gratitude. The song may sound softer now, but perhaps that’s because it’s finally being sung with love.
About the Poet
Charles Bertram Johnson (1880–1956) was an American poet whose work appeared in the early decades of the 20th century. Though little is known about his life, his poetry often explores the quiet transitions of aging, the nature of love, and the search for meaning in ordinary experience. In poems like “Now and Then,” Johnson captures the gentle shift from youthful exuberance to mature reflection, reminding us that the truest songs of life are often those sung softly in its later years.
We met ourselves as we came back As we hiked the trail from the north. Our foot-prints mixed in the rainy path Coming back and going forth. The prints of my comrade’s hob-nailed shoes And my tramp shoes mixed in the rain. We had climbed for days and days to the North And this was the sum of our gain: We met ourselves as we came back, And were happy in mist and rain. Our old souls and our new souls Met to salute and explain— That a day shall be as a thousand years, And a thousand years as a day. The powers of a thousand dreaming skies As we shouted along the trail of surprise Were gathered in our play: The purple skies of the South and the North, The crimson skies of the South and the North, Of tomorrow and yesterday.
About the Poem
Vachel Lindsay’s “Meeting Ourselves” is a gentle yet profound reflection on life’s cyclical journey—how we travel forward only to encounter the echoes of our former selves. The poem captures a moment of recognition and renewal: two travelers retrace their steps and find their footprints mingling in the rain. It’s both literal and symbolic—an image of physical return and inner reconciliation.
Lindsay’s use of repetition and musical rhythm mirrors the rhythm of walking and the heartbeat of realization. The biblical echo—“a day shall be as a thousand years, and a thousand years as a day” (2 Peter 3:8)—reminds us that time itself folds and blurs when we reach moments of self-understanding or spiritual peace. The mingling of “old souls and new souls” beautifully suggests that transformation doesn’t erase who we were; it redeems and embraces it.
For LGBTQ+ readers, especially gay men, this poem may hold an added resonance. The act of meeting ourselves can evoke the powerful experience of coming out or reconciling with the self we once had to hide. Many queer people spend years walking in two directions at once—forward toward authenticity, backward toward fear or memory. When Lindsay writes, “We met ourselves as we came back / And were happy in mist and rain,” it can read as a quiet kind of liberation: joy found not in public sunlight, but in the private, tender mist where two selves—and perhaps two men—meet without shame.
The comrade whose footprints mingle with the speaker’s invites another layer of interpretation. In early 20th-century literature, male companionship often carried an intimacy that could not be spoken openly. The simple image of their tracks interlaced in the rain becomes, for a modern gay reader, a symbol of shared experience, endurance, and connection—love that exists naturally, though quietly, within the elements.
In that sense, the poem feels like a reconciliation not only of the self but of desire: the realization that one can walk beside another man and find peace, joy, and completeness—“happy in mist and rain.”
Ultimately, “Meeting Ourselves” speaks to anyone who has learned to love themselves after a long climb. It’s about journeying through struggle or distance, only to discover that the person waiting at the end of the trail is a wiser, gentler version of who we’ve always been.
The mingled footprints remind us that our past and present selves—and the people who’ve walked beside us—can coexist. We do not need to abandon the person we were to become the person we are. In mist and rain, under skies of “tomorrow and yesterday,” we find that the journey has brought us home to ourselves.
About the Poet
Vachel Lindsay (1879–1931) was an American poet known for his musical, chant-like verse and his belief that poetry should be spoken and performed aloud. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay traveled widely—often on foot—exchanging poems and drawings for food and lodging. His works often celebrated spiritual vision, democracy, and the common man, blending mysticism with American folk imagery.
“Meeting Ourselves” was written during Lindsay’s later period in the 1920s, when his poetry turned increasingly inward and mystical, exploring the soul’s search for renewal and divine connection. Though his fame waned late in life, Lindsay left a lasting mark on American poetry for his pioneering rhythmic style and his ability to transform ordinary experiences into moments of revelation.
While there is no definitive record of his sexuality, Lindsay’s poetry often conveys an intense affection for male companionship and an ideal of spiritual brotherhood that modern readers sometimes interpret through a queer lens. His recurring themes of duality, self-reconciliation, and soulful connection invite a range of readings—including those that speak deeply to LGBTQ+ experiences of identity and inner harmony.
“Meeting Ourselves,” like much of his work, reminds us that the greatest journeys are those that lead inward.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness. Now you are like morning bread, Smooth and pleasant. I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour, But I am completely nourished.
Amy Lowell’s short poem, A Decade, captures the evolution of love — the way passion’s first sweetness can mellow into something sustaining, quiet, and sure. What begins as fire becomes nourishment; what once thrilled the senses becomes something that feeds the soul.
Today marks ten years since I moved to Vermont, and I can’t think of a better poem to mark the occasion. When I first arrived here, everything felt intoxicating — the crisp air, the mountains, the openness, and the sense of possibility. It was all red wine and honey to me. After years in Alabama, where life could feel restrictive and closeted, Vermont’s freedom and acceptance were a revelation. I felt like I could finally breathe. Over time, that sense of wonder has become something steadier and deeper — morning bread, as Lowell writes — familiar and sustaining, but no less meaningful.
In some ways, Vermont and Alabama are opposites — politically, culturally, even spiritually. Yet both share a rural heartbeat: farming, hard work, and community. The difference lies in what those values are used to nurture. In Vermont, I found a place that allows people to live authentically. It’s where I began to heal, to come out of my shell, and to rediscover the rhythm of a quieter, freer life.
Of course, not all of these ten years have been easy. I lost one of my closest friends not long after moving here, and the grief nearly consumed me. The depression that followed was heavy and persistent, and therapy, rather than helping, only seemed to make things worse. What truly got me through was my friendship with Susan — her kindness, her patience, her ability to listen when I couldn’t even find the words to explain the ache inside. She helped me remember that love and friendship don’t end with loss; they simply take new forms in memory and gratitude.
There have been lighter moments, too — like those early days when I was still unpacking boxes and sleeping on an air mattress, and curiosity led me to open Grindr. My bed hadn’t even arrived yet, but a stranger did. We hooked up, and oddly enough, I still see him occasionally — sometimes by chance, sometimes on purpose. It was the first of many reminders that life has a way of surprising you, even when you think you’ve planned everything out.
Ten years on, Vermont feels like home. I’ve gained friends and lost a few to distance, but I’ve grown in ways that younger me — newly arrived and slightly bewildered — could never have imagined. The sweetness of new beginnings has become the nourishment of belonging.
If you’ve found a place that lets you be yourself, cherish it. Whether it’s a physical home or a state of mind, those are the spaces where we grow into who we truly are — where life becomes less about surviving and more about being completely nourished.
In placid hours well-pleased we dream Of many a brave unbodied scheme. But form to lend, pulsed life create, What unlike things must meet and mate: A flame to melt—a wind to freeze; Sad patience—joyous energies; Humility—yet pride and scorn; Instinct and study; love and hate; Audacity—reverence. These must mate, And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart, To wrestle with the angel—Art.
About the Poem
Herman Melville’s short but powerful poem Art distills into a few compact lines the contradictory forces at the heart of creation. It opens with a scene of calm:
“In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.”
Here, Melville acknowledges what many of us know too well—ideas come easily in quiet moments. Our minds are full of “unbodied schemes,” bold plans and visions that exist only in imagination. But dreaming alone is not art. The difficulty lies in giving those dreams form, in pulling them out of the ether and shaping them into something tangible.
Melville describes this process as a marriage of opposites:
“A flame to melt—a wind to freeze; Sad patience—joyous energies; Humility—yet pride and scorn; Instinct and study; love and hate; Audacity—reverence.”
Each pair of opposites illustrates the tension of creation. Art requires both the fire of inspiration and the cooling restraint of discipline. It requires patience to endure long labor, and bursts of joy to keep the work alive. An artist must balance humility before the task with pride in their own vision, instinct with study, raw emotion with critical judgment.
These contradictions are not obstacles—they are the materials. To create something of value, the artist must bring them together, “fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart, / To wrestle with the angel—Art.”
That final biblical allusion is striking. In Genesis, Jacob wrestles through the night with an angel, demanding a blessing and emerging wounded but transformed. Melville suggests that to make art is a similar struggle: a contest with forces larger than oneself, leaving the artist changed, exhausted, and blessed with creation.
For Melville—better known for his sprawling novels like Moby-Dick—this poem is a confession of the artist’s burden. Creation is not a smooth act but a wrestling match, a fusion of contradictions, a labor of both agony and ecstasy.
I find this poem resonates deeply with the creative process in any form—whether writing, painting, composing, or even living an honest life. We all carry “brave unbodied schemes,” but only by engaging in the struggle, by wrestling with the angel, do we bring them into the world.
About the Poet
Herman Melville (1819–1891) is best remembered today as the author of Moby-Dick (1851), one of the towering works of American literature. Yet his career was far from smooth. His early sea novels brought him popularity, but his later, more ambitious works—Moby-Dick included—were commercial failures in his lifetime. Melville turned to poetry in his later years, publishing several volumes, including Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War (1866) and Timoleon (1891). His poetry often reveals the same themes as his prose: the struggle of humanity against vast forces, whether nature, fate, or, as in this poem, the act of creation itself.
Here is a bonus poem for the week. It was today’s Poem-a-Day from Poets.org.
Poem of September 24 By Samira Negrouche
translated from the French by the author
Who crosses into you when you cross
Who crosses when you don’t cross
Who doesn’t cross when you cross
Who crosses when you can’t cross
Who doesn’t cross when you don’t cross
Who doesn’t want to cross
Who thinks they’re crossing
Who doesn’t look at you while crossing
Who might take the time to look at you.
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Poème du 24 septembre
Qui traverse en toi quand tu traverses
Qui traverse quand tu ne traverses pas
Qui ne traverse pas quand tu traverses
Qui traverse quand tu ne peux pas traverser
Qui ne traverse pas quand tu ne traverses pas
Qui ne veut pas traverser
Qui croit traverser
Qui ne te regarde pas en traversant
Qui prendra peut-être le temps de te regarder.
About This Poem
“Written with eight other [poems], forming nine poems of nine lines, this poem is part of a public installation called Signs/Promises. It can be read as a geopolitical statement or as an intimate whisper to yourself or to someone else. It is an invitation to question and envision all the layers of displacement that are required to be able to cross a border—real or symbolic—to meet another. It reminds us how fragile the understanding of another reality can be and why we should keep remembering it, especially when we think we are aware.”—Samira Negrouche
About the Poet
Samira Negrouche is a writer, poet, and translator whose work has been translated into more than twenty languages. She is the author of several collections of poetry, including Pente Raide [Steep Slope] (Actes Sud, 2025), cowritten with Marin Fouqué. Negrouche’s book Le Jazz de oliviers [The Olive Trees’ Jazz] (Pleiades Press, 2020), translated by Marilyn Hacker, was short-listed for the 2021 National Translation Award, as well as the Derek Walcott Prize that same year. A translator from Arabic and English to French, as well as a medical doctor, Negrouche lives in Algiers.
Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
About the Poem
Robert Frost is one of those poets who can take just eight short lines and capture the weight of beauty, loss, and the passing of time. “Nothing Gold Can Stay” is deceptively simple—something you might read once and think you’ve understood—but the more you sit with it, the more layers it reveals.
At its heart, the poem reminds us that nothing beautiful lasts forever. The first flush of spring, the gold of new leaves, the brilliance of dawn—all are fleeting. Frost connects this natural cycle to the story of Eden, suggesting that even the purest moments of perfection can’t be held onto. Time moves forward, and everything inevitably changes.
I think this poem resonates so strongly because we’ve all had moments we wish we could freeze. Whether it’s the joy of youth, the fire of first love, or even a golden autumn day in Vermont, those moments are precious precisely because they’re fleeting. Frost doesn’t just mourn that loss—he honors it. By recognizing impermanence, we’re reminded to hold on a little tighter, to notice the beauty while it’s here.
It’s no wonder that this poem has found its way into popular culture too—most famously in S. E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, where it becomes a message about innocence and holding on to what makes us shine before the world tries to wear it away.
For me, “Nothing Gold Can Stay” isn’t just about nature, or even about youth. It’s about the reminder that life itself is made of fleeting golden moments. We can’t keep them, but we can cherish them, and maybe that’s enough.
About the Poet
Robert Frost (1874–1963) is often remembered as one of America’s quintessential poets, though he spent nearly a decade in England before his work was first published. He returned to the U.S. just as his career was beginning to take off, and over the course of his life he became one of the most widely read and beloved poets of the 20th century.
Frost’s poetry is rooted in the landscapes and rhythms of rural New England. He wrote in plainspoken language, but beneath the simplicity lies a deep philosophical and emotional complexity. His poems often explore the tension between humanity and nature, the fleetingness of beauty, and the choices that shape our lives.
He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times, more than any other poet, and in 1961 he read at President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration. Despite his public persona as the homespun New England sage, Frost’s poetry frequently wrestles with darkness, loss, and impermanence—making “Nothing Gold Can Stay” a perfect example of his gift for distilling profound truth into the smallest of spaces.
For those of us in Vermont, Frost feels like a neighbor as well as a poet. He spent the last decades of his life here, teaching at Middlebury’s Bread Loaf School of English and writing in the Green Mountains he loved so well. He is buried in Bennington, Vermont, not far from where visitors can still walk the landscapes that inspired so much of his verse.
Joe
The Closet Professor 