Children’s demands can be high, and their standards can be exacting. It’s a good thing they’re loveable.

We’re pleased to offer Caroline Bird’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

What do we achieve in our fighting? How can we turn to hope and our deepest nature?

We’re pleased to offer Marilyn Nelson’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

Is something lost once it’s gone? How do we blend sadness with sweet memory?

We’re pleased to offer Richard Blanco’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

Is the light a comfort and the night disturbing? Yusef Komunyakaa explores the life and brilliance of what’s in shadow and darkness.

We’re pleased to offer Yusef Komunyakaa’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

A poem inviting us to discover our brilliance and our nothingness. Both true. Both vital.

We’re pleased to offer Hannah Emerson’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

A song of praise to the crop-top from a crop-top-wearing man who encounters comments in public and sings and swings.

We’re pleased to offer Kyle Carrero Lopez’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

A seven-year poem: from the start of the process to bring a mother to live in the US to the time she walks through the gate.

We’re pleased to offer Divya Victor’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

We carry memory in our body: memories of our own selves, but memories of our forebears, too — talking with them as we walk, learning from them as they inquire.

We’re pleased to offer Denise Low’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

How do you speak with your mother when she’s forgotten who you are? By turning to myth, it seems, and by holding gentleness with bewilderment, love with patience. Rita Dove lets us overhear a phone call, and in this listening, we hear lifetimes unfold.

We’re pleased to offer Rita Dove’s poem, and invite you to sign up here for the latest from Poetry Unbound.

Poetry Unbound with host Pádraig Ó Tuama is back on Monday, April 11. Featured poets in this season include Rita Dove, Joshua Bennett, Tiana Clark, Yu Xiuhua, and many more. New episodes released every Monday and Friday through June 3.

Follow us on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Podcasts, Overcast, or wherever you listen.

While preparing for the next season of Poetry Unbound, host Pádraig Ó Tuama sat down with Krista Tippett for a conversation about the power of poetry to find us at the exact moment we need it. Pádraig and Krista also invite listeners to share their experience of Poetry Unbound through our survey.

You can also sign up for the latest updates from Poetry Unbound.

In a poem brimming with love and nostalgia for winter, a poet leaves California to return to their Minnesotan homeplace, a place where winter makes sense, where sadness makes sense, where the isolation that’s at the heart of humanity can be met with a landscape that can contain it. Here, solitude is looked at with wisdom and necessity. A season can deepen the human experience. Joy finds new expressions.

What if the planet were as loved as a child? Taking the story of his daughter’s fever when she was one, Craig Santos Perez reflects on everything he did — and would have done — for his daughter’s health. Her temperature rose and his love and response did, too. The temperature of the world rises, and he wonders who loves the earth enough to respond, and who doesn’t.

Standing at the edge of a desert, surveying the stars on a December morning, the speaker in this poem observes the everything of everything. He is so small; the universe is so loud and so silent. Thinking about the enormity of all this, he thinks of the smallness of the hearts of birds, wasps, moths, bats, and dragonflies — all flying things around him, suspended in space, like the earth is suspended in space. His own heart, too, echoes the universe’s noise.

Yeshiva students stand around in the middle of the night while firemen find the cause of the alarm. It’s a student — distressed by distressing news at home. The teachers cancel classes for the morning after. A poem can describe one thing, but point to another, and beyond the drama of this 2 a.m. scene is a question about whether the presence of God can dwell among those plagued by sadness, or whether God only dwells there.

In a taxi, a poet speaks to the driver. It’s the only taxi in town. He mentions travel, mentions Afghanistan, that he was there with the forces. She’s from Afghanistan and the conversation continues — awkward; complicated; him trying to say good things, but failing; her feeling like she should rescue him, but deciding not to. War is upended by the point of view of a person in whose country the war was fought. Underneath the action of the poem is a question about whether conversation is possible, and an appreciation for silence.

Why do empty places sometimes lend themselves to reflection or contemplation? In this poem, a poet — describing herself as a nonbeliever — goes into a chapel to sit. In the corner there are some girls talking, there are stained glass windows, and the poet is at once at home in herself and far from the woman she loves. The high emptiness of the church seems to give a resting place for the emptiness she’s feeling. While there’s no resolution, the larger empty space offers a holding place for the poet.

In a poem called a “Song,” Linda Hogan crafts a song for turtles and other creatures killed through oil spills in the gulf. At once a praise song for the beauty of the sea, the earth, and its animals, this song also functions as a lament: for the history erased by industrial practices; for the lack of respect and love for living breathing other-than-human lives; for plastic and the plastic containers used to hold the body of a dead sea turtle. The poem veers towards a prayer, too, begging forgiveness for being “thrown off true.”