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“The moment we begin to fear the opinions
of others and hesitate to tell the truth that
is in us, and from motives of policy are silent
when we should speak, the divine floods of
light and life no longer flow into our souls.”
― Elizabeth Cady Stanton
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“Poetry is like fish: if it’s fresh, it’s
good; if it’s stale, it’s bad; and if
you’re not certain, try it on the cat.”
― Osbert Sitwell,
English writer and poet
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1 poet born in November,
12 born in December,
as the year’s last days
grow shorter, and stars
shiver in the night sky
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November 30
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1485 – Veronica Gambara born in the Lombardy region of Italy, Italian political leader and poet; when her husband the Count of Correggio died in 1518, she took over running the Correggio city-state, including the condottieri (the military), and turned her court into a salon, drawing important Renaissance thinkers and artists. When the city was attacked in 1538 by the forces of Galeotto Pico II, she organized a successful defense, then oversaw improving the fortifications. She died at age 64 in June of 1550. 80 of her poems and 150 of her letters have survived.
“Hope and fear consumes beautiful Florence”
by Veronica Gambara
.
Hope and fear consumes beautiful Florence
who hoped her famous heroes would provide
liberty and peace, and she calls out repeatedly,
at times gently, and then again wildly:
.
"O my wise and noble sons, why do you not
follow of those who with iron and boldness
opened for you a real roadway to peace?
You know you admired them so much.
.
Why are you so late coming to my aid?
I didn't bear you freely and gladly
so you'd desert me, a grief-striken slave
.
With what strength you can get together,
with wise counsel and powerful hands,
liberate me, save yourselves and your peace."
.
— translator not credited
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1972 – Celia Lisset Alvarez born in Spain to Cuban parents while they were waiting for their American visas to come through. She grew up in Miami. Her poetry collections include Shapeshifting, which won the 2005 Spire Press Poetry Award; The Stones; and Multiverses. She is also the editor of the journal Prospectus: A Literary Offering, and was the creator and director of the St. Thomas University Writing Center.
Contradiction
by Celia Lisset Alvarez
.
Pruning metaphors seem apt. Snip something off
to make something stronger, they say. I don’t
know anything about plants. I’ve heard the same
of hair and nails. Trim the ends to make them
.
grow faster, longer. This has never made sense
to me, the universe’s spirit of
contradiction. My inability to
fool it. The universe knows when I want
.
the damned rhododendron to flower, when I
want to have long hair. If I prune and feed
the plant it withers, and if I spit on it,
call it a whore, it withers. It withers
.
because it knows. I have cut my hair so short
it feels like velvet, and still it does not
grow, and I have let it live in its own black
miasma of brittle curls, and still it
.
does not grow. How long have I been trying to
forget you? Shunning every thought that has
you in it? The damned universe—it knows, it
knows. It knows that I don’t really mean it.
.
“Contradiction” from Bodies and Words, © 2012 by Celia Lisset Alvarez –
Assure Press
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December 1
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1950 – Arthur Sze born in New York City; current U.S. Poet Laureate whose term began in September 2025. He is the first Asian American to be appointed to the position. Prolific American poet and translator, whose parents immigrated to the U.S. from China because of the Japanese occupation of their country. He attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (1968-1970) before transferring to UC Berkeley to study poetry. Sze is the author of 12 collections of poetry, including Sight Lines, which won the 2019 National Book Award for Poetry. He was the inaugural Poet Laureate of Santa Fe, New Mexico (2006-2008), and a professor emeritus at the Institute of American Indian Arts. In 2012, Sze was elected a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. His other poetry collections include: Dazzled; River River; The Redshifting Web; Compass Rose; Starlight Behind Daylight; and The Glass Constellation: New and Collected Poems. He is also noted as the translator and editor of The Silk Dragon: Translations of Chinese Poetry.
Scintillant
by Arthur Sze
.
Trudging uphill, I turn onto a deer path
then follow the switchbacks you marked
with orange streamers until I arrive
.
at a cairn and overlook where I view
the gold run of cottonwoods through the city;
western tanagers migrate through the city.
.
As I bask in the heat of the afternoon,
I cannot say I had the courage
to march on a bridge for the right
.
to vote and be beaten; at an antiwar rally,
I retreated when police, mounted on horses,
crossed the street with batons swinging.
.
As I stride down the switchbacks, I can’t
put into words the radiance of this day;
I stop at a robin’s nest lined with mud
.
fallen in the grass and scintillate
when at night we step into the yard
and stare up through apple branches at stars.
.
“Scintillant” © 2021 by Arthur Sze, first appeared in Big Other, an online arts and culture magazine
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1968 – Susan Hutton born in New York City; American poet who held a two-year Wallace Stegner fellowship in poetry at Stanford University, and was director of development at Autumn House Press in Pittsburgh. Her collection On the Vanishing of Large Creatures, won Ploughshares‘ John C. Zacharis First Book prize. She currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her other books are Later and The Selkie Girl, her retelling of a classic Celtic legend.
To Live My Life All Over Again
by Susan Hutton
.
In the typical way we talk about animals
we don’t allow for variation
between this vixen tending her kits
and that one. As if each creature
controlled entirely by instinct,
is known and predictable. As if nothing changes
between generations, and the lame
or the orphaned, the victims of accidents,
suffer no lasting effects from their fate.
What children ever really know their mother
or the life she lived before they were born?
.
“To Live My Life All Over Again” from The Vanishing of Large Creatures, © 2007 by Susan Hutton – Carnegie Mellon University Press
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December 2
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1947 – Bob Perelman born in Youngstown, Ohio; American poet, critic, editor, playwright, and teacher. He originally intended to major in music, but changed to classical literature, and earned an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop before earning a Master of Arts in Greek and Latin. His PhD is from University of California at Berkeley. He has taught at several American Universities, and at King’s College, London. Perelman has published The Marginalization of Poetry: Language Writing and Literary History, and 16 volumes of poetry, including Primer; Face Value; Virtual Reality; The Future of Memory; and Playing Bodies, a collaboration with his wife, artist Francie Shaw, combining his poems with her paintings.
ART TIP
from Dante
by Bob Perelman
.
I hear the music of the spheres
sounds really great
.
if you have
a good seat.
.
“ART TIP” from Ten to One: Selected Poems, © 1999 by Bob Perelman - Wesleyan University Press
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December 3
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1943 – Jane Munro born in North Vancouver, British Columbia; Canadian poet, writer, and creative writing teacher. She earned a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia in 1978. Her poetry collections include: Blue Sonoma, which won the 2015 Griffin Poetry Prize; False Creek; Glass Float; and Active Pass. Her prose memoir, Open Every Window, was published in 2022.
Old Man Vacanas
by Jane Munro
.
A fire on the hearth, lantern by the bed,
kitchen candelabra in a draft.
Finger of light on an arm of the bench.
One of the cats watching it beckon.
We have met the lion of March.
Today, her tongue abrades my back.
Outside, excuses pile up.
Snow like lamb’s wool
sliding down windows.
Posts with stockings about their ankles.
I tuck my hands into my sleeves.
Ravens carry twigs
to their nest in a double-headed cedar.
We who are paired. Even his lips are cold.
Thanks to beams and rafters,
the house becomes a whale.
The miles of intestines facing Jonah.
.
“Old Man Vacanas” from Blue Sonoma, © 2014 by Jane Munro – Brick Books
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1961 – Joe Bolton born in Cadiz, Kentucky; American poet; he started college on a baseball scholarship, but transferred to other schools: the University of Houston – where poet Edward Hirsh was his teacher – the University of Florida – where he studied with Pulitzer prize-winning poet Donald Justice – and finally the University of Arizona (UA). At the University of Arizona, Joe Bolton submitted his thesis for a Masters in Creative Writing in March 1990, then shot himself a few days later. He was 28 years old at the time of his death. His published poetry collections are: Breckinridge County Suite; Days of Summer Gone; and The Last Nostaglia
(posthumously).
Lines for Hank Williams
by Joe Bolton
.
The way his high voice would break and break down,
Beautifully lonesome, lost . . . who once wrote
A song at gunpoint in a hotel downtown,
Fingers shaking to hold the simple chords.
The world was one long night, endless Nashvilles,
A jambalaya of women, whiskey, and pills.
At the Opry they poured coffee down his throat
Backstage before the show, until he’d cough
And rise, trying to remember his own words.
And once, driving through the dark of night
In a Cadillac with Minnie Pearl, he broke
Into “I Saw the Light,” then broke it off,
His voice losing volume as he spoke:
“There ain’t no light, Minnie. There ain’t no light.”
.
“Lines for Hank Williams” from The Last Nostalgia: Poems 1982-1990, by Joe Bolton, University of Arkansas Press 1999 edition
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December 4
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1875 – Rainer Maria Rilke born in Prague, Bohemia; Austrian-Swiss poet and author; recognized as one of the most lyrically intense and greatest of the German-language poets; noted for The Book of Hours; Duino Elegies; and Letters to a Young Poet. In 1902, he went to Paris to write a monograph on the sculptor Auguste Rodin, who had a great impact on Rilke, leading to Rilke’s much more modern poetic style. Rilke also admired Paul Cezanne. During WWI, he escaped military duty by working in the German War Record Office (1914-1916), then spent most of the rest of the war in Munich. From 1919 on, he spent much of his time Switzerland, increasingly at a sanatorium because of health problems which were eventually diagnosed as leukemia. He died in 1926 at age 51.
Black Cat
by Rainer Maria Rilke
.
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:
.
just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.
.
She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once
.
as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.
.
“The Black Cat” from The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke: Bilingual Edition (English and German Edition), translated by Stephen Mitchell (Vintage Books, 1989)
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1927 – Anne George born in Montgomery, Alabama; American detective fiction writer and poet. Her Southern Sisters mystery series was honored with an Agatha Award, and her poetry collection Some of It is True was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in 1993. She was the State Poet of Alabama in 1994, and a cofounder of Druid Press. She died at age 73 of complications during heart surgery in March 2001. Her poetry collections include Wild Goose Chase; Spraying Under the Bed for Wolves; and The Map that Lies Between Us.
Turned Funny
by Anne George
.
Southern women turn funny sometimes
when what the creek don’t drown
the locusts eat up, or the sun comes up
wrong side of the house. Good women,
turned funny, like my aunt Alma who,
leaving a pot of beans to burn,
did a mean can-can out in the yard
flipping her skirt over white cotton drawers
that nearly blinded a couple of truckers.
.
And southern families hold up their heads
straight as a church choir on Sunday.
.
When Mama turned funny,” they say proudly,
“She dived from the banisters, smashed
the zinnias.” Or “Judy sends postcards to Jesus.”
And now my family, God bless them, chime in.
“Our Anne,” they boast, “she writes poetry.”
.
“Turned Funny” from Some of It is True, © 1993 by Anne George – Curbow Publications
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December 5
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1830 – Christina Rossetti born in London, England; English poet, lyricist, and writer; noted for her poetry collection, Goblin Market and Other Poems, which was lauded by Gerald Manley Hopkins, Algernon Swinburne, and Alfred, Lord Tennyson. She spoke out against slavery, the exploitation of underage girls in prostitution, and cruelty to animals. One of her best-known poems,“In the Bleak Midwinter,” was set to music as a Christmas carol by Gustav Holst.
A Birthday
by Christina Rossetti
.
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
.
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1945 – Joanne Burns grew up in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia: Australian poet, prose writer, and teacher, who studied at the University of Sydney. She has taught English and creative writing in Australia and England. She often incorporates “found writing” in her work. In the 1980s, she was part of the Sydney Women’s Writers’ Workshop. She has published 10 poetry collections, including Footnotes of a hammock, which was a co-winner of the 2005 Judith Wright Award for Best Poetry Collection; as well as Ratz; Alphabatics; Penelope’s knees; Amphora; and Brush.
calypsonic
by Joanne Burns
.
do you feel like a
tangible sailor your
hair chocka with
permanent waves, or
an insect posing as
a water nymph in
search of a new nickname –
.
nothing beats finding a location
with the best overall view the day
before you are born a twelve
month commitment is sought
for this role you must have a
capacity to yearn –
.
“calypsonic” from apparently, © 2019 by Joanne Burns – Giramondo Publishing
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December 6
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1892 – Sir Osbert Sitwell, 5th Baronet, AKA Francis Osbert Sacheverell Sitwell, born in London, England; English writer, poet, art critic, supporter of the arts, Liberal Party member, and campaigner for the preservation of Georgian buildings. He was successful in saving Sutton Scarsdale Hall, now owned by English Heritage. During WWI, he served in the trenches in France near the Belgium border, which is where he began writing poetry. He is less well-known than his older sister, the poet Edith Sitwell, but he published some travel journals, five novels, short stories, his autobiography Left Hand, Right Hand!, and two poetry collections: Argonaut and Juggernaut and At the House of Mrs Kinfoo.
The Blind Pedlar
by Osbert Sitwell
.
I stand alone through each long day
Upon these pavers; cannot see
The wares spread out upon this tray
—For God has taken sight from me!
.
Many a time I've cursed the night
When I was born. My peering eyes
Have sought for but one ray of light
To pierce the darkness. When the skies
.
Rain down their first sweet April showers
On budding branches; when the morn
Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,
I've cursed the night when I was born.
.
But now I thank God, and am glad
For what I cannot see this day
—The young men cripples, old, and sad,
With faces burnt and torn away;
.
Or those who, growing rich and old,
Have battened on the slaughter,
Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,
Are creased in purple laughter!
.
“The Blind Pedlar” from The Collected Satires and Poems of Osbert Sitwell – AMS Press, 1976 edition
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1970 – Joumana Haddad born in Beirut, Lebanon; Lebanese Armenian poet, cultural journalist, and human rights activist who speaks seven languages. She began working for the An-Nahr newspaper in 1997, and became its cultural editor (2005-2017). She founded Jasad, a quarterly Arabic-language arts and literary magazine (2009-2011), and in 2019, started the Joumana Haddad Freedoms Center, a youth-centered NGO. In 2020, Haddad started an International Feminisms Festival. She has published 8 poetry collections in Arabic and one in French, as well as essays and a novel in English, and a children’s book in Italian. Her poem, I Am a Woman, was put to music by Maria Palatine, a German singer, harpist, and composer.
Cadaver
by Joumana Haddad
.
I gaze at my corpse where it lies and I find myself beautiful. Beautiful
as a wounded legend. Beautiful as only someone else can be.
.
I gaze at my corpse and my corpse is a wire. I am its acrobat, its hostage. It vibrates and threatens to throw me off. I cling to it, I curse it. Then suddenly it becomes a ladder, a wrinkle, a plunge through which I don’t stop calling out my farewells to all the mountains leaving without me.
.
There will be dancing at my funeral, that’s for sure. There will be a word for every mouth, a fresh hatred for every split skull.
There will be dancing at my funeral and the grass will be heavy beneath the steps. Pitiless, the hill they’ll have to climb (or descend) like a mother’s belly when she has given all she had to give.
.
That wire I walk on without moving is my corpse. Useless to put it in a wooden box. Spread a cloth over it, invite birds to perch there. Sing it no psalms; by no means plant flowers around it. Instead, get down on your knees and ask pardon of the leaves which shaded you, the clothing which covered you, the sky which endured your human filth.
.
I raise my head, my splendid dead woman’s head, and look for the road I’ll take to return,
I look for the uninhabited stone which will understand my absence. Something sleeps in me and I awaken it . Something sleeps in me and is what I was not: the best life possible I didn’t know how to live.
.
I need nothing from you.
.
My corpse smiles at me, my neck almost transparent, and I am on my way
toward forgetfulness.
.
Yes, I am beautiful, and only my dirty nails betray me.
.
Get on with it: now it’s time to dance.
.
“Cadaver” © 2007 by Joumana Haddad – translation © 2008 by Marilyn Hacker
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G’Morning/Afternoon/Evening MOTlies!
Above all shadows rides the Sun - art by Norloth
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