I found myself so excited to read the poems for this dispatch that I started drafting this post as early as Tuesday. Please keep them coming <3 In “Reminiscence,” Lori Widmer reflects on memory and her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s. Hannah Levy makes us think about where we are in the vast expanse of the universe with “Waiting for T Coronae Borealis to Explode.” And “year of the snake” by Francis Dylan Waguespack will physically place you in the spot where the poem takes place. I can assure you, lines from today’s poems will follow you for the rest of the weekend, if not the week (like they did for me) ~ Surmayi

Reminiscence by Lori Widmer

I think having Alzheimer’s is like returning to infancy, which gives me unfounded comfort. My grandmother hid Snicker’s bars under the blanket on the chair sitting in the August sun. She thought we were aliens. The TV Guide was her memory. Exquisite in her paranoia until her colors ran together and intensified then bled off her page until nothing but white surrounded her. She lost sense and love and anger and hate until she just was. Lost even the heartbreak, which we can’t escape.

Poet's Note: I watched my grandmother's slow decline in memory due to Alzheimer's. With this one, I tried to show her actions alongside her confusion. The combination of a melting chocolate bar and her memory bleeding out helped me connect both the world around her and her inner turmoil. 

Waiting for T Coronae Borealis to Explode by Hannah Levy

Three thousand light-years away there is a flame
that will explode at any moment. They call her 
the blaze star. A recurrent nova. She has two eyes
double blinking over a valley of ashes, empty 
space in the wake of radiant collapse. This story 
has already happened—a ravenous wanting 
in the shadow of my heart. I was a telescope once,
a continuous stretching. Now I turn to rage 
before I ghost. My molecular body winking
from across the room, everyone else square-dancing 
in the center. There is no gravity here. Only the star
and her allies waiting for fate. The last time 
she died was in 1946. The news was everywhere:
twelve Nazi criminals sentenced to hang. 
My grandmother squinted into that same 
sky and made a baby. Maybe she saw it—
violent and bonebright. She wasn’t looking up 
for forgiveness. She didn’t need to be understood.
I want it to end that way, mid-morning on a Monday. 
Burning burning burning for no reason at all. 

year of the snake by Francis Dylan Waguespack

that year the moon tore off its skin
midsummer
before the misbeliefs budded
before the gulf spat up
before anybody knew what was happening
and people come running from their porches
with whatever was already in their hands
a wrench
a feed bucket
a dead snake a child
nobody knew what it meant
but they knew what they were meant to do
so they ran like how cattle run
when lightning hits the fencepost
i watched mrs. herman drag a king-size sheet
toward her truck by the corners
white glowing through her wrists
cartoon electrocution
and she kept sayin don’t need help, me
don’t need help, me
the way somebody says it
when they mean the opposite
i saw a girl from school stood stark nekked down
in the ditch muddy feet moon-skin hanging
from her teeth
flagbound throat
looked at me with eyes screaming wildcat
turned and shot through the cane
blazing copper trail the whole way home
and all through town the pieces moved
halfalive
getting tangled in bobwire
slipping through fences
wrapping round ankles
the same way fever wraps around a boy
when he tries to sleep at the wrong hour
and in blue jeans
i didn’t touch a thing
not because i was afraid
but i was afraid
and the streets emptied by sundown
except for the old men
sitting on camp chairs
talking low and serious
about the last time
the moon molted
and how that year
everything that was meant to be born
came out wrong or bright shining
and not even their mamas
could ever tell which
until it was too late

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Welcome dear ones, I hope you’ll spend some time with today’s three beautiful poems from our members. I’m still dreaming of ways to expand what we offer, to help create and foster this community. In the chat the other week when I asked you all what you’d think about an open mic there was a lot of interest. So on that note, I want to get a better sense of what kind of set up people would prefer. Please do participate in the poll if you can:

This week’s poems have an armadillo, a steam train, a commentary on poetry in the age of data mining, and somehow, two separate mentions of a cyclops. ~ Surmayi

Just so Armadillo by Christa Fairbrother

-	A found poem sourced from Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories


Oh, best beloved,       when the flat sea was empty, the sun's 

daughter, land lovely       and the moon's son, water worldly, met.

Oh, best beloved,       the world was new, quiet, so they coiled,

rolled, stirred the waters       till little stones sat at the bottom

of the sea, bright eggs       that broke.  Bodies split two, four, on and

on until the sea       grew to fish full.  Starfish, Skate, always 

hungry Gar, who tired       of small Crab meals.  He longed for the shore, 

green grass, palm trees, pined       for big breakfasts, snaked out of the sea,

branched long legs, toes, ran       after little beasts for lunch.  Greedy, 

he grew, brought brothers,       sisters to eat tawny Rats, striped Cats.

Oh, best beloved,       losing family, the ocean shrank

and the land swelled with       animals who grew tired of being 

soft, delicious.  Teased       by aunts, uncles they put on plates,

armored up.  Heavy,       clawed, they just dug.  Uprooted, careless 

to sun's scowl, mindless       of the moon's reflection, closed to all

others' troubles.  No,       the world wasn't getting hot, dry, filled

with legged beasties.       They couldn’t hear the sea’s lonely bawls,

calling to its lost       family.  Water fringed the banks, climbed

the cliffs, blued way up       the shore.  Grey wind-sprottled sand blew in-

land, blatchy rain drilled       the forest.  Water's eye was running,  

hunting. Ho now best       beloved, all the land animals,

armored as the old       Armadillo, here at the end have 

forgotten the beginning.

What the water wants, the land loses.

What the land wants, the water chooses.

Poet's Note: This is a creation myth created from one of my favorite books growing up.

viva cummings, if you can ) anti-ode to our perplexity® )  by James Spencer

no poetry shapes our minutes—now datamine—
only yr avg digits w/o touch. vague
u stacks up weeks rhymeless to lost hrs of prose
& rote incognition. 0s & 1s toward
the 1-ly horizon: please/profit margins we
never imagined & can’t comprehend thru yr
so many kinds of yes blown out of evry 4-
winded flat screen. U—as Türing tests/investors
wld have it—wrench time out of joint. bone it, pluck it—
or “scrape”, is it?—just a scrape!?—like inner cheek-spit
tissue for clones—from who knows how many? alive
& dead—countless—measureless to be measured for
datasoup mash vaper unoriginal knowingness, limning our “i”s w/ cyclops bluefuzz glareglow. my time, is your time, is our time, is my time
tomorrow-less always, 1-ly now—and viva
sweet love

Poet's Note: This poem received some shortlist love from Verve Poem of the Month contest, June of '26. It was improved with wkshp encouragement and suggestions from the OP stalwarts: Dick W, Robin G, Svetlana L. and Tara M-M. 

THE QUEEN OF STEAM by Mark Fryburg

They call her a queen.
She is a goddess
made of thunder.
Her ancient forces
harnessing five thousand horses
unleashed by Prometheus in her firebox,
feeding an endless appetite for the black rock
that cuts loose the energy of eons.

A full mile from arrival 
appears her Cyclops flaming 
light beam. Sleek dark body 
emerges from the veil of history.
Two hundred fifty-ton 
terrestrial torpedo 
parts the air, streaming clouds 
of steam–smoke–steam.

Next the wail, the rising 
scream, a banshee in her core, 
iron siren drawing toward.
Wheels taller than men 
hammer a thin steel highway.
She speeds by with an earsplitting roar,
beautiful black and red blur.
Pulsing shafts and spinning discs.

Earth sits awestruck,
shaking before this magnificent 
shining machine and her
pure intentional power.

Power to reverse the clock 
when we would climb				
inside and in relaxation					
experience a nation, for days					
through a wide window,					
mountains above, 						
farmers below.							
Backyards-and-stockyards-
and-steelyards-and-graveyards.	 
			
The memories pass with muffled
rumbles and a receding red light.
The Queen/The Goddess leaves
a faint rattle behind
wisps of vapor
empty rails
her final fading 
wail.

Poet's Note: I wish everyone could experience the thrill of a massive steam engine and its train roaring-by. A poem may be the next best thing! (Originally published 2026 as 3rd Place, Poetry, Virginia Writers Club contest.)

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Welcome to our first members-only poetry dispatch! I’m really hoping we can do this weekly and I’m also cooking up the beginnings of the possibility of an ONLY POEMS Open Mic! But shhh little heart, patience and perseverance. ~ Shannan

I hope everyone’s having a great weekend! I read these poems after a Friday night dinner and, well ended up crying a little bit. Which feels like a pretty good endorsement of these poems, if you ask me. Imola Tóth’s “Autopsy of a Good Girl” is a brutally honest assessment that reads you down with accuracy (if you are a good girl that is). “Train Song For The Guy I Left Behind” by Evelyn Jean Pine and “The House Poems” by Christine C. Rivero-Guisinga are two very different kind of goodbyes that cause an ache equally. Won’t keep you from these amazing poems any longer. ~ Surmayi

Autopsy of a Good Girl 
by Imola Tóth

The end of a good girl lingers
like a splinter stuck 
in your dominant pointer finger, 
right on the edge 
where it doesn’t really bother you,
but annoys you 
in the most inconvenient moments. 

She leaves
blood stains 
on your favorite white silk skirt,
puts the knife with blade up 
in the dishwasher’s cutlery basket, 
and forgets the 5 a.m. alarm 
set for the weekend. 

She’s the little voice 
in the back of your skull
who nags you 
to smile and stay quiet
when your boss touches your arm,
while all you want is to scream 
and to throw 
plates to the wall.

She’s the one 
who’d rather be
the plate mid-air—
already broken,
already free.

TRAIN SONG FOR THE GUY I LEFT BEHIND
by Evelyn Jean Pine

I failed to be a waitress — could never learn to smile
I hid behind the counter, drinking dank chamomile
Out of an old lady’s teacup, while I felt my anger rip.
That cracked little teacup saw she didn’t leave a tip.

I’ll think of this long weekend when I toss back dirty tea:
I lost my job — so out of spite I had the cook’s virginity
Shivering in the freezer, we sipped forsaken gin
left by some shady customer — sweet encouragement to sin.

This train chugs through a silent world, ice weighing down the trees
With a naughty kind of gaudy that brings me to my knees.
The shrieking birds of spring have split. I sit here all alone.
Can’t even find the note you left, can’t even find my phone

So I tease at the warm dark beer my seat-mate left behind
The bottle sees your crooked grin — oh, wait, that’s in my mind.
The bottle sees my face too — the freckles and the scar.
Wrinkles knife my forehead as I wonder where you are.

Every thing I’ve tried, I’ve failed. There’s nothing left to learn
But in my heart, I see your face, my cheeks begin to to burn.
The train keeps pushing forward, my mouth can’t help but smile
Your ripped sweatshirt’s my blanket. Maybe see you in a while.

Originally published in Scrittura on Medium, November 2024 and in Pulp, January 2026.

The House Poems 
by Christine C. Rivero-Guisinga

i.	Kitchen 

A kettle sits on the stove, fire unlit.
Was that supposed to be my answer?

Going through the motions halfway,
I called you back. You did not answer.
 
This silence in our story —
after the beginning, before the end, a mislaid answer.
 
“When one day we find our house is burning, one of us 
will walk back inside.” No answer.

You will not say my name. I say instead, “You are my last
safe harbor.” The door stays half-closed. Still, no answer.

ii.	Garden 

I am piecing you together, you will not stay.
A spider lily slits its gut, frees style and twisted anther.
Leaves we gather in our hands; they curl and fall away.

We go through motions, through all of them halfway.
Another lily splits its bud, parting sepals in surrender.
I am piecing you together, you will not stay.

I thought our silence might yet heal us where we lay.
One more lily cleaves apart, leaking fragrance from the fracture.
Gathered leaves wither; from our hands they fall away.

Spider lilies riot, stigmata stamen-stained give way.
I say your name, the sound you hear but do not answer.
I am piecing you together, you will not stay.

Spider lilies blast the air, linalool, orange decay.
I breathe pollen and I whisper, you are my last safe harbor.
The leaves we gather die; they all die the same way.

You cupped a firefly in your palms, once, a heady New Year’s Day.
Our house now burns, you walk inside, I stand and follow after.
I am piecing you together, you will not stay.
The spider lilies droop. From our hands, the leaves, they fall away.

iii.	Bedroom

You are my last
safe harbor.
This sudden silence,
our house burning.
One of us
walks back inside.
 
Inside,
where breath becomes the last
theft between us.
Our hands makeshift harbor,
touch alight, surface burning.
Our tongues tasting ash, tasting silence.
 
Lip to wrist, to teeth, to silence.
Doorways collapse. Inside,
knees raw, navel burning,
spit, steam, skin igniting last.
The ruined harbor
holds, shelters us.
 
What remains of us,
lying blistered in silence.
Exposed clavicle, a once frequent harbor.
Embers eating of the meat inside,
limbs remain, limb and rib bones blacken last.
Our hands rest a space apart, bared knuckles burning —
 
burning
us
our last
silence
inside
this shattered harbor
 
No sirens in the empty harbor.
Beneath wet ash, bodies have stopped burning.
Settling from inside,
dirt and dearth of us
staining soil, silence.
This home, our last.
 
One of us walked back inside, the house, the burning.
The silence, safe. Our last harbor, the hollow of our hands.


Poet's Note: I hope this won’t be considered cheating, but the three poems that make up “The House Poems” were imperfect attempts to tell versions of the same story using fixed poetic forms. The imperfections somehow became part of the story. All three were published together in Wordrunner eChapbooks final anthology “Endings”.

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Hi dear members and fans and friends and lovers of ONLY POEMS. I’d love to use this space actively instead of just being a way to manage our membership. And I think the best way to start doing this is by having a regular place for members to share their previously published poems so they can have a better reach. As y’all remember, we did this over on Ghost (if you’re new to Substack and haven’t been around since the time we tried our membership via Ghost, then just know that Ghost is a cooler version of Substack that we ultimately couldn’t stick to because of a long list of reasons that I’d get into if we were sharing a coffee in Italy but till then this’ll have to be enough.)

We also tried it here, but as some of y’all might know that been OP Daily and ONLY POEMS and Strange Pilgrims and our day jobs, Karan and I are pretty strapped for time. Sooo, what to do with all our hopes and dreams and desires? Well, not sure about all that, but we have recently gotten a bit more help in the form of the lovely Surmayi Khatana, our new Content & Community Coordinator. I’ll let her introduce herself below!

Hi everyone! I’m Surmayi, a writer who spends most of my time with books, magazines, the internet, and an unreasonable amount of time talking about words. I’m very excited to be here and look forward to getting to know the people in this community and finding new ways for us to share, celebrate, and (borderline) obsess over poetry together!

Taking inspiration from some Substacks that I love, I’d like to send out a weekly poems dispatch, likely on Friday evenings or Saturday mornings, with the poems that members have sent in during the week. These poems can be previously published works that you’d like to reach more folks, or just feel stirred to share, or they can be new poems that you just want to share because, well they’re your poems and you can do with them whatever you damn well please.

I imagine I’ll include no more than 5-10 poems per dispatch, and ideally I’d love it if you can share a little bit about the poem, maybe a line or two, a short paragraph. This helps things feel more personal, I think, and it’s nicer to see the poetry situated within the context of the poet. As you know, our motto at ONLY POEMS has always been that we publish POETS, not just poems!

Since we’ve had this Substack, we’ve had folks subscribe who are not paying members, and obviously more the merrier and no pressure to upgrade. The work here will be free to read. But as this is something special we’re doing for our paying members, only paying members can submit their poems to be shared in this weekly dispatch. I’m sure there’s a better way to word all this, but it’s late and I’m tired, and I trust you all to forgive any shortcomings on my part.

Besides poetry sharing, I’d also like to spotlight and interview our members, but I want to think about this one a bit more. In that, I want to think about what I’ll ask you and also I want to get some new art for this Substack for Mariam and for the member spotlight series.

Alright that’s it for me, please share your poems so we can prepare the first dispatch!

Note: if you’re not seeing the link to share your poems it’s because you’re not yet a paid subscriber. It’s totally okay if you’re not able to upgrade, you’ll still be able to read everything we send out, but the link to submit your poems for this dispatch becomes visible once you’ve upgraded. Sorry, that’s probably too wordy…forgive me! 😭

As always, please feel free to reach out with any questions you might have.

Yours,

Shannan & Karan

Dear sweet ONLY POEMS members,

As I promised months ago, once we reach the mid-year mark this year, we’ll try to start making this a more intentional and regulated space. So, we’re reaching that timeline, and with that, I’m hoping to start us off with a regular monthly digest featuring some of the cool things happening in our community and any new opportunities we’ve got on. Generally, you can expect this monthly digest to come to you, well, at the beginning of the month, but for this time around, well…here we are.

So, first off, we’ve just introduced two new, free close-read sessions, namely, the Strange Pilgrims Club (for prose) and the Beautiful Losers Club (for poetry). Check out details on how to enroll/get on the waitlist for both below. I’d love for some of you to be there! All paid subscribers, though, will received recordings for both sessions in case you can’t make it.

Strange Pilgrims

Introducing Strange Pilgrims Club

Hello fellow strange pilgrims…

Read more

5 months ago · 42 likes · 9 comments · Strange Pilgrims and Shannan Mann

Join SP club waitlist

Beautiful Losers

Introducing Beautiful Losers Club

I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you all like to read and write poetry. I do too. I’m also an editor of poetry as well as prose, as some of you might already know, and just today we announced a close-reading session over on Strange Pilgrims…

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5 months ago · 7 likes · 1 comment · Shannan Mann

Join the BL club waitlist

I’d also love to read some of your recent poems (or prose!) that you’ve sent out into the world and that have found homes already! If you’d like to, please drop a link to your recent publications below so we can all get a healthy dose of more poetry in our lives. Paid subscribers can also share their poetry via this form. I’ll be adding more member poems on this Substack later this month and will send out a round-up with my own comments for each piece shortly thereafter.

That’s all from me for now, folks!

Much love and gratitude,

Shannan

So we’re trying something new and we’re really excited about it — we’re adding free online yoga classes as a perk for all our paying OP members.

Our instructor Muskan teaches all levels, with modifications for everything, so it doesn’t matter if you’ve never been on a yoga mat in your life. You can move at your own pace and just show up as you are. We thought it would be a nice way to bring the community together beyond the page.

Two time slots available:

• Wednesdays @ 8 PM EST

• Saturdays @ 9 AM EST

You can come to one or both, totally up to you. We recommend both to get the full benefit. Just click the button below and fill out the form!

Read more

After Hollie McNish

The crow’s feet that marked my eyes
in my twenties don’t bother me anymore. 

Not because they don’t exist,
but because they are evidence of 
being me and they blend
with the additional lines 
that are records of my existence.

My mouth parenthesis
from smiles after smiles,
all the moments that merge 
in my mind like a 
bouquet of wildflowers 
with fragrance just as 
sweet or blended like 
warm soup on a cold 
night – I can never remember 
the exact ingredients
but I can recall how 
it made me feel.

Nature’s necklace – 
the rings around my neck, 
like a measurement
of the age of a tree, 
are proudly display,
you don’t need to cut
my trunk to count 
the delicate layers.

There’s a tree outside my window
I wish I knew its name
it’s old, light brown, and hulking
with more branches
than I can see
they reach high
toward the waiting sun and stars
and spread wide
like fingers of cracked glass
running
from the point of impact
its soul meets the dirt
in my neighbor’s yard
but don’t ask me where its roots grow
they stretch farther than I’ll ever know
 
on one branch a white cloth waves
the remnants of a sheet maybe
or a bag
it doesn’t matter what it was before
it’s near the top
and in the winter 
when the leaves have fallen,
I can see it there
billowing out and in
out and in with the wind
then hanging limp
almost camouflaged by
the gray winter sky
 
A Palestinian man was killed today 
by an Israeli soldier
with a gun purchased with my taxes
money that should go
to my neighbors and friends
but instead goes to death
and despair
the man was young, with light brown hair
and strapping, before his body fell
I saw the video on my timeline
posted by a foreign outlet
from Jordan, I think it was
that’s not something our news would show
you know
he was walking with friends
and his brother, they said
in his hand he held a small branch
on which he’d tied a piece of white cloth
the remnants of a sheet maybe
or a bag
it doesn’t matter what it was before
he waved the branch when he saw the soldiers
a sign of peace, a sign of compliance
they were ordered to leave their homes
but as he followed the occupation’s orders
a soldier shot him anyway
shot him past his waving cloth
the cloth which had
billowed out and in
out and in with the wind
now hung limp
covered with blood
almost camouflaged by
the spreading pool around his body
as his soul disappeared into the dirt
 
I didn’t know his name
and now I’ll never know
how far his branches reach
and how far his roots
stretch and grow

(Originally published by Moonstone Arts Center)

Green and black camouflage drape
battered skin that lies
between the color of sawdust and mud
reminds depraved eyes of a pig roasted
on a spit, the yard in Puerto Rico

With limbs tied, sky filled
bombs lit like fireflies, he lies
mentally reclaiming his patria
in barracks while depriving
another color of his

Teeth chatter like stilettos click
whispers sound like death’s ax
separates souls into dark meat
til light meets the peace of a new day

Brotherhood in bloodied constitution wrap
smells pungent like oregano,
oranged sazon’ed hands of mami
the red of his

Labors to keep his salt unshed
takes his place and flag salutes
heart at half mast enveloped
in white sheet camouflaging his fate

I originally wrote this piece over 20 years ago as we lost members of our community in the "War on Terror." At the time, I wanted to raise awareness that Puerto Ricans have been contributing to the U.S. military for well over a century, even when those living on the island are denied the right to vote in U.S. presidential elections, despite being U.S. citizens. I also wanted to capture some of the conflicting feelings and pain associated with war. The piece was recently published in the literary journal Cholla Needles (May 2025). I appreciate them for giving space to my 22-year-old self all these years later, though it saddens me that the poem remains as relevant as ever.

driving past almond trees soaking in dust
you want me to sing some little tune but
I don’t have a song for the end of the world
so I play make-believe with you instead
you’re good at pretending what you’re not
and unseeing all the things you have seen
for you there’s no orange sky flickering rust
no thoughts no prayers no snags stacked
on the hillside like fire-blackened graves
you say this game has only two easy rules:

we can be anything but human and
we can be anywhere but here

originally published by Variant Literature

first curated at La Piccioletta Barca

You’re just as careful with the bitter gourd, knowing when the unmottled green of its wrinkled skin will hold flavor, arresting and unmistakable in the vinegar-soured broth of the milkfish you bought whole, to be washed and gutted as soon as you got home.

You scoop a slice of milkfish belly into my bowl, the fat lining the middle thick and gleaming. You love this rich translucent ring as much as I do, but this is the part you give to spare me from the spines; too fine to see, they often catch in our throats.

Published in Issue 25 of the After Happy Hour Review; it’s a print-only issue but I read the poem here.

The first draft of the poem came about after Karan’s “The Prose Poem as Sex Toy” lesson on The Forever Workshop.

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Hi everyone,

I’d love to know more about you—our OP members. And for all of us to learn more about each other also. If you’d take a short moment to comment on this post a few things about your writing journey so far, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Please share:

• Where you’re from

• What genres/styles you write in

• What you’re working on mainly right now

• How you “got into” this whole mad business of creative writing

• Some publications you’re proud of

• Your dream lit mags to see your work in

• What you’re reading right now

• And what your writing goals and aspirations are for the next few years

I’ll be replying to everyone, so I really hope some of you share and I’m not just staring out into the void (as I often am for other reasons 😅).

Yours,

Shannan

Dear friends,

This is a short email with a bunch of links and a lot of love and gratitude. Firstly, thank you to many of you—our ONLY POEMS Members—for being there from the start. To newer members, infinite gratitude for placing your trust in our fledgling efforts to build a sustainable, truly indie space for the love of poetry!

As we head into 2026, there are some really cool things planned and we wanted to make you aware of them.

1. We’ve switched to Substack (from Ghost) for the OP Membership. You can read more on why here:

2. Your subscriptions have automatically been converted to Substack from Ghost. You won’t be double-charged. You can manage your subscription here.

3. The FAQ has been updated. Please take a look here:

4. Starting next week, I’ll send out a round-up of 3-6 poems by OP Members every Sunday or every other Sunday. The first few round-ups will feature poems that are already in the queue on the member poem sharing form as well as the few that were up on Ghost. After that, I’ll start sharing newer ones. Please read the step-by-step on sharing your poem here:

5. One perk for all members is access to free year-round submissions. This used to just be for our Poet of the Week category but now it includes all non-contest categories. More details on there here:

As always, please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any questions. Email: editors@onlypoems.com at any time and we’ll get back to you within a couple of days (usually much sooner).

May the alphabet sing to you,

Shannan & Karan

What is the ONLY POEMS Membership?

A community? A portal? A joyous poetic universe unfurling before our eyes? All of the above! Okay, well simply put yes, this is a community for poets who want direct access to our editors, feedback from fellow writers, and exclusive benefits to support their publishing journey. Members get to submit work through a dedicated portal (bypassing our regular submissions queue), share poetry with other members for feedback and encouragement, and receive discounts on our workshops, editorial feedback services, and merch, woohoo!

What are the membership tiers and pricing?

We’ve got three ways to join us:

• Monthly at $19/month - All core benefits with flexible monthly billing

• Annual at $99/year ($8.25/month) - Save 57% compared to monthly (poet math!)

• Friend at $169/year - All benefits PLUS 1 FREE Workshop, 1 FREE Editorial Feedback Letter, and 1 FREE personalized list of 10-20 lit mag submission suggestions (that’s a $300+ value, friends!)

  ---

What benefits do I get as a member?

All paid members receive:

• Free submissions via member-only portal - skip the slush pile entirely and share your work directly with our editors. UPDATE: This will now apply for all our non-contest categories, not just Poet of the Week!

• Access to our membership portal where you can share poetry and receive feedback and encouragement from other poets who give a damn about the work.

• 22% off all ONLY POEMS Workshops and Editorial Feedback services - to get better at the craft, enjoy deeper insight into your work, and continue the ever-long journey of learning

• 11% off all OP merch - that’s the full merch store with stickers, apparel, totes, and more!

• Friend tier members get all of that PLUS three absolutely massive freebies: one FREE workshop (usually $90), one FREE editorial feedback letter alongside one FREE personalized list of 10-20 lit mag submission suggestions tailored specifically to your work and aesthetic (usually $250). That’s over $300 in value, which means this tier basically pays for itself if you were planning to use any of these services anyway.

How does the member-only submission portal work?

Instead of going through our regular open submissions process, members can submit poetry directly to our editors through a dedicated portal. This gives you a direct line to share your work with us outside of our regular reading periods. It’s like having a backstage pass.

Do I get to submit poems to ONLY POEMS for free?

Yes! OP Members can submit via our members-only portal year-round—for free—directly to our editors.

What’s the workshop included in the Friend tier? Can I choose?

You’ll receive a credit that you can use for any upcoming workshop (value up to $90). Please email us at least 4 weeks before the workshop date to let us know which workshop you’d like to register for.

What kind of editorial feedback do I get?

Friends get one full letter of editorial feedback (on up to 10 pages of poetry) for free (please email us to request this). Thoughtful, line-specific, and totally honest. If you’re a Member, you still get 22% off if you ever want to purchase feedback separately. You can fill out this form to request feedback.

What’s in the lit mag submission suggestions list?

It’s a curated list of 10–20 journals based on your aesthetic, themes, and publishing goals with reasons for each pick. It’s designed to help you submit smarter, not harder.

How do I share my poetry here?

Detailed information here:

Every Sunday or every other Sunday, we’ll publish 3-6 member poems in our weekly Member Poetry Roundup where other members can read, comment, and engage with your work. We feature poems in the order they’re received (first-come-first-served), and you can submit one poem per month. Posts remain members-only. You’ll get a Contributor invitation via email once you submit through our form, and then your poem will be queued for an upcoming Sunday roundup.

Why did you move to Substack?

We were on Ghost for a while, but ran into persistent technical issues (the platform just wasn’t quite there yet for what we needed). Since we’re already hanging out on Substack for our other publications, it made sense to bring everyone together in one place. This means we can give the membership community more consistent attention, and honestly, it’s just easier for everyone to manage. Plus, Substack makes billing and membership management way less of a headache!

Is this for new poets or more experienced ones?

Both. Whether you’ve never submitted before or have ten Pushcart noms (or wins!), there’s value here, especially in giving and receiving feedback.

I’m already a member on Ghost. What happens to my membership?

Great news: nothing changes for you! Your membership will automatically transfer over to Substack. You won’t be double-charged, and your billing cycle stays exactly the same.

Can I buy this for someone else as a gift?

Yes indeed. Just click the button below or email us if you have specific questions!

Give a gift subscription

Can I switch between tiers or cancel anytime?

Yep! Substack makes it super easy to upgrade, downgrade, or cancel your membership anytime through your account settings. No need to email us, though we’re always happy to help if you run into issues.

Is this just a donation or do I actually get stuff?

You actually get stuff. We’re deeply allergic to fluff. This isn’t a donation (though we appreciate your support!) — each tier is packed with real, useful benefits for working poets. Feedback, workshops, submission resources, and community.

I have a question that isn’t answered here. Who do I contact?

Easy: just email us or reach out here. We’re super helpful. Promise.

Only OP members can access this year-round free submissions portal! 💙

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Only OP members can share their poetry here! 💙

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First off, welcome (welcome back that is, to many of you)!

Bit of background

Our membership portal has seen a few iterations and homes now in the year and a half that we’ve tried to figure out the best way to present, share, and build this thing. Sometimes, even I forget that ONLY POEMS is just a couple years old and we’re babies trying to get our feet to move right.

In any case, we’re hoping that at least for the next little while, this new home on Substack will feel right. Though we were on Ghost for a while, a number of issues lead us back here.

In short:

• Practical issues with the platform not quite being there in terms of technical refinement (read: couldn’t get the thing to work how we needed it to in a number of scenarios)

• We’re already on Substack a lot so it just makes sense to host the membership portal here as well (it allows us to give this space more consistent attention as we see how to grow and nurture our wonderful community)

• Outreach and connection (while I do see Substack has issues, at the moment it is just an easier space than Ghost in terms of sharing and connecting with the literary community. If that changes, which I don’t doubt it will, we’ll think of ways to evolve beyond this!).

• Billing and membership management (A lot of folks were finding it difficult to navigate this via the Ghost x Stripe combo…Substack makes this much much easier!)

Looking forward

Over 2026, we’re going to try and get into a stable flow when it comes to our membership portal here. Our usual perks will remain of course but we’re also going to experiment with some cool stuff (one hint: member open mics!).

Thank you so much for bearing with us through it all. We’re so glad you’re here! We do not take your readership and support for granted. Your contribution and participation makes ONLY POEMS possible. Thank you for helping fill the world with poetry!

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