On poetry as a gateway to finding balance in an uncertain time.

Time to practice self-care. We seem to hear that quip a lot, in ‘these unprecedented times.’ So much of the world is now coming at us fast and furious, as the sound bite morphs into the sound bark, and we’re told what to fear next.

Now (more than ever), you need a positive distraction. Poetry can provide that. Like we’ve said before, while we all consume media and entertainment, we don’t consume enough (or in lots of cases, any) poetry. It doesn’t have to be this way. For more than going on 46 years, the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association (SFPA) has been featuring the very best in speculative, fantasy, horror and hard science fiction poetry. And while you can read and subscribe to their quarterly publication, they also feature an annual publication with the annual Rhysling Award Winners. Think of it as the very best of the best. The Rhyslings have been awarded since 1978, and past recipients have included such literary luminaries as Joe Haldeman, Mary Turzillo, and Ursula K. Le Guin.

These plumb the depths of speculative fiction, with categorizes including short and long form poetry.

Some of our faves from this season include:

Walking in the Starry World by John Philip Johnson

While my village slept, I slipped out

and made my way to the river. The world

had grown smaller and soft along the edges.

Even the stars hung lower, flickering

just beyond the branches.

While my village dreamt, I felt the world

become a dream. On the great hill, I climbed

to the top of the largest tree. There I clung above

the canopy, swaying. The world had never been

so wide, and the sky was wider still, yet close.

While my village was away, I used a stick to hit

a star. One fell, a boulder of moonlight, burning,

with a tail of white flame. It struck the hill, filling

the woods with luminous white milk, pouring

to the river. I cupped some of my hands to drink.

While my village woke, I returned. I told them

what I had seen, how our village is not small

but vast, how we are made of light,

how the light turned everything into shine—

and how my lips still burned from drinking it.

Or this excerpt from The Goth Girl’s Gun Gang by Marisca Pichette

she passed a bullet from her tongue

to mine.

It tasted like blood—

metallic, sweet as the lilies lining

our sisters’ desert graves…

or the excerpt from Deadweight by Jack Cooper:

Fuel rigs stud Neptune’s water-ammonia like splinters of spasming

skin. Each rig is the size of a city: ceramic teardrops lying on their side

with a tangle of pipes trailing from them. The rigs face into relentless

winds, sonic booms rippling down their hulls like silk…

Heady stuff for sure… and that’s just a brief taste of the rich poetry that the 2024 Rhysling Anthology has to offer for the speculative poetry reader or writer, in these 'unprecedented times.'