Crossing The Bar – Alfred Lord Tennyson

What comes to mind when you hear the word “farewell”? It might feel heavy or sad for some, like saying goodbye to your favorite summer vacation spot. For Alfred Lord Tennyson however, farewells were wrapped in beauty, calmness, and hope. His poem “Crossing the Bar” is the perfect example of this.

Imagine standing at the edge of the ocean at sunset. There’s a soft breeze, a golden glow, and that feeling of being connected to something much bigger than yourself. That’s the atmosphere Tennyson creates in this poem. The “bar” he talks about isn’t just a sandbar, it’s the metaphorical boundary between life and whatever comes next. Tennyson’s language is peaceful, “no moaning of the bar,” he says. He doesn’t want any dramatic goodbyes. He pictures his departure from life as a quiet, smooth tide pulling him out to sea.

One of the most beautiful parts of this poem is the mention of the “Pilot” at the end. He allows us as readers to interpret who the Pilot was. For some, it’s God, guiding him safely to his next destination. For others, it could simply be a representation of peace or clarity.

Even though “Crossing the Bar” is about death, it’s surprisingly comforting. Instead of dreading what’s ahead, Tennyson embraces it with open arms. He reminds us that endings don’t have to be filled with sadness. They can be calm, even beautiful.

This poem shows us that the next time you’re stressed about something coming to an end such as a friendship, a project, or a school year, remember Tennyson’s words. Not every ending has to feel like a storm; some can be as peaceful as a tide rolling in.

“Crossing the Bar” isn’t just a poem about leaving, it’s about moving forward with grace and hope. Tennyson turns something as daunting as death into a serene and almost magical experience.

How To Triumph Like A Girl – Ada Limon

Delaney Van Brunt

I like the lady horses best,
how they make it all look easy,
like running 40 miles per hour
is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger,
after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
But mainly, let’s be honest, I like
that they’re ladies. As if this big, dangerous animal
is also a part of me, that somewhere inside
the delicate skin of my body,
there pumps an 8-pound female horse heart,
giant with power, heavy with blood.
Don’t you want to believe it?
Don’t you want to lift my shirt and see
the huge beating genius machine
that thinks, no, it knows,
it’s going to come in first.

Ada Limón’s poem “How to Triumph Like a Girl” feels like a pep talk from your coolest friend. It’s a short, simple poem, but it packs a punch—like a boost of energy for your confidence. Let’s dive into why this poem is so fun and empowering.

Limón starts by talking about how much she loves “lady horses.” She admires how they run fast like 40 miles per hour and make it look easy. She compares running to something as simple as taking a nap or chewing on grass. They’re not just fast, they have swagger. After they win, they carry themselves with confidence. Limón writes, “Ears up, girls, ears up!” It’s playful and makes you smile, as if the horses know they’re awesome.

This part of the poem reminds us to take life’s challenges and turn them into something enjoyable. Why not face difficulties with a little attitude and have fun?

Then, the poem takes a personal turn. Limón says she loves the horses because she feels connected to them. She imagines that inside her chest is an 8-pound horse heart. That’s a wild idea, but it’s also inspiring. She’s saying that she feels strong, powerful, and capable, just like the horses she admires.

We all have moments of doubt when we feel small or unsure of ourselves. Limón’s message is clear: You’re stronger than you think. Imagine that big, powerful heart inside you. It’s beating with strength and determination. Doesn’t that make you feel unstoppable?

Limón ends the poem by saying that her horse heart “knows it’s going to come in first.” That’s not about being better than anyone else, it’s about believing in yourself. She’s encouraging us to have confidence in our abilities and to show up like we’re ready to win.

Think about how often we hold ourselves back because we’re scared of failing or we think we’re not good enough. Limón is telling us to shake off those fears. Be the lady horse. Run with confidence. And even if you don’t come in first, you still showed up with your ears up and your heart pumping.

What makes “How to Triumph Like a Girl” so special is how simple and relatable it is. Limón’s words feel like a conversation with a friend. She’s not using complicated language or talking down to you. She’s sharing something personal, but it also feels universal, like she’s speaking directly to you.

This poem reminds us to find joy in what we do, believe in our inner strength, and face life with a little bit of swagger. So next time you need a boost, think about that 8-pound horse heart inside you.

“The Last Move”

By Ada Limon

It was only months when i felt like i had been washing the dishes forever.

hardwood planks under the feet, a cord to the sky. What is it to go from a We to an I?

Each time he left for an errand, the walls would squeeze me in. I cried over the nonexistent bathmat, wet floor of him, how south we were, far away in the outskirts

(All the new bugs.)

I put my apron on as a joke and waltzed around carrying a zucchini like a child.

This is Kentucky, not New York, and i am not important

This was before we got the dog even, and before I trusted the paralyzing tranquilizer of love stuck in the flesh of my neck.

Back home, in my apartment, another woman lived there. In Brooklyn, by the deli, where everything was clean and contained.

(Where i grieved my deaths.)

I took to my hands and knees. I was thinking about the novel i was writing. The great heavy chest of live animals i had been dragging around for years; what’s life?

I made the house so clean (shine and shine and shine)

I was suspicious of the monkey sounds of Kentucky’s birds, judging crackles, rusty mailboxes, spiders in the Magnolia tree, tornado talk, dead June bugs like pinto beans.

Somewhere I had heard of that, after noting the lack of water pressure in an old hotel in Los Angeles, they found a woman’s body at the bottom of the cistern

Imagine, just thinking the water was low, just wanting to take a shower.

After that, when the water would act weird, spurt or gurgle, I’d imagine a body, a woman, a me, just years ago, freely single, happily unaccounted for, at the lowest curve of the water tower.

Yes, and over and over I’d press her limbs down with a long pole, until she was still.

“The Last Move” really struck me because it’s about something we all go through at some point moving on and leaving behind something familiar, feeling totally lost in the process. The poem follows a woman who’s left her old life and is now stuck in a new, unfamiliar place, feeling disconnected from herself and everything around her.

The title “The Last Move”, Its simple, but powerful. It’s not just about physically moving houses; it’s about the emotional toll of leaving behind a life and trying to figure out who you are afterward. As a senior about to graduate and start a new chapter, this title hits home. It’s like saying goodbye to high school, friends, and the routines we’ve known for years. The speaker in the poem asks, “What is it to go from a We to an I?” and that question can be asked by any person in multiple different scenarios, especially when you’re about to make a big change and suddenly realize you’re on your own.

One of the lines that really stood out to me is, “Each time he left for an errand, the walls would squeeze me in.” It creates such a strong image of how small and trapped she feels in her new life. It’s not just about the physical space, it’s about how her world feels like it’s closing in on her without the comfort of her partner or her old life. I can picture her standing there in a silent house, feeling the weight of all that loneliness. And then she cries over the “nonexistent bathmat,” which feels like such a small detail, but it says so much about how overwhelmed she is by everything she’s lost, even the tiniest things.

during the moment where she talks about waltzing around with a zucchini like a child, showing humor and sadness. It seems as though she’s trying to fill the emptiness with anything she can, but it’s just not enough. Her life feels out of place, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. That’s something I think a lot of us can relate to when we’re facing a big change, we try to act like everything’s fine, maybe even make a joke out of it, but deep down, we know we’re struggling.

The poem shifts when she starts talking about Brooklyn, where she used to live, compared to her new life in Kentucky. “This is Kentucky, not New York, and I am not important,” she says, and it’s so clear how out of place she feels. It made me think about how we all have those places where we feel like we belong, and when we leave, it’s like a part of us gets left behind, too. In Brooklyn, she had her routine, her identity, and a sense of who she was. Now, in Kentucky, everything feels strange “spiders in the Magnolia tree,” “rusty mailboxes,” and “dead June bugs.” The images she uses are so vivid and unsettling, like she’s in a world that doesn’t make sense to her anymore.

One of the most haunting parts of the poem is when she talks about a woman’s body being found in a water cistern, and she imagines herself as that woman. “I’d imagine a body, a woman, a me,” she says, which is honestly pretty creepy, but it makes sense. She’s feeling so submerged in her new life that it’s like she’s drowning, trapped under all this pressure and unable to break free. It’s a powerful metaphor for how lost and invisible she feels.

The way the poem is structured adds to this feeling of chaos. The lines are all over the place. There’s enjambment, which makes the thoughts spill into each other, like her mind is racing and she can’t get a break. There are also these little asides in parentheses, like “(All the new bugs)” and “(Where I grieved my deaths),” which feel like her inner voice, commenting on everything she’s seeing and feeling. It’s like we’re getting a peek into her mind and seeing how jumbled and overwhelmed she is by it all.

Reading “The Last Move” made me think about how it feels to be on the edge of something big, like leaving high school and heading into the unknown. The speaker’s sense of disconnection, of not feeling like she belongs in her new life, really hit me. As graduation gets closer, I think a lot of us are feeling that mix of excitement and fear. We’re about to move into something new, but there’s also the sadness of leaving behind what we’ve always known.

Bright Dead Things – Ada Limon

In 2022, Ada Limón was appointed the United States poet laureate. Born on March 28, 1976, she is originally from Sonoma, California. As a child, she was greatly influenced by the visual arts and artists, including her mother, Stacia Brady. In 2001, Limón received an MFA from the creative writing program at New York University.

Limón’s first collection of poetry, Lucky Wreck (Autumn House Press, 2006), was the winner of the 2005 Autumn House Poetry Prize. She is also the author of The Hurting Kind (Milkweed Editions, 2022); The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018); Bright Dead Things (Milkweed Editions, 2015), which was a finalist for the National Book Award; Sharks in the Rivers (Milkweed Editions, 2010); and This Big Fake World (Pearl Editions, 2006), winner of the 2005 Pearl Poetry Prize. Of Limón’s work, the poet Richard Blanco writes, “Both soft and tender, enormous and resounding, her poetic gestures entrance and transfix.”

A 2001–2002 fellow at the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center and a Guggenheim Fellow, Limón has also received a grant from the New York Foundation for the Arts and won the Chicago Literary Award for Poetry. In April 2023, Limón served as Guest Editor of the Poem-a-Day series. In the same year, she was the recipient of a MacArthur “Genius” Grant.

Limón splits her time between Lexington, Kentucky, and Sonoma, California.

Nothing is Okay – Rachel Wiley

Rachel Wiley is a queer, biracial poet and performer from Columbus, Ohio. She is a fellow and faculty member of the Pink Door Writing Retreat held annually for women and nonbinary writers of color in upstate New York. She is the author of two full length poetry collections Fat Girl Finishing School and Nothing is Okay, published by Button Poetry. Her latest collection is Revenge Body. Rachel has represented Columbus at multiple National Poetry Slam Competitions and was a finalist twice in 2011. She has toured nationally performing at slam venues, colleges, and festivals. Her work has appeared on Upworthy, The Huffington Post, The Militant Baker, and Everyday Feminism.