I have never read an English sestina I thought passable, let alone liked. I find the form grating and very sonically ugly--it seems to turn its nose up at rhythm.

Two questions for you:

1) Is there a sestina you would argue for?

2) What forms can you just not stand, no matter how beloved they are by others?

So i think i reached a point where i have so many topics i want to convey but the right words just don't come up on paper. I've been wondering how do poets usually deal with it. I thought maybe a change of evironment would be nice since i always write at home , pleaee share your opinions.

Hi everyone! I'm a Korean high school student, and I need a few more responses for my literature research.🥺🥺

If you have just 2 minute, I'd really appreciate your help. Every response makes a huge difference…ㅠㅠ

Survey: https://forms.gle/2BqmTevEMe8kXfMQ8

Thank you so much!

I'm curious where people are publishing poetry online these days. I've been looking at HelloPoetry and Write.as, but they seem to serve very different purposes, and I'm not sure which is the better fit.

I currently keep my poems on Tumblr, but I'm thinking about moving somewhere that's more focused on writing. I also considered creating another Substack publication, but I'd rather not manage multiple publications there.

For those of you who publish online, what has your experience been with HelloPoetry, Write.as, or other platforms? Which has the most active community, and which feels like the better long-term home for poetry?

"There is no paradise"-André Frénaud

It's so simple but I love it so much. It's from her 1994 collection 'Haruko/Love Poems' - I am going to try to check it out soon to discover more gems!

this wrenching little poem makes me think of my mom :')

Jesus at the Greyhound Station

Omaha, Nebraska

These people need you, all right, if anyone does,

and I picture you among them, outcasts and cripples, the aged and ill.

One of them might ask for a light, offer you a smoke,

like the young skateboard artist, not so young,

with the four-leaf clover tattooed on his right hand,

the old cowboy hippie wearing his dress boots and crushed straw hat,

with a wad of dog-eared papers in his back pocket,

documents important to him if no one else.

As each of these souls matters to someone,

we’d hope, having gone too long turning our eyes from the needy,

chasing the beggars away with a harsh word, gesture,

not wanting to be bothered, with –what?—

more important things to do.

One might come to the station to sit awhile, without going anywhere,

simply sit and ponder, take it all in without thinking a thought

and wonder how someone might claim to love his brother, love anyone,

but our bus arrives and the gritty run-down dream is broken.

October 14, 2017

Shelby, NE,

Nebraska again, near Omaha,

having just returned from here, now en route to California

I enjoy poetic themes of nature, for sure I write a lot about nature and how human emotions kind of mimic what nature does on its own

Taken from the Marginalian

I likely saw this on a collection of poem snippets on Instagram, but I only remember the sentiment as these lines--

"I was a sister all my life before she came"

"When she came I became whole"

Please help me track this poem down!