In South Philadelphia the b-ball hoops
in the playgrounds and parks mostly had no nets,
no nets on the rims—they’d been stolen
or ripped down after being torn by leaping teenagers.
When my son was a boy the difference mattered
because he loved basketball, he loved the Sixers,
he loved shooting baskets and there is beautiful satisfaction
when a good shot falls through the net—
“Swish” we said—“Nothin’ but net”—
and so as I moved around town I always noticed
where the hoops had nets
so Nick and I could shoot there.
The difference mattered. Life should be a certain way
but often the right way becomes unavailable—
the nets disappear—you have to be alert
to find the courts where a perfect shot really does go
swish. Life has disappointments
but you don’t want your boy to feel that life is
mainly or mostly disappointing
or that the Sixers on TV are absurdly far from his real life—
because he needs to believe
that life allows moments of sublimity—swish—
so even now when Nick is almost forty
wherever I see good intact nets on the rims
I make a mental note for half a second:
Nick and I could play here.
The difference matters.
Copyright © 2025 by Mark Halliday. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 24, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
—after Beenie Man and Derek Walcott
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m the cramped quarters
of any vessel voyaging the sea
with contraband and trafficked cargo
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m the rum barrel hollowed out
and beaten into percussion
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m a pidgin picking its way
into a creole—any savage tongue
consumed again and again
until it can be repeated
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m the plátano deep frying sweet
in oil or i’m the plátano fry-smash-
fried into tostones
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m the hibiscus steamed
with ginger and sugar
and allspice and clove
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m a field song morphing
out each new generation’s lips
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m the pilón smashing
plátano and garlic and chicarrón
into mofongo or i’m the pilón
grinding allspice and clove
and fennel and cinnamon into a jerk
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m this tripped-up tongue
tryna wind its way through
english, spanish, and patois
smashed and ground-up together
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m sugarcane fields burnt or i’m
the the scotch bonnet burn
in the curry chicken or
i’m the ron añejo burning
its way down the throat
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m a poco man jam
morphing into a dembow
who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m the poems chanted
over and over on the slave ship
until they all mishmash smashed
into a whole new song
who am i? who am i? who am i?
either i’m nobody or
i’m all of the nations
or i am no nation or i’m a
singular, ephemeral nation—
the one i sing into being with this
savage tongue, the one that disappears
as soon as the sound stops shaking
in the ocean salt air
Copyright © 2025 by Malcolm Friend. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 18, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
Yesterday it was still January and I drove home
and the roads were wet and the fields were wet
and a palette knife
had spread a slab of dark blue forestry across the hill.
A splashed white van appeared from a side road
then turned off and I drove on into the drab morning
which was mudded and plain and there was a kind of weary happiness
that nothing was trying to be anything much and nothing
was being suggested. I don’t know how else to explain
the calm of this grey wetness with hardly a glimmer of light or life,
only my car tyres swishing the lying water,
and the crows balanced and rocking on the windy lines.
Copyright © 2025 by Kerry Hardie. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 16, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
After Amiri Baraka and Stefania Gomez
Poems are bullshit unless they are broken
like a horse, like a dog kicked in the ribs,
Like your favorite toy that’s missing an arm.
Love can make you feel used.
I want the poem that limps back to me.
Poems should hurt like love,
like ice water on your teeth
like a massage to smooth out a cramped muscle.
Give me the poem that’s like leather.
Give me the poem that smells like gasoline.
I want a poem that is a warning,
a poem that makes me check to see
if I left the shotgun by the door,
a poem that’s a runny nose, a sneeze, a poem
that’s the moment the sky turns green.
Copyright © 2024 by Kenyatta Rogers. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 20, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
will poetry change the world? no one asks
this about football, the thrill of watching or
playing. we get that nurses & doctors are
healers. no question that rabbis, priests, &
imams guide individuals & groups through
spiritual thickets. we don’t tell cooks to put
down their wooden spoons & go make a real
difference instead of a real soufflé. teachers
are honored for the learning they impart. so
let poets keep on exciting passion in them-
selves & others. don’t discourage us from our
efforts to diagnose the human heart or create
trail markers for those coming behind us on
this journey. trust me when i say that poetry
heals, guides, feeds, & enlivens. poetry may
not change the world, but might change you.
Copyright © 2024 by Evie Shockley. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 17, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
(Mather AFB, California, 1956) When we play horses at recess, my name is Moonlily and I’m a yearling mare. We gallop circles around the playground, whinnying, neighing, and shaking our manes. We scrape the ground with scuffed saddle oxfords, thunder around the little kids on swings and seesaws, and around the boys’ ball games. We’re sorrel, chestnut, buckskin, pinto, gray, a herd in pastel dresses and white socks. We’re self-named, untamed, untouched, unridden. Our plains know no fences. We can smell spring. The bell produces metamorphosis. Still hot and flushed, we file back to our desks, one bay in a room of palominos.
From How I Discovered Poetry (Dial Books, 2014). Copyright © 2014 by Marilyn Nelson. Used with permission of the author and Penguin Books.
to Mary Rose
Here is our little yard
too small for a pool
or chickens let alone
a game of tag or touch
football Then
again this stub-
born patch
of crabgrass is just
big enough to get down
flat on our backs
with eyes wide open and face
the whole gray sky just
as a good drizzle
begins I know
we’ve had a monsoon
of grieving to do
which is why
I promise to lie
beside you
for as long as you like
or need
We’ll let our elbows
kiss under the downpour
until we’re soaked
like two huge nets
left
beside the sea
whose heavy old
ropes strain
stout with fish
If we had to we could
feed a multitude
with our sorrows
If we had to
we could name a loss
for every other
drop of rain All these
foreign flowers
you plant from pot
to plot
with muddy fingers
—passion, jasmine, tuberose—
we’ll sip
the dew from them
My darling here
is the door I promised
Here
is our broken bowl Here
my hands
In the home of our dreams
the windows open
in every
weather—doused
or dry—May we never
be so parched
Copyright © 2024 by Patrick Rosal. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 13, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
To be a good
ex/current friend for R. To be one last
inspired way to get back at R. To be relationship
advice for L. To be advice
for my mother. To be a more comfortable
hospital bed for my mother. To be
no more hospital beds. To be, in my spare time,
America for my uncle, who wants to be China
for me. To be a country of trafficless roads
& a sports car for my aunt, who likes to go
fast. To be a cyclone
of laughter when my parents say
their new coworker is like that, they can tell
because he wears pink socks, see, you don’t, so you can’t,
can’t be one of them. To be the one
my parents raised me to be—
a season from the planet
of planet-sized storms.
To be a backpack of PB&J & every
thing I know, for my brothers, who are becoming
their own storms. To be, for me, nobody,
homebody, body in bed watching TV. To go 2D
& be a painting, an amateur’s hilltop & stars,
simple decoration for the new apartment
with you. To be close, J.,
to everything that is close to you—
blue blanket, red cup, green shoes
with pink laces.
To be the blue & the red.
The green, the hot pink.
From When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities. Copyright © 2016 by Chen Chen. Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of BOA Editions, Ltd., www.boaeditions.org.
If every bomb
Appeared in the sky a dove
Shrapnel into rain
If vengeance vanquished
From the cursed lips of weak men
An idea never taking root
If every tank vanished
If by chance a miracle
Peace reclaims the land
If laughter broke out
Like wars fought with satire’s
Pugilist punning
What room would there be
For anger what bitter root
Not allowed to stretch
Its tentacles
Through the hearts of men hardened
By indifference
What will we bequeath
Our children if not a world
Evermore human
Copyright © 2024 by Tony Medina. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 19, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
Easy as an exquisite corpse paraphrased
as dictionaried as a pontificator
raised by the thump of the 146 bus—
these 16 are for you. Shout out
to the city warblers yelling in slanted
syllables on avenues porous
with ill-built adornments & horse-riding
monuments. These 16 are for you:
linebreakers & trash talkers, polysyllabic
halfsteppers ready to mom’s spaghetti
their one opportunity. Meanwhile,
the rooftop across from us undercuts
the sunsetted skyline & is topped with
two metric heretics dressed
like crows. Another bullheaded poet
ina Bulls hat rests his elbows
on the bench back & wonders if
it is his hoarse verse or the verbed
streetlights making ellipsis from
the veritable trees & inevitable breezes.
Copyright © 2025 by Adrian Matejka. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 24, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
My daughter says six is her favorite year ever
though she suspects that seven will be better.
Her dress spins down the corridor.
It’s made of butterflies and billowing
like the memory of a chocolate souffle.
Was I ever more like her than like me,
shoulders not flagging, breath hot
with awe as I sidestepped each stone,
the promise of age like a helium balloon
dragging me behind it on a flouncy string?
My daughter tries to show me everything
she’s left a mark on: painted clay,
a smiley-faced cotton ball perched on a stick.
her name in all-caps on an envelope.
Does she already somewhere in her spleen
or pancreas, in the soft tissues and marrow, sense
that the impossible goal is, for all of us,
just to keep going? No, she is not grieving
over Goldengrove whatever. Six is her favorite
year ever, I feel not so much nostalgia
as Sehnsucht, the desire for something
missing, vertigo under the infinite sky.
We crane our twin heads as a falcon or drone
pierces the cloud cover into the future.
How to get closer to the mystery.
Older, she will do whatever: name a new nation,
isolate a microbe, hear the whales mutter
the muscadine water. Every time the regimes change
she will dance Swan Lake, bending her knees
at the requisite intervals. Attagirl, daughter!
The economy continues to show resilience
in the face of despair and mass depredation.
My daughter is swan. Is crab grass run riot.
Meanwhile, I am becoming unrecognizable
to everyone except myself, and it does not matter:
before it is time to resemble no one
I have had the mixed fortune to resemble most things.
My shadow lingers in the corner of the photo of the painting.
I may not know more than a bedraggled llama
craning its neck past the impregnable fence. Still,
I participated in the world. I wore the ceremonial
knee breeches required by protocol.
Led her through ferry boats and Ferris wheels,
this ardent daughter clinging to my hand
as though it was God’s hand on a church ceiling.
We took turns licking the strawberry ice cream.
In this knowledge, I feel content.
Copyright © 2025 by Michael Dumanis. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 11, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
Worried my love’s not worth much, but I always
come when called. Ain’t my name your favorite
command? No need to raise your hand. How
long you plan on marauding me with meak
mercies: I’m still bandaged from your last love:
dogged years I’ve knelt at your lap: tongue out,
eyes wet and for what: when it’s not your hands
on me, it’s your dead come ready to wind up
and wound.
Copyright © 2025 by Saeed Jones. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 5, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
As a child I made things
out of clay—a pig who
could not be eaten, a mule
who refused to carry
anything other than a pig
who could not be eaten.
They were companion
pieces. They kept each
other company, and me.
We kept each other’s
secrets: what flesh can
do with clay, what clay
can do that flesh can’t.
I was a small child who made
small decisions. I made big
people angry. I made them
confused. I
refuse, I refuse.
Copyright © 2025 by Andrea Cohen. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 4, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
We met ourselves as we came back
As we hiked the trail from the north.
Our foot-prints mixed in the rainy path
Coming back and going forth.
The prints of my comrade’s hob-nailed shoes
And my tramp shoes mixed in the rain.
We had climbed for days and days to the North
And this was the sum of our gain:
We met ourselves as we came back,
And were happy in mist and rain.
Our old souls and our new souls
Met to salute and explain—
That a day shall be as a thousand years,
And a thousand years as a day.
The powers of a thousand dreaming skies
As we shouted along the trail of surprise
Were gathered in our play:
The purple skies of the South and the North,
The crimson skies of the South and the North,
Of tomorrow and yesterday.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 2, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
—after Freda Epum
the day could do without
me. The ice outside glitters around
my car’s tires like a pageant
dress. Only digital utterances between
myself and the world for at least
a week. The last time he visited, my friend
noted the lack of natural light
in my downstairs apartment,
the posthumous-grey bleeding into
the mood. Aught of light
in the bedroom due to the blackout
curtains. But sometimes,
the day heckles, with its high-
bitch sun and melting snow. Some
days, I lay in the morgue
of darkness, hyper-alone,
and the sunlight, so audacious, paints
the color back onto my cheeks.
Copyright © 2025 by Taylor Byas. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 1, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.