Poems for Persons of Interest

This year marks the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War. To mark the occasion, we're looking for poems of peace (broadly construed) for our Summer Peace Issue, which comes out on August 6th (the anniversary of the atom bombing of Hiroshima by the United States).  By 11:59 pm EDT, June 1, 2025: Send a word doc or pdf with one or more poems to  poemsforpoi@gmail.com .  For submissions from the US & Canada/UK, Ireland & Western Europe/Australia & NZ/Japan, S. Korea, Hong Kong and Taiwan, send $2.50 Canadian for each poem submitted to  poemsforpoi@gmail.com  via PayPal. Submissions from other countries do not require payment. Submissions to our issues from paying subscribers to the  PFPOI Substack  are always free. All submissions will receive an answer by July 1. Guidelines Poems must be the original work of the submitter, unpublished except on personal social media Poems must be NO MORE than 50 lines We are not considering pro...

Eric Thomas Norris is a poet living in Portland, Oregon. His poems have appeared in:  Impossible Archetype, One Poetry Journal, Trinity House Review, Ambit, Foglifter, Assaracus, E-Verse Radio, Soft Blow, The Raintown Review , and many other journals. His book publications include:  Astronomy for Beginners  and   Letters from Oblivion .   Eric writes: This is a reworking of W.H. Auden’s poem ‘A Walk After Dark.’ I continue Auden’s poem from darkness into a more doubtful morning in America. This poem was originally published in Lovejets: Queer Male Poets on 200 years of Walt Whitman, by Squares & Rebels Press, in 2019. A Walk in the Park (after W.H. Auden) Midnight, mackerel, pearly pink, More colors than two eyes can count, Send my spirits soaring through The stratosphere, astonished by How easily last night became Today. Yes, the stars go out, Like clockwork, as they always do, At dawn. Walking off my run, A young Marine sprints past — light speed — G...

B. N. Faraj  is a writer and poet living in Fair Lawn, New Jersey. He holds a bachelor’s degree from the University of Detroit and a master’s from the University of Michigan. He is currently putting the finishing touches on a translation of a collection of classical Arabic poems. His latest work appears in the literary magazine  Transference  and the anthology  Mother, a Title Just above Queen. B.N. writes: " The appointment is not for life anymore. And that invites others to start calling him “Former Laureate,” once the appointment is over. But it gets even worse when he starts calling himself so. And that’s something no poet should be subjected to. One would think the Fifth Amendment afforded such protection. With sincere sympathies to Billy Collins, hoping that he wasn’t completely damaged by the experience and that he’s finding life bearable as a former laureate!" Former Laureate It’s such a fleeting thing that thing      One day you have it, then ...

Tamarah Rockwood   obtained her degree in Creative Writing and Literature from Harvard University and is the founder and CEO of  Bainbridge Island Press . She lives on Bainbridge Island, WA, with her husband and five children. They also love their cat, Yoshi, their bird, Poppy, and their flock of ducks Do Not Log Off that Good Site Tonight (after Dylan Thomas) Do not log off that good site tonight      Retinas should burn and tear at close of day;      Scroll, scroll against the dying of the phone light.      Although studies show that to sleep, dark is right, And that our minds are slaves to the sun, I stay: Do not log off that good site tonight.      My poor husband, who rolls over in bed, crying how bright      My Instagram feeds are, and chase all of the shadows away;      Scroll, scroll against the dying of the phone light.      Wild reels of song caught in candid and ...

E. J. Hutchinson is associate professor of classics at Hillsdale College (Michigan) and director of Hillsdale’s Collegiate Scholars Program. To the Zoomers, to Make Much of Prime (after Robert Herrick, “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time") Gather ye earbuds while ye may, While Spotify’s a-streamin’; Find something whimsical to play, Like “California Dreamin.” Pay for the year in one lump sum, Though higher it’s a-getting. Subscription fees are not so dumb As weed or online betting. That song is best which comes up first; Just trust the algorithm. It’s true, it sometimes blows the search; Still, go with what is given. Use Spotify for songs, or Prime, Your P!nk or Katy Perry; For records, really, who’s got time? Plus, ownership’s too scary.

Catherine Meale is an avid reader of poetry and fiction. She grew up in Florida and studied Classics, both of which seem to find their way into her work. She is particularly interested in poets who write love better than they live it. A Beloved’s Response to Catullus You hate. You love. I have not asked. It is the doing, not the being done. Did you not know? You are torturer, not tormented. *** Catullus 85  ( the poem to which the one above responds, original Latin followed by English translation ) Ōdī et amō. Quārē id faciam fortasse requīris. Nesciŏ, sed fierī sentiō et excrucior. [1 ] I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask. I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.

Andre Demers is a poet and fictionist from  the  Okanagan Valley in British Columbia. He enjoys reading long poems for  the  Short Poetry Collection on Librivox.    Thomas Chatterton to Miss Eleanor Hoyland Hygeia bless thee, Eleanor of Charlestown, And Juno bring thee children and a crown! This letter never can be sent to thee, O'er the Atlantic Ocean bearing glee,  Natheless to you I would the truth confess,  If Fancy bade,  and I knew your address;  But I can never ask it from my friend,  Because I keep his secrets to the  end. I write because the thoughts of my poor heart  I must indite to thee with brighter art Than I have sent under another name,  A friend's, unalterably dear. Not Fame Is dearer than Friendship to me. So we lied,  My joy in it so ardent that I cried, Because my heav'nly Muse's lightning flash Bade her lone Bard smite sudden song. 'Twas trash,  The verses Baker must have copied out...

This poem appears in  Daniel  Galef 's collection  Imaginary Sonnets , which consists of seventy persona poems from the point of view of historical figures, literary characters, inanimate objects, and entities. Another form of the poem was published in Light. Since the collection was published, more Imaginary Sonnets have been published in  Think , the  Atlanta Review , the  Cumberland River Review , and  Scientific American .  Galef  is currently a graduate student at the University of Cincinnati. Death to Donne After John Donne’s “Holy Sonnet X,” which begins: “Death, be not proud” I have no pride. I have no vice! Which sin could I commit? Would you suggest I lust? Your flesh is putrid—presently, but dust. Do I wax wroth? This face can’t help but grin. No shepherd ever slew so many sheep as I my flock: does that make me a glutton? Well, peek beneath this robe—I’m rather thin (I must confess, I’ve never cared for mutton). Perhaps it’s ...

J-T  Kelly  is an innkeeper in Indianapolis. He lives in a brick house with his wife, their six kids, his two parents, and a dog. Chapbook  Like Now  (CCCP/Subpress, 2023). The Villanelle (a parody of "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop) The villanelle is not that hard to master; like many forms it's crafted to prevent the poet from arriving at disaster. Write villanelles each day. Accept the fluster of slant rhymes and of rhymes just badly bent. The villanelle is not that hard to master. Then practice writing better, writing faster. Every discarded draft, each moment spent is golden. They will save you from disaster. You wrote an awful line. But look! your last, or next-to-last, attempt was competent. The villanelle is not that hard to master. I've villanelled some lovely pomes. And, vaster, sestinas, ballads, ghazals. Even cent- os weren't complete unqualified disasters. —Every villanelle (the form itself, or gesture toward it) is wonderful. It's evident the villa...

Frances Boyle (she/her) is the author of three books of poetry, a novella, a short story collection and a forthcoming novel. Raised on the prairies, she has long made her home in Ottawa, where she helps run VERSeFESt, the city’s international poetry festival, and serves on the board of the League of Canadian poets. For more, visit  www.francesboyle.com . Biding Is spring ever late or does it just let winter yield in its own sweet time? Easter is shiftier     bouncier friskier soft with chicks and lambs. Roaming rabbits are hard to wrestle to ground.

Bethel McGrew  is a freelance writer based in Michigan. Her articles have appeared in various national and international outlets. Find her Substack at  furtherup.net , and check out her poems for PFPOI's  Halloween Sonnet  and  Couplets  contests. Dream of the Old City In waking dreams, I walk the Way of Sorrows Between my yesterdays and my tomorrows. I smell the market, watch the children leaping, And still I hear a hundred daughters weeping. A soldier walks behind you, flagrum swinging. You sway and stumble blindly, sweat drops stinging. Yet even now, you sorrow for the city With not a second wasted in self-pity. God, I’m not man enough to loose your sandal, But speak the word, that I may touch and handle… You fall again, bone scraping out of socket. I turn around: Did someone pick my pocket? Now I have stepped on air, now I am falling. Through darkness, you pursue me, always calling.

 Author of two poetry collections— Motherland , which appeared from Able Muse Press in 2020, and the forthcoming Among the Living — Sally Thomas is co-writer for the Substack newsletter Poems Ancient and Modern , which features a classic poem with a short introductory essay every weekday. Her novel Works of Mercy was published by Wiseblood Books in 2022, as was Christian Poetry in America Since 1940: An Anthology . Wiseblood published her short-story collection The Blackbird in 2024.  Holy Saturday As dawn steps in, the grief-upended world Resettles on its pinnings. Now the stone Crowbarred across the door wears the mundane Bejeweled shine of new dewfall. The one Who lies in darkness, emptied, stilled, and cold, Has cradled in himself his newborn death. He has come through his labor. Yesterday Has ended, drowned in night. Friends, gone away, Are mourning him. Unsweetened by decay, The new tomb bathes him in its earthy breath. Now comes the day of waiting and of rest. The sh...

Jeffrey Rensch  has been writing poetry for 50 years. Previous poems of his on Poems for Persons of Interest include " Being ,"  " Carol of disarray , " and " Thank you for the shivering ," which won the Thanksgiving Poetry Contest last year. Easter I often found myself sad when my friends Were celebrating. He was moving out, The one that I loved best, and Easter was The call for him to rise. It was good news But I was miserable to see him go. I felt abandoned in the selfishness That only he could doctor and make right. By the time that I walked our neighborhood, He had packed and departed with no note, No memo but... The sense he was still here Lifted me in my nonsensical strut Past ladies beautiful in flowered hats And children eating candy on the lawn. My enemies saluted me. My friend Absent but present held me in his hand.

Oluwaseyi Daniel Busari is a budding Nigerian writer/poet. He's an avid reader of African poetry, drawing inspiration from Christopher Okigbo, Leopold Sedar Senghor, and Joseph-Jean Rabearivelo. He's a forever student of language and linguistics, highly intrigued with language and its usage. Third Day, Still Breathing The night was a fist, clenched and cold, Spitting out stars like broken teeth. The wind whined in the hollow of skulls, And silence gnawed at the bones of belief. They dragged him down where the dark was thick, Where the grave was a mouth, gaping, greedy. No rooster sang, no curtain tore, Only the rustle of coins in traitorous palms. Morning came like a wound unhealed, Bleeding gold into a city of graves. Mothers clutched the air where sons once stood, Fathers swallowed their silence like swords. Hope hung limp from the rafters of faith, A carcass swaying in yesterday’s breeze. They whispered: He is gone, gone, gone, And the earth, unbothered, turned its face. Bu...

William Orbih is from Nigeria. He has academic degrees in philosophy, religious studies, and peace studies. He volunteers in a book club organized for victims of physical and sex abuse in Africa. I Know, Yet I Rise I know the weight of my tombstones, the stones I must smash in order to rise! I know the horrors of darkness, the evil that waits to pounce. I know how tiring rising can be when mornings are covered in gloom, I know how stressful, and sometimes, how impossible! I know, yet I choose to rise! I know how destructive prying eyes can be, When cynicism is the left and stereotype the right. I know how exhausting it can be to swim against unfavourable tides, or even to walk on shaky ground, when one feels the piercing of nails! I know, yet I choose to rise! I know not all men are to be believed And not all women can be trusted. I know the world is a court without truth, In it, there is no hope for the honest and the saints! I know to be pessimistic is to be wise and to complain is ...

Grant Shimmin is a South African-born poet living in New Zealand who prizes humanity and the natural world as themes. He has work in journals worldwide, most recently Raw Lit , Raven’s Muse Magazine , and a fine line,  and soon ANTAE Journal  and Soul Poetry Magazine .  The Third Day Night terrors slip into terrified morning in the place we shelter, fearing discovery The denials that brought me to tears of desperate humiliation will do nothing to protect me if the soldiers find this place, but might another denial spare me the horror? It’s funny, now that courage seems pointless, I don’t want to do that. I want to own him, to atone for my bitter shame…. Wait, there’s someone at the door! It’s Mary… distraught, she says his body is gone! It’s not possible, is it? Though what does it matter, I’ve severed that precious bond, feebly failed to fight for it There’s no choice but to retreat into another endless vigil of locked-down dread. But what is that sweet fragrance, that l...

Sarah Adeyemo (Swan IX) is a Nigerian poet, writer, spoken word artiste, and communication expert. The author of the poetry collection The Shape of Silence, s he draws inspiration from solitude and experiences.   Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in The Muse Journal , The Weganda Review , Everscribe Magazine , The Shallow Tales Review , Northern Writers Forum Journal , Eboquills , Rinna Lit. Anthologies, and elsewhere. Becoming I am a half-begotten tree                        of dreams and realities. Woken by quest of growth,                      I dangle like a pendulum. Tomorrow, I may bear fruit or not,                depending on my attachment to my root, or how fast my growth            aches are buried like fallen seeds. Tonight, the fall of rain sounds       ...

  Author of two poetry collections— Motherland , which appeared from Able Muse Press in 2020, and the forthcoming  Among the Living — Sally Thomas  is co-writer for the Substack newsletter  Poems Ancient and Modern , which features a classic poem with a short introductory essay every weekday. Her novel  Works of Mercy  was published by Wiseblood Books in 2022, as was  Christian Poetry in America Since 1940: An Anthology . Wiseblood published her short-story collection  The Blackbird  in 2024. Sunrise Another ordinary day is breaking In mizzling rain that skims the old flagged walk And leaves it darkly polished. Low clouds, shaking Down their chilly burdens, nudge and talk In mutters. No one comes to share the hour. Unseen, one lily peels back one white flower. Through mizzling rain that skims the old flagged walk With clarity, a thing is done behind A stone-sealed door. From cloud to cloud a hawk Slips in and out of sight. The world lies blin...

Nas Jolaade is an undergraduate student at the University of Ibadan, working to establish his voice as a writer. His work has appeared in  Brittle Paper , Prime Magazine , and  INNOTECH 2.0 Magazine. H e was a finalist for the 2024 Kofi Awoonor Poetry Prize. He tweets as @thejolaade.   West Coast Swings on Easter's Dawn The morning stretches like a held note, its first light burnishing rooftops with gold. Easter stirs in the quietude of dawn, soft as linen unfurling on sunlit balconies, Bold as bells scattering hallelujahs into the sky, and soon, shoes click against cobblestone. Not in a hurry, but in rhythm, as if the streets themselves sway To the pulse of something risen. Something endless, in motion. West Coast swings on Easter’s dawn, where footsteps write music on waking streets. Where silence yields to ecstasy of festival, to breath, to light, to living. Somewhere, a child flings open a door, wrapped in wool and wonder, Breath rising l...

Titilayo Matiku is a lover of nature and music. She writes short stories, flash fiction, and poems. Her favorite things include spending time with family, watching cartoons, reading, listening to songs, sewing, painting her toenails, and creating imaginary worlds with the tip of her pen. She lives in Nigeria. Born Twice The world sweeps around me like a whirlwind. He throws me against the thorns of life and drags me down till layers of my shell form a bloody mass along its sharp edges. I sew a coat of fur to save me from his wrath, but instead, he turns into a serpent and digs into my bones in vengeance. I search for an escape but no one leaves this amphitheater unless the whistle blows. They say there is only one other way and for me to find the truth, I must walk back along the path through which I came. But how do I shrink my body into a droplet and return to the sacred cave of womanhood? I push a sword into my chest and pull out my own heart. I gave my dripping weight to the Spiri...

Tamarah Rockwood obtained her degree in Creative Writing and Literature from Harvard University and is the founder and CEO of  Bainbridge Island Press . She lives on Bainbridge Island, WA, with her husband and five children. They also love their cat, Yoshi, their bird, Poppy, and their flock of ducks. The Forest's Gospel Off the narrow path beyond our bench, there, unbeknownst to many who pass by, perch owls upon an immense alder branch that seems to hold both wind and open sky. They are not ignorant of what they do, the barred owls who hunt the nests of spring that hold together scraps of field from palace to pew, for silent speckled eggs on night-black wing. Yet what seems death becomes renewal to both; it must, or else this rhythmic labor resurrecting an entombed life before the dew collects on the rude cradle and wild neighbor. And, here the forest's gospel, plain to see: Amid death, stays life's continuity.