But First Dear Reader, A Note To You,
I have a small milestone to share with all of you.
As of today, A Poem A Week has 500 subscribers! When I first started this newsletter, I really only expected a handful of my friends to read it. To now have readership around the world is genuinely incredible for me as a writer. Thank you, all of you.
This milestone feels special and I wanted to celebrate it in a small way. So if you’d like to support my writing with a one-time donation you can Buy Me A Coffee over here! My poetry is and always will be free, but any form of support to my writing means more than I can express.
Anyway, today’s poem is from my archives. It first appeared in hotpot magazine in 2023. It’s a poem about nothing. And other things. And poetry itself. Let’s begin.
ars poetica
i sit down to write a poem. the poem means nothing.
i slip it under my sleeve and forget about it until
it comes out of the washing machine a week later
with syllables that sound like nothing - garbled wind,
shredded up radio static, baby’s babble.
i try to make it rhyme, but it refuses.
even as a child, i knew how
the tail-ends of words could resemble each other,
soon / moon / blue lagoon
each long-short vowel so whole and ripe,
tumbling into my small hands
like a purpling fruit. you can feel a word
in your hands first and then your mouth,
the small, clear weight of sound,
swallowing, swallowing, bright
and tart the back of your throat.
without sound, there is no poem.
so i plunge my arms into the city,
into that soft bruised body,
and gather the remains of sound,
train sounds, bird sounds, summer sounds,
funeral sounds, highway sounds,
the sound of my feet hitting the solemn earth,
over and over, like they always have,
and perhaps it could mean something after all.
the sound of my feet hitting the solemn earth,
over and over, like they always have,
and perhaps it could mean something after all.
Poetry has always been sensory for me.
Even before meaning comes into play, I love the taste of a word, the texture of it. The way it sounds and feels in the body. Sometimes writing a poem feels like I’m ‘fishing’ for sound. Like I’m reaching into the world with a poet’s hook, waiting to see what comes up.
And sometimes nothing comes up! But I’ve found that the process itself can be clarifying. The momentum of catching sounds, assessing the heft and weight of words as they rise up.
Even when nothing comes up, I still feel the wild tug of something new. If I wait long enough, a poem might just emerge.
Before You Go …
What are your favourite poems about poems? Mine is ‘I Believe’ by Elizabeth Alexander.
And since you’ve read till here, thank you! If you liked this piece, then do consider subscribing, sharing, dropping a comment or sending this newsletter to a friend who needs more poetry in their life. You can also pledge a paid subscription to support my work or send me a one-time donation on Kofi. It would mean the world!
And finally, here is
’s round up of ‘poems about poems’ from earlier this month. It features many incredible poems in the ‘ars poetica’ style, so do check it out:I’ll be back with a new poem next week. Until then, take care.
Love,
Anagha
Poetry is what you find / in the dirt in the corner, / overhear on the bus, God / in the details, the only way / to get from here to there.
You really know how—and I'm sure it's a combination of study and instinct—how to lay words together. There is no strain or affect here; it's just natural. Even the repeated "sounds" toward the end (my favorite part I think, and great choice of sounds!) is.... as it should be. Beautiful, Anagha!
I love the sounds in your poem, Anagha. I have never thought of the weight of sound before. I'm more focused on rhythm, but I really like that idea. My favourite poem about poems is A Poem is a Street Hustler by Julia Vinograd. It was posted a while ago on Poetic Outlaws here on Substack: https://open.substack.com/pub/poeticoutlaws/p/a-poem-is-a-street-hustler?r=130rwe&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web