by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 5, 2025
What would the dead write of us, if they could still pen a poem? What would they tell us, if they could offer advice after death? Why do we view death, or ghosts, as “scary”? Wouldn’t our ancestors wish us well, assuming they did so during life? And even if they didn’t, surely now they would be free to pursue other interests rather than sticking around to make our lives miserable.
Encomium to the Living
After RG Evans
From six feet under, we salute you, you
who tread the ground above, toes wet with dew
behind a mausoleum, there to steal
a kiss. Such “crimes” we happily conceal.
Perhaps you sense us stirring underfoot –
don’t be afraid. It is our joy to put
aside despairing sighs of death to hear
your sighs of pleasure, life, and love so near.
Now rest against our gray and lichened stones
wrapped tight in one another’s muscled bones.
Regale us with adventures that you’ve planned
to sing us back to sleep, here in the sand.
Remember us, now tucked within a shroud—
we long to hear you live your lives out loud.
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 4, 2025
Today’s PAD prompt was to write about “an unexpected mess.” I experience unexpected neatness, now and then, but have no idea what is this “unexpected mess” whereof you speak…
Detritus at Dawn
I learned of black holes from an early age:
My mother swore her neatness was a sleight of hand,
a trick involving rakes and Hefty bags
that in unseemly haste were shoved atop
a mound of mismatched shoes, our dirty clothes,
behind the winter furs, the musty suits,
an ancient travel case—and yet I knew
the woman was a witch. I never found
black plastic bags, leaf-rakes, or detritus.
Neat rows of high-heeled shoes, a make-up bag,
a pearl-handled, empty-barreled gun,
a hundred matchbook souvenirs, and suits—
matched smartly with an endless set of ties
(worn once) I'd given Dad for Father's Day.
That's when I knew the brutal truth, of junk
she'd rounded up and made to disappear.
Can't say now, was it awe I felt, or fear,
When contemplating closets through the years?
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 3, 2025
Just a little something that dripped from my pen before doing Wordle at 12:01 AM.
The mental prompt for this, a phrase that sprang to mind shortly after succumbing to the need for sleep: “a country that has lost its minds and hearts.”
Cardio at Midnight
Sweat-soaked, shaking
from a half-remembered dream:
a frantic quest for keys
clutched in a bloody fist,
for glasses worn atop
a severed head, and for
a barely beating heart,
devoid of hope
but full of dread.
They say, “Sleep on it,” but sometimes it’s good not to do that. Did I have nightmares last night? No. Will you, now?
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 2, 2025
I had every intention of titling this month’s poems in alphabetical order, but best laid plans, eh? I started off thinking about “beauty.” Good “B” word, right? And then one of my grandfather’s aphorisms sprang to mind: “Pretty is as pretty does.” This poem sprang from that and a conversation about the hypocrisy of certain “good Christians” and politicians and how there’s a psychological term for their particular, self-loathing brand of judgmental hypocrisy. “Pretty” isn’t it. Nor is “beauty.” But with any luck, you’ll follow the mental processes to see how we got here from there.
Reaction Formation (an Acrostic)
Righteous in hypocrisy, they think to
exculpate themselves,
accusing others of their flaws, defining
crimes where none exist
trying to deflect self-loathing
images held dear, judging, demonizing
others in their zeal, their quest: to
nullify the hatred turned within.
Fathers, mothers - stand
outside the need to make a tiny
replica, to form of nascent clay a
man or woman in your image. Only God’s
allowed that power —
that perfection you’ve dared judge
immoral, turned a well-honed weapon
on itself. Devoid of love, the world can
never make itself anew.
by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 1, 2025
April is, of course, National Poetry Month. And April 1st is the beginning of the A to Z Blogging Challenge, which I completed with a poem a day – in the spirit of NaPoWriMo / GloPoWriMo – in 2023. The Writers Digest Poem-a-Day (PAD) Challenge, which I did last November, begins anew today. And of course I’m in my second year of doing The Stafford Challenge, which is to write a poem a day for a whole year. Today is Day 75. This year? I’m doing them all. Plus entering 30 poetry contests, judging two, enjoying fun time with family, traveling to the last two of fifty states I haven’t yet visited, and attending Poetry at Roundtop. Yay!
Today’s poem was…
Originally titled, “Art Class.” After sharing it among a small group of poets who suggested a better title, I’m calling it “Origami Wings.”
I hate that writing, once it has “lost its virginity” by being published in any form, is devalued – never mind that there are, perhaps, 30 readers who will ever see it here on this blog. In 2023, Timothy Green proposed a new term of art that has gained some traction among publishers: “Uncurated.”
Imagine how literature would thrive if we could share our art with our friends in the medium of the era. How much more fun would online open mics be if everyone knew they were free to share the poem they were most proud of—the one they just wrote yesterday? Rattle’s weekly podcast includes a supportive and enriching open lines segment, but most poets are hesitant to share and “spoil” their newest work. The joy of sharing what we create is one of the main things that sustains us as artists. We shouldn’t have to wait years wading through rejection letters to feel it.
Read Green’s whole proposal at “Uncurated: The Case for a New Term of Art.” Unfortunately, this won’t work well for contests where anonymity is important to fairness. I was going to hold back, but a small voice in my head reminded me that words are meant to be read. Ideas are meant to be shared. Communication is an act requiring two or more.
Today’s Poem is…
Origami Wings
She made the most
exquisite corpse
folded over on itself
half a dozen times. The best
of times when flowers
graced her curves,
her ample breasts; the worst
of times, when they
cast cross-hatch shade
concentric circles,
levers, steampunk gears
between her hip-bones, thighs,
as if to mar her
nakedness and make of her
a twisted mess of cobbled parts
laid bare beneath
florescent glare for little
boys to snicker at,
while girls decided then
and there to bind
their chests, lean in
to art and ugliness,
express revulsion, silent
rage - while bleeding
ink through every knife-edged
paper crease, until
one artist's fingers
deft with mercy
turned her corpse to origami
folded arms to angels
wings and
let
her
fly
