Hey, maybe I don't need a poem after all.

This sh*t show is feeling a lot less sh*tty.

Well damn. Last time I posted, I was pleading for a poem to get me through the sh*t show of the presidential election, the insanity of recent Supreme Court rulings, the ongoing popularity of a certain weird wannabe dictator, and the creeping fascism here and abroad.

But now—wow. Here I am, a few weeks later, feeling actually HOPEFUL. Energized! Pumped!

And extremely relieved.

Ever since the disastrous presidential debate back in June, I’ve been firmly on team “Love You Biden, But You Gotta Drop Out”—as were many, many other people I know. (It wasn’t just the New York Times and “elites,” my friends.) I knew that if he withdrew, no matter who the replacement candidate ended up being, it would unleash a surge of hope and energy and momentum.

But even with all the pushback Joe was getting, it still felt like he would never back down. It would just be too big, too unprecedented. Too ACTUALLY GOOD NEWS. Hence me writing mournful meta-poetry on Substack.

Shortly after I did that, my husband and took off to spend some time by a lake in New Hampshire (the place with the wildlife). I was feeling so demoralized and discouraged that I vowed to ignore the news and social media completely. I would just focus on reading books, swimming, hiking, drinking wine, and drinking wine.

But then, on our first full day, just as we reached the top of a little nearby mountain on a late morning hike, our phones started blowing up with texts, and everything changed.

Biden dropped out!
OMG! He’s out!
IT HAPPENED

A few minutes later—after some brief return texting and news-looking—we snapped the below selfie. Look how simultaneously thrilled and terrified we look!

OK, maybe just thrilled. (With that view, how could we not be?) But we were definitely a little anxious on the inside. Because what would happen now? How? When? Who? Would the Dems manage to keep it from becoming the sort of circular firing squad clusterf*ck they so excel at? Would progressives and moderates start bare-knuckle boxing in the streets?

But within hours—minutes?—it was clear that Kamala was going to be the candidate. And instead of people freaking out and being all “She can’t win! She’ll be a terrible candidate! We’re doomed if she runs!” as so many people had been saying for so long (I confess, I was one of them), suddenly it was just: LET’S GOOOOOOOO!!!! 🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥🌴🥥

It’s been that way ever since. And I am fucking loving it.

Look, I’m not naive enough to think that the forces of MAGAism and Christofascism and all the other bad -isms will be defeated in November, or ever. But for the moment, I’m feeling a whole lot better about things—and I suspect a lot of you reading this feel the same way.

So perhaps you, like me, no longer feel quite as desperate for poetry. Or inclined to write it yourself.

Speaking of which: I must say, it was unexpected and sort of delightful and fun that many people (including some actual poets!) thought that that thing I wrote *did* in fact count as a poem.

Then again, there was a brief time in my life—specifically, the year that Where the Sidewalk Ends came into my life—when I wrote copious amounts of poetry. Behold, my first (and only) chapbook, Over The Rainbow ©1981

And two poems from it, which showcase my immense range—from paens to rainbows, hearts, unicorns and other Lisa Frank fodder, to wholesale ripoffs of Shel Silverstein poems.

Note bold choice to repeat “in the sky.”

My line breaks definitely needed some work.

Anyway.

November—and the future of America—may still end up being a sh*t show. Meanwhile, war is still raging and the planet is still warming and AI is still, eventually going to kill us all. But at least there’s a little more hope in the mix.

Here’s a poem by an actual poet that I think sums that sentiment up pretty well.

Thanks

BY W. S. MERWIN

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water thanking it

standing by the windows looking out

in our directions

.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

.

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the door

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks we are saying thank you

in the faces of the officials and the rich

and of all who will never change

we go on saying thank you thank you

.

with the animals dying around us

taking our feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

of our lives we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us

we are saying thank you faster and faster

with nobody listening we are saying thank you

thank you we are saying and waving

dark though it is

---

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription, or buying my poetry-free novel. Thank you!