The prompt was, “Write a poem about spiderwebs.”
Spiders wait in corners
of intricate webs —
their trappings
lovely
by design.
Once, I thought,
“What a fool to be stuck,”
but now,
older
(and none the wiser, by any means),
I see their elaborations
and think myself a fly.
In March of 2009, the poet Rachel McKibbens introduced the poetry community to the concept of the “ghost line”. McKibbens defines the ghost line as “an inspiring line or image that becomes the unseen first line of a poem”.
The poet Ollie Schminkey provided their readers with a poetry prompt on April 9, 2025.
The prompt is as follows:
Use a line of a lyric from a song you have been listening to as a ghost line.
Here are a few more “ghost line” poems.
i: rain
These shapes I see in the darkness all conform
to your figure
and your cologne is like petrichor but faint.
I think if I listen to the silence long enough,
I can hear you whisper my name.
(Don’t tell anyone –
they’d think I belong in bedlam.)
But, as I trace raindrops along my windows,
I remember scribbling in my Latin book,
Amantes sunt amuntes –
lovers are lunatics –
and it doesn’t take the taste of rain to know
the truth.
I’ll continue to watch the raindrops trickle down
and chase shadows in the dark,
but I won’t surrender to the madness
because this is love and every silent evening,
I whisper to see if I can hear your echo.
ii: changing seasons
Here we are, chasing these temporary highs
like nightcrawlers leaning close to their radios,
begging for a fix,
but in a sad state of panic,
you told me you thought your blood froze to ice
(and you said you didn’t want to self-destruct
to stay warm).
I offered you a cigarette,
but you shook your head and said,
“I don’t want a solution for my problems –
just someone who can commiserate.”
So, we went outside in autumn
and watched the leaves change colors for a while.
You told me,
“It’s nice to remember that even dying can be
beautiful
for some.”
iii: hiraeth
Every broken bone I never set right
aches on me
as though I have been falling asleep in airports.
I’m never where I want to be
because I swear, I don’t know where I want to be.
Is it homesickness, even if you don’t know
where your home is?
I traveled a thousand miles from here
just to end up back in this wasteland
and I booked a train ride
out of town
because a girl with straw-blonde hair
read from the Rider-Waite tarot deck,
telling me to leave this city behind.
(But everything hurts when I remember
the details.)
I watch it all like it’s a dream.
I pretend it’s not my life,
but that has to stop.
Everything hurts like an unexplained car crash,
but even though I’m a thousand miles away,
I’m the one behind the wheel.
(And is it homesickness,
even if you’re already home?)
In March of 2009, the poet Rachel McKibbens introduced the poetry community to the concept of the “ghost line”. McKibbens defines the ghost line as “an inspiring line or image that becomes the unseen first line of a poem”.
The poet Ollie Schminkey provided their readers with a poetry prompt on April 9, 2025.
The prompt is as follows:
Use a line of a lyric from a song you have been listening to as a ghost line.
i: softening
Before they exhume our bodies
from this cold hard earth,
I will make a subtle plea,
begging you to quiet that nest
you have woven in your skull.
(Silence the birds or hornets or whomever
comes to roost
in the twigs and branches there.)
Before they dig our bodies
from this cemetery ground,
I will make a hushed demand.
Relax your body beside me.
Your skeleton is crafted of exquisite granite,
but I remember when it was bone.
Soften, my love,
and be still.
ii: out-of-focus romance
This twig and branch nest sculpture is home
to a part of me I have never named.
Creatures who blur the edges of memory
when a lover is involved.
(It’s not that I don’t remember –
it just becomes out-of-focus
like a dream.)
This is what happens when you have been raised
on tawdry romances and inescapable dreams.
iii: love extinguished
These wraiths might not catch breath
as they dance along cobblestone,
but, so long as I am here
with you, my love,
none of the rest matters.
I have diaries scrawled with messages
of love,
dedicated to the creatures
who have blurred the edges
of my memories.
Yet I watch the apparitions
and know the truth.
I have you, and you have me.
(We are here among tombstones,
and love like ours cannot be extinguished.)
Isabelle Palerma 