Poet Jane Hirshfield said "... the feeling I have about poem-writing (is) that it is always an exploration, of discovering something I didn't already know.  Who I am shifts from moment to moment, year to year.  What I can perceive does as well.  A new poem peers into mystery, into whatever lies just beyond the edge of knowable ground."

I bring a different poem to the writing classes each week, not only to inspire but to introduce new poets to the group members.

Late Poems by Margaret Atwood

These are the late poems.
Most poems are late
of course: too late,
like a letter sent by a sailor
that arrives after he’s drowned.

Too late to be of help, such letters,	
and late poems are similar.
They arrive as if through water.

Whatever it was has happened:	
the battle, the sunny day, the moonlit
slipping into lust, the farewell kiss.  The poem
washes ashore like flotsam.

Or late, as in late for supper:	
all the words cold or eaten.
Scoundrel, plight, and vanquished,	
or linger, bide, awhile,
forsaken, wept, forlorn.
Love and joy, even: thrice-gnawed songs.
Rusted spells.  Worn choruses.

It’s late, it’s very late;	
too late for dancing.
Still, sing what you can.
Turn up the light: sing on,
sing: On.

~ from Dearly (McClelland & Stewart, 2020


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with the exception of 'poems of the week' where © copyright remains with the poets or their publishers