iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

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poemakontsa @poemakontsa.bsky.social · 13/08/2026

A. R. Ammons, on Loss... Loss When the sun falls behind the sumac thicket the wild yellow daisies in diffuse evening shade lose their rigorous attention and half-wild with loss turn any way the wind does

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ONLY POEMS @onlypoemsmag.bsky.social · 18/07/2026

In Conversation w/ Victoria Chang, our POTW, Karan asked: I can spot a Victoria Chang poem if I encounter it in the wild. Was finding this voice a goal for you? How concerned should young writers be to discover their capital-V voice? Is it even a real thing? 💙

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Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 28/06/2026

happy #smallpoemsunday! 💜 feel free to share small poems you wrote or that you love by other poets :) here’s an incandescent omen by J. L. Moultrie, from Cairn @pigroastpublishing.bsky.social~

Omen

No one was watching when the sky fell
unseen mind still mired in distant fires
inaugural sins the wind’s candor screeching
tires the only answer

Affairs usually end where they began
paradigms shifting paradoxes jammed
your face’s familiar as my mom’s name
or the taste of my own blood the doves
got used to the chains

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 09/06/2026

Jenny George - "If I stand very still, I do no further harm."

Vivarium | Jenny George

Some people collect dirt from significant places.
Or spoonfuls of cloudy ocean inside jars.
Like amateur naturalists, they keep
these treasures permanently on a shelf.
Of course an amateur is simply a person
who loves, who brings love to bear
on a particular subject.
Returning from one trip I failed to bring back
a jar of anything. I stood outside my house
where white stitches of snow were dissolving
into the ground beneath the evergreens.
An unset moon floated over the trees.
If I stand very still, I do no further harm.
I am a tiny theater of non-harming. My breath
watches raptly. Sees how everything is still alive.

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HAD @havehashad.com · 16/05/2026

ALWAYS a pleasure & a delight to get to feature new Todd Dillard! "Sorry but I will never tell my daughter about soundwaves wriggling like worms through walls and doors and down stairs to my living room couch where I hear her in the shower belting..." www.havehashad.com/oqhzi

havehashad.com

Carroll by Todd Dillard

Sorry but I will never tell my daughter about soundwaves wriggling like worms through walls and doors and down stairs to my living room couch where I hear her in the shower belting her overflowing…

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Chen Chen @chenchenwrites.bsky.social · 05/05/2026

always completely in love with this poem by Rick Barot

Litany
by Rick Barot

When any word is called for, say that I am of.
When the tornado forms, that is the ruinous
kiss. When the bamboo-green field sways,
think of tea. When the vines thicken in
the heat, this is the medusa head consuming
its own stare. When a man committedly
steps to the ledge, this is the daguerreotype’s
cold glass face. When winter, that is hemlock
prominent. When mirror or letter or echo,
these are correspondences. When the snow
is pink, something has been left motherless.
When singing, think of articulating silences.
When stars, history. When the sword-gray,
fatherly rain, this is I have wandered the earth.

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Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 31/03/2026

today is officially the release day for MOUNTEBANK!! I’m so grateful to @brokensleepbooks.bsky.social for publishing this collection and to anyone & everyone who reads it, thank you from the bottom of my heart :) 🎭📚💜 see quoted 🧵 for some poems & art that inspired the book, & 🔗s below to…

A copy of MOUNTEBANK next to a little wooden handheld toy of a jester’s head on a stick

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 01/03/2026

a few years ago in Rust & Moth rustandmoth.com/work/poem-wi... #smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

Poem With Tulips, Bowl, And Frisbee

This arrangement. Photos
arrive, vanish.

The red tulips. Because you
looked, collapsed.

As if the room collects
every word: a blue bowl.

Must each word embrace the one before
until silence arrives? Its large
velvet hands.

The street. From here.
To the park. The frisbee. The dog. The frisbee

soaring out of its plastic halcyon heyday arriving yellow
as the sun in summer.

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Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 01/03/2026

hello everyone! today is #smallpoemsunday and it’s also the first day of March, the month at the end of which my new book MOUNTEBANK will be out from @brokensleepbooks.bsky.social :) each day in March I’m planning to share a #soapboxpoem, a small series of poems(/etc.) named for the origin of the…

The cover of MOUNTEBANK by Tom Snarsky, out March 31st from Broken Sleep Books.

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 08/02/2026

beach walk and the delicious warmth of the sun in February

Photo of beach and pools of receding tidal waters, the sun and feathery clouds above.

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 13/01/2026

Deep in the cold season - today's PR daily poem.

Uche Nduka

A Green Dream

Winter frock
marigold robe

between brownstones
where yearning
confesses its nature

when the mail
makes you happy
even

when this circle
begs to be part
of a square

it’s madness
to hate the visitation
of grackles

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Adrian Dallas Frandle (aka Sartrelo Ponti) @adrianf.bsky.social · 15/12/2025

My new poetry column is up, with a round-up of winter snow poems to consider - featuring poems by Louise Glück, Carl Phillips, @toddedillard.bsky.social, Alex Dimitrov, Emily Dickinson, Joy Harjo & other favorites. stratfordcrier.com/a-kind-of-sn...

media.tenor.com

a little girl is shoveling snow with a shovel and a bag .

Alt: a little child is shoveling snow with a shovel and falls over, only to be righted by their parent.

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Alina Stefanescu @alinaetc.bsky.social · 28/12/2025

i imagine the earth when I am no more: Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant - Czeslaw Milosz

AND YET THE BOOKS
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings, That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn, And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up, Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
"We are," they said, even as their pages Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame Licked away their letters. So much more durable Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant, Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
translated by Milosz and Robert Hass

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Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 18/12/2025

A prose poem of mine up at Soft Union

Poetry
Wet food for adult cats, the stars you can't see, a cup of water after a glass of milk, finding the other glove, decommissioned death ray, calendar with no Tuesdays, the saint's finger bone accidentally transferred to the poorest church, finding something you had lost in the hiding place you were going to use for something else, surprise kheer with plenty of cardamom, a live version of that one song, space dust past our light cone, light touch of the regretful soldier, the many refusals that make us, hovering around the decision like a fly looking to leave and finding only glass, only glass

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Amy Borgman @amyborgman.bsky.social · 14/12/2025

A small poem by Dorothea Grossman for #smallpoemsunday @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

A poem titled Fairy Tale by Dorothea Grossman

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 14/12/2025

a little poem about (when the tank is utterly dry) attempting a poem... #smallpoemsunday, @tomsnarsky.bsky.social

Nowhere To Hang My Hat

Let the day tick—a clock, a string
drawn taut beneath a bow. I’ve hauled
my husk to the shore
of this white, wide page again.

Out of the sky, over the lake
an airplane falls—small, silver,
a samara spiraling into a blue mirror.

And tonight, the night
will wear your captain’s hat
high in the bare-branched maple.

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Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 10/12/2025

for sadness, for sadness Daniel Halpern

Passing

Sometimes you called on those
you’d never know
to come with you in place
of those you loved,
and talked to them
and touched them
and let them close purely
for sadness, for sadness
you’d hold them,
and you’d let them go.

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James Mcconachie @jamesmcconachie1.bsky.social · 09/12/2025

I often think of this poem.

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 19/11/2025

sun out in november thus a walk in the woods

photo of a trail in the woods. a leaning alder. sun through the trees.

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Todd Dillard @toddedillard.bsky.social · 17/11/2025

I have a new poem in @havehashad.com that answers the burning question of "what is the opposite of an 'eating poems' poem" "it's all coming up now, milkweed and mango..." www.havehashad.com/hadposts/hei...

havehashad.com

Heimlich After I Eat Poetry Too Quickly Again by Todd Dillard

It's all coming up now, milkweed and mango, grandmothers in kitchens with their stoic spoons, crows barking in alder trees, enough dead deer to overflow football stadiums, sad f...

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Todd Dillard @toddedillard.bsky.social · 14/11/2025

NEW POEM ALERT! got a couple new ones in the latest issue of @lamplitmag.bsky.social. Here's the lamp-iest one :)

The Lampshade
At the gates of heaven they said
let's review: six snails eaten, but
no burning buildings entered
to save a child, a puppy, a mother's music box.
You splashed into a dozen rivers, but many more
you saw and never touched, never thought to touch.
And yet, you spent most of your life working
on this one species of looking.
You'd see a wooden door and make a face
from its knots and whorls. You'd find
a dead cardinal and would wonder
if the dead forget the color red first.
Mostly we were impressed with this hat
you made one night out of a lampshade.
Your toddler laughed so hard he nearly lost
his voice. After finishing his bedtime,
you turned to go, and he told you to stay.
We liked how he pulled an imaginary
string dangling out of your nose.
How you shut your eyes afterwards
and lay perfectly motionless beside him.
For years your son believed
light is something you become.
It's waiting, there, under your skin.

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The Poetry Society @poetrysociety.org.uk · 12/11/2025

The Poetry Society was delighted to host Diane Seuss on Monday 10th November for the latest in the prestigious Kenneth Allott / Poetry Society Annual Lecture series The lecture is now available to view on the Poetry Society's Vimeo channel at vimeo.com/1135802263 or see link in bio

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Todd Dillard @toddedillard.bsky.social · 10/11/2025

I don't know if people know this but good poems are hard to write

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The Shore @theshorepoetry.bsky.social · 04/11/2025

The Shore contributor Catherine Pierce is now offering online poetry workshops! 🌊🌊🌊 Check it out here: www.studioandcraft.com

studioandcraft.com

Studio & Craft

Studio & Craft is a poetry community offering generative sessions, workshops, and manuscript consultations.

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Michael Metivier @grousehollow.bsky.social · 01/11/2025

Thrilled to have my poem “In Christ There Is No East or West” in the new issue of @antiphonyjournal.bsky.social Huge thanks to editor/founder Ann Pedone not only for accepting the work but for wise, wise edits. For optimum reading due to long lines, turn your phone landscape-wise, or read on laptop.

antiphonyajournalandpress.com

In Christ There Is No East or West by Michael Metivier — Antiphony: a journal & small press

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 31/10/2025

a spooky ghost poem I forgot I had written -

Ghost

In the late, tilted hours
I can find you sitting in a derelict sedan

hood in the blackberries, last sun
slanting through the dusty glass.

I did not choose my absences
you will tell me—the days became a parade
of ghosts, one introducing the next—

one made of tattered newspaper, another
colored shapes gliding behind beaded glass.

Such presence—you can’t imagine
you will say, folding back

into your blue silence, lighting a cigarette
though you never smoked.

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Victoria Chang @victoriachang.bsky.social · 24/10/2025

Rest in peace, Ellen Bryant Voigt. You were a force of nature and one of the sharpest people I've ever known. You will be greatly missed.

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Amsterdam Review @amsterdamreview.bsky.social · 09/10/2025

Our Fall 2025 issue is OUT NOW! Featuring an #interview with Keetje Kuipers and works by Sean Thomas Dougherty, Suzy Eynon, Jason Bentsman, Chelsea Dingman, and many more. Read here: bit.ly/AmsterdamReview #poetry #fiction #translations #finearts #amsterdam 🇳🇱

Amsterdam Review Fall 2025 issue is OUT NOW!
Featuring an #interview with Keetje Kuipers and works by Sean Thomas Dougherty, Suzy Eynon, Jason Bentsman, Chelsea Dingman, and many more.

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 04/10/2025

Louise Glück, on fall. "Or was the point always to continue without a sign?"

Matins | Louise Glück

You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding. You ought to know
I’m never weeding, on my knees, pulling
clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact
I’m looking for courage, for some evidence
my life will change, though
it takes forever, checking
each clump for the symbolic
leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already
the leaves turning, always the sick trees
going first, the dying turning
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform
their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?
As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always
to continue without a sign?

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North American Review @northamerreview.bsky.social · 03/10/2025

Our newest issue is out now!! Find it online here: northamericanreview.org/magazine

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Todd Dillard @toddedillard.bsky.social · 29/09/2025

the unspoken gem of writing a bad poem is knowing it's a bad poem, what a relief, what a gift, what a treasure to know this effort didn't get there and, because you failed to build a bridge the right amount of far, you are that much more aware of where "there" is

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Stone Circle Review @stonecirclereview.bsky.social · 23/09/2025

“This is how poems happen for me. Bits and pieces, glimpses and strokes, hints and imagistic nudges, and at some almost-accidental moment it all flies together--not to make sense but to induce a feeling. I call these gifts.” -- Yusef Komunyakaa

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HAD @havehashad.com · 21/09/2025

gigantic HAD energy

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Todd Dillard @toddedillard.bsky.social · 15/09/2025

In general, my go-to editing tips/thoughts: 1. Read the piece out loud, preferably loudly. Where your tongue trips is where it's awkward for readers too. 2. Familiar language is bad and is often the result of a familiar tone dragging the piece toward said language. Be different!

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poemakontsa @poemakontsa.bsky.social · 12/09/2025

Happy Friday with this gorgeousness by James Schuyler Song The light lies layered in the leaves. Trees, and trees and more trees. ... The violet hour: the grass is violent green

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Tom Snarsky @tomsnarsky.bsky.social · 10/09/2025

Molly Brodak

And How Did Your Rapture Turn Out?

Once I
woke up laughing.

Saw the limbs of the pine
row and paw. I heard bells, split geologic.

Did anyone take a photo of me
while I was in the coma? Why, no. No one thought to.

Before, the nights froze in acid orange
streetlight, and we walked in thin shadows.

That was the first time I felt young.
There was no future.

But I came out on the other side—so
your millennium wasn’t like mine,

so what. Remember catching that wet rabbit?
How did it feel. Like dusk—

start at the stars and drop west & the light goes apocalyptic:
indigo, ultramarine, cobalt, turquoise, cerulean.

I said come watch the bats with me,
once. I just kept up.
That’s how.

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charlie hensler @chaswriter.bsky.social · 04/09/2025

Here's one for fall - and thank you @mayacpopa.bsky.social for picking this up in Poetry Today's August poems. 🙏 🙏

Suddenly Autumn, And The Light

We have come down from summer
pockets empty. The sun tilts low again
and the rhododendrons follow, gray-green

and chromatic. The boulevard crows, wings folded,
contemplate the long shadow just clinging
to their tree.

How the festival goers have become
the color of late grasses and leaves, the balloons
gone in the particle wind. Even now

the towers are calmly sealed, the disappeared
behind the blue glass, heads bent, reflecting.
See how the sun

skips off the lake, its platinum sheen. Cool
in your hand the smooth, flat stone you found
at summer’s graveled edge, and kept.

- Charles Hensler

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Todd Dillard @toddedillard.bsky.social · 02/09/2025

my issue of Threepenny is here! here’s my poem “Present Tense,” I would love for you to give it a read! “I know this so loudly I don’t hear, at first, my father’s silence.”

Present Tense
by Todd Dillard

My father’s telling me about his dog,
how it fell into a well
when they were walking down a wooded path.
His dog ran across some rotted planks,
the planks splintered, “And whoosh!”
my father says. “No more dog.”
I look at the clock and remind my father it’s three A.M.
“I’m not finished,” he says.
He tells me about the rope he bought, the bucket,
how he knotted the rope to the bucket, lowered it down,
and yelled for the dog to get in.
“But all I pulled up was more barking.”
“Dad,” I say. “This never happened.”
He says he can’t remember
how long he tried to get the dog
to shimmy into the bucket.
Just that at some point
when the sky turned tawny—“Dad—“
as a pitcher of sweet tea—“Dad—“
he decided to give up.
“Dad,” I say. “It’s late.
I’m tired. And you’re dead.”
“Dammit, son,” my father says. “Let me finish!”
My father tells me about filling the bucket with dirt
and pouring the dirt into the well.
And I know what he’s getting at, I know
he’s going to tell me bucket by bucket
he filled the well and
the dog jumped out. He’s going to say
something about how the dog
led him home through the dark.
I know this so loudly I don’t
hear, at first, my father’s silence.
“Dad?” I say. “Dad, are you there?”
I keep lowering the bucket
but all I ever pull up are leaves.
Red leaves. Lately, some gold.

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