Five Poems on Loss from Anna A. Friedrich

Commissioned Poems from the Rabbit Room Poetry Substack

Using this Substack to Commission New Poems

We have big dreams for this little poetry Substack. It is the latest expression of the Rabbit Room’s larger mission to cultivate and curate works of art, music, and story for the life of the world. We are going to use this platform to:

1. Discover and promote the work of talented poets.

2. Gather and mobilize the poetry community at the Rabbit Room.

3. Use the funds from your paid subscriptions to commission work from poets in the community.

Number Three on that list starts today.

Anna A. Friedrich is lecturing on poetry, pain, and loss at the Rabbit Room’s upcoming Hutchmoot Conference (Oct 5-8). Since she is also a skilled poet, we thought it would be fitting to invite her to become our first poet commissioned by the Rabbit Room Substack.

Anna has offered us five beautiful and subtle poems that live in the land of the theme of loss and grief. I’d say “enjoy them,” but that is not the sort of thing you do with this theme or these poems, except in the sense that there is a kind of joy that comes from experiencing difficult truths stated with craft.

Make yourself a cup of tea and let the poems lead you slowly into whatever goodness, truth, and beauty they hold for you.

Also, if this topic speaks to where you are right now, take a look at Every Moment Holy Volume 2: Death, Grief, and Hope. The liturgies in Vol 2 can help us face the most harrowing moments in our lives and remind us that our lives are shot through with sacred purpose and eternal hopes even when suffering and pain threaten to overwhelm us.

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Ways You Went

After Hopkins and Wiman

I wake up in a crowded room.

Dreams that worked my jaw all night
press in then dissipate. Alone, I turn to see
my husband is already up, the kettle proves 
he knows I love hot coffee when 

I wake. Up in a crowded room
in heaven, that cloud of witnesses
turns to see me rise 
into a new day— bra, skirt, sweater,
shoes, keys, guilt that pokes
and nags and wonders why

I wake up. In the crowded room
behind my eyes spreadsheets spread
while I drive, demanding—
Total the lattes this year. 
Add the cost of oil used against 
the hunger and injustice in your

wake. Up in a crowded room
in the city, elected men address
their lists and calendars: power
calls to power, maneuvering
in the graceless dark that you and

I wake up in. A crowded room
is no place to ask Where is God?

But go ahead.