Poems of the Week: 2025

Here is a list of all the Poems of the Week in 2025. Poem of the Week is produced in participation with Copper Canyon Press. For submission information, go to the POTW Guidelines.

Chris Dombrowski
Name-Dropping
It’s been a rainy, relatively windless fall, the aspen leaves clinging.
Chase Twichell
Death’s Hors d’Oeuvres
I like to take little sips of the horror, morsels of poisoned meat.
Pam Bernard
Falling
I hadn’t known I was falling. Am I falling still?
Olga Mexina
Don’t Say War
Is there anything that hasn’t been sold yet?
Dan Gerber
God’s Plan
I sat watching the hawk make lazy orbits of the cloud-dimmed sun.
Craig van Rooyen
Mockingbird Ode
But it’s you, O mantra mixer, lip-syncing the loneliness.
Bruce Bond
Chiaroscuro
A dark spot in a clutch of trees tonight, a moon eclipsed.
Haley Laningham
Man with a Gun and a Girlfriend
When I was a child I once hallucinated that the laugh track was for me.
Sandy Solomon
Shrug
I remember a child’s fingers on his wrist as they traced the blue.
Cristen Aery
The Trade
I learned to lose myself in the whir and whisper of the machine.
Allison Funk
Springtime
I was raised to sing along with the rest. To praise. Especially men.
Brian Gyamfi
To Hold a Kingdom
In my stomach the ancestors carry water to stones.
Adedayo Agarau
Self-Portrait in a Dream and Other Poems
I’m touched by kindness, I declare. That anyone wants me is a miracle.
Talia Isaacson
Georgic: Devotional
Dangerous to believe you’re useful. Dangerous to believe you’re not.

Poems of the Week: 2025

It’s been a rainy, relatively windless fall, the aspen leaves clinging.

I like to take little sips of the horror, morsels of poisoned meat.

I hadn’t known I was falling. Am I falling still?

Is there anything that hasn’t been sold yet?

I sat watching the hawk make lazy orbits of the cloud-dimmed sun.

But it’s you, O mantra mixer, lip-syncing the loneliness.

A dark spot in a clutch of trees tonight, a moon eclipsed.

When I was a child I once hallucinated that the laugh track was for me.

I remember a child’s fingers on his wrist as they traced the blue.

I learned to lose myself in the whir and whisper of the machine.

I was raised to sing along with the rest. To praise. Especially men.

In my stomach the ancestors carry water to stones.

I’m touched by kindness, I declare. That anyone wants me is a miracle.

Dangerous to believe you’re useful. Dangerous to believe you’re not.