excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
A Black Superwoman
What comes to mind when you hear the word superwoman? For some, it’s a comic book character with superpowers and a cape. But in reality, the true image of a superwoman doesn’t need fictional powers—it exists in real life. A Black superwoman is not just a stereotype; she is a living embodiment of resilience, courage, and brilliance, carrying communities on her shoulders while inspiring generations to rise higher.
By John Smithabout a year ago in Poets
The light house 🏡
The lighthouse had always stood like a sentinel on the edge of the cliff—tall, steadfast, and unyielding against the raging sea. To most, it was just a tower of stone and light. To me, it was home. And more than that, it was my grandfather. He was the last keeper of this lighthouse. In a world that had already moved on to automation and machines, he remained—climbing the spiral stairs every evening, trimming the wick of the great lamp, and watching the sea with a patience that felt almost holy. As a child, I didn’t understand why he worked so hard. “Why does it matter?” I once asked him. “The ships can see the shore. They don’t need you.” He smiled in that quiet, knowing way of his and said, “A light doesn’t ask who it saves. It just shines. That’s its purpose.” At the time, I didn’t really grasp it. To me, it was just an old man in a lonely tower. But as I grew older, I realized he wasn’t just tending to a light—he was tending to hope. Storms and Stories Some nights, storms would roll in like beasts unleashed. I remember one night in particular—thunder splitting the sky, waves climbing so high I thought the sea would swallow us whole. I was terrified, clinging to him, begging him to stay inside. But he shook his head. “If the light goes out, someone out there may never find their way home.” So he climbed, step after step, into the howling dark. His lantern swayed, his hands steady, his face set with determination. I watched from the window, heart hammering, until the great beam finally cut through the storm again. That night, a fishing boat made it back safely to the harbor. I’ll never forget the look on my grandfather’s face as he watched its lights flicker into the distance. It wasn’t pride, not exactly. It was something deeper—like peace. The Empty Lighthouse Years passed. The world changed. Computers took over. The lighthouse was fitted with automation, and keepers were no longer needed. My grandfather stayed as long as he could, but eventually, the day came when he had to leave. He aged quickly after that. Maybe it was the silence, or maybe a man built for storms cannot survive the calm. And then, one winter night, he was gone. The sea was restless the evening we buried him. I remember sitting on the rocks near the tower, staring at the beam as it swept across the horizon. The lighthouse stood strong, its light steady. But to me, it felt unbearably empty. I thought of all the times he told me, “A light doesn’t ask who it saves.” And for the first time, I understood—he hadn’t just been talking about ships. He had been talking about life. About kindness. About love. Returning Home Now, years later, I find myself back at that cliffside. The lighthouse no longer needs a keeper, but still, when the beam circles across the dark sea, I feel him beside me. I hear his voice in the wind—steady, strong, loving. “Shine, no matter what. Someone out there needs it.” And I realize that I don’t need a tower to keep his promise alive. Every act of compassion, every moment I choose to help someone instead of turning away, is my way of carrying his light. Because lighthouses aren’t just towers by the sea. They are the people who love us enough to guide us through our storms, even when they cannot walk beside us anymore. And as long as I live, I will keep his beam burning. Not from the top of a cliff, but from within my heart.
By ✦•············• Freelancer •············✦about a year ago in Poets
The Last Poem of Willow Street
M Mehran Willow Street was quiet, almost too quiet. Nestled between crumbling brick buildings and fading streetlamps, it had once been alive with music, laughter, and poetry. But the world had changed, and poets—those who could see the extraordinary in the ordinary—had become rare. Among the few who remained was Ada, a young poet with ink-stained fingers and a notebook always tucked under her arm. She had grown up on Willow Street, listening to her grandmother recite verses beneath the maple tree that marked the corner of the street. “Poetry,” her grandmother had said, “is the heartbeat of life. Without it, the world forgets how to feel.” Ada wrote every day, capturing the whispers of the wind, the sighs of old buildings, and the secrets that people never spoke aloud. But she rarely shared her words. Poetry, she had learned, was a fragile thing—one misstep, one careless comment, and the beauty could shatter. One evening, the street buzzed with unusual activity. A flyer had appeared on every lamppost, announcing a poetry reading at the old community hall—the first in decades. Curiosity drew Ada there, her notebook clutched tightly. Inside, the hall smelled of dust and nostalgia. Wooden chairs, some broken, were arranged in imperfect rows. A single microphone stood on a small stage. The room filled slowly, with faces both familiar and strange. Then came the poets, each carrying their own storm of thoughts. There was Thomas, whose verses were sharp and biting, cutting through pretense; Miriam, who wrote with tenderness so profound it could heal invisible wounds; and Leo, whose words danced like fire on the floor, igniting every listener’s imagination. When Ada’s turn arrived, she hesitated. Her hands shook, and her voice caught in her throat. But then she remembered her grandmother’s words and began to read. Her poem was about Willow Street itself—a silent witness to love, loss, joy, and sorrow. She wrote of the maple tree, now old and bare, that had cradled generations of dreamers. She wrote of the laughter that once echoed in the alleyways, the conversations that had dissolved into memory, and the unspoken promise that life, despite everything, continued. As she spoke, something extraordinary happened. The room fell completely silent. People leaned in, as though the words themselves had weight, pulling them closer. Ada’s trembling voice grew steadier. The street she loved, the memories she cherished, and the poets who had come before her seemed to come alive within her verses. When she finished, there was a pause—long enough to feel like eternity. Then the applause erupted, not just polite clapping, but the sound of hearts opening, of generations reconnecting with a part of themselves they had forgotten. Ada realized she had not just shared a poem; she had breathed life back into Willow Street. After the reading, the poets lingered. They spoke in whispers, sharing stories of their own struggles and triumphs. Ada felt a sense of belonging she had never known. Poetry, she understood now, was more than words—it was community, connection, and courage. Over the next weeks, Willow Street began to awaken. People who had long ignored the faded corners of their neighborhood started leaving notes of verses in windows and on benches. The maple tree became a meeting place again, where poets, young and old, gathered to share their words. Ada and the other poets formed a small circle, teaching and encouraging anyone who wished to write. One night, as Ada sat beneath the maple tree, notebook open, she reflected on the transformation. Poetry had not only returned to Willow Street—it had restored it. The street now pulsed with a quiet energy, a rhythm only those attuned to beauty could hear. Ada wrote a final line in her notebook, looking up at the sky: “Poets are the keepers of memory, the whisperers of truth, the light in shadows. As long as we speak, no street, no heart, no life will ever truly be silent.” And with that, she closed her notebook, knowing that Willow Street would never be forgotten. It would live on in the verses of its poets, in the laughter of those who dared to remember, and in the hearts of everyone who believed in the enduring power of words. Because poetry, Ada realized, is never truly gone. It waits patiently for the next poet, the next voice brave enough to speak, to remind the world that life is meant to be felt, cherished, and remembered.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Poets
