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Apr 26, 2026
This week’s themeWords found in poetry This week’s words swale swound viand adamantine verdurous How popular are they? Relative usage over time AWADmail archives Index Next week’s theme Geometrical terms used figuratively Wordsmith Games
AWADmail Issue 1243A Compendium of Feedback on the Words in A.Word.A.Day and Other Tidbits about Words and LanguageFrom: Anu Garg (words at wordsmith.org) Subject: Interesting stories from the Net How Did Humans Evolve Language? It May Be Far More Ancient Than Scientists Realized Scientific American Permalink ”Mind-Blowing” Baby Chick Study Challenges A Theory of How Humans Evolved Language Scientific American Permalink It’s 2026. Why Are We Still Speaking “English”? The Washington Post Permalink From: Anu Garg (words at wordsmith.org) Subject: Poetry In this week’s AWAD, I invited readers to share their stories about poetry. Here’s a selection.
As an angsty teenager, I wrote a poem that has stuck with me to this day
(I’m 69). I wrote no poetry after that until a casual friend made me realize
that I, in my 50s, could, in fact, write poetry. Did so only briefly,
then forgot again. When my mother died recently at 97, my sister discovered a poem that I had written her for Mother’s Day many years earlier, which she had framed, and which I had completely forgotten about. In it, I was able to exactly capture my experience of my mom, and put it into words that quite poignantly painted a picture of how I saw her. It moves me to tears even now. I hope to be able to do this again for my only grandkid on his first birthday this week. -Beth Sandel, Cheval Blanc, France (bethjsandel hotmail.com)
I am from Urbana, Illinois and I live in Pontoise, France. I am 67 now. When I was young, I was a saxophonist. I went to the World Saxophone Congress in 1979 and there I heard the person who really played it like I thought it should be. I got his name and a year later I showed up at his door in Paris and really learned like in a dream. I met my French wife and put her through med school by teaching the saxophone. I was so happy. I quit teaching so I could raise our three children and compose. When they were small I got a knock on my head and went to the hospital to get sewn up. I woke up three days later with some lady I didn’t know telling me I had a brain tumor! I really wasn’t expecting that. I tried playing the saxophone after my operation but it really didn’t work. Other victims of left prefrontal injury say the same thing -- that without certain mathematical faculties, music no longer works the same way. I was so frustrated and sad. I really loved my music. Then I thought of the fun I had in high school writing poetry. I tried and IT WORKED! I measured once, and over these twenty-some years I have written poems that take up a stack of paper over sixty five centimeters thick. I can put so much into them! I am so happy and your quotation was so right. So I am a poet now, by accident! -Richard Bray, Pontoise, France (rdbray wanadoo.fr)
Email of the Week -- Brought to you by One Up!
While I don’t write poetry often, I have the opportunity each Apr to encourage
students in my realm to write some poetry that is often inspiring, amazing,
or simply heart-wrenching. As a school librarian, I have them create a poem using just the titles of any books they can find in
our collection. They spend time wandering around the library to see what
titles appeal to them. They use the catalog to find a title that fills
in a missing gap (and get frustrated by how few titles fit their vision,
only to eventually find something they like much more than their original
thought.) Try this at home with books that you treasure, perhaps mixed with some you have never read. Here are a few of their poems that I like and that I hope show some of the process as well as the thinking, caring, and cleverness of my students. What could be a better synopsis of the popular middle-grade novel, The Wild Robot, than this poem entitled “Wild Robot”?
The Wild Robot Unsettled Robot Lost in the Woods. “World Hope” First People 500 Nations Infinite Hope Us You Are Here Nature’s Best Hope America’s Lost Treasure The Insiders The Enemy The Anxious Generation Spinning And Yet You Shine And a little 5th grade humor
Unlucky Me There’s a Nightmare in My Closet Creepy Pair of Underwear No One Slept These are even better when you know the kids and see how the one who says they hate poetry comes up with a stellar poem or can feel the angst that brought the poem out into the world. My students learn from A.Word.A.Day, as I try to use new-to-me words with them whenever I can. You can take a little credit for some of their admiration and appreciation of words. -Linda Lakshminarayanan, Ann Arbor, Michigan (llakshmi emerson-school.org)
It was 1964. I had been dating Don since the fall when in Jan he began a
course in Renaissance literature which quickly included a study of the sonnet.
I was also an English major and I got caught up in his assignment to write
a sonnet, so I wrote one too -- about our relationship. We married in
Aug and went off to teach at the University of Hawaii where he came upon
a notice about a sonnet contest and urged me to enter it. W.D. Snodgrass
was the judge, and my poem won third prize. “My Silence Speaks” My silence speaks my need to know you care That my hand touches yours. As I have need To touch, so must I know you need it there. My touch petitions, wordless asks: Please read And answer. Eyes may praise, and kisses may Delight, and gifts of gems my compliment (And give these still), but give me this: Please say Your love in pearls of words. To this consent, And I’ll wear jewels you alone can see Invisible my diadem to all. Unseen the pendant that so heavily Yet lightly moves with breathing’s rise and fall. This I require: To hear your love. I seek And find that you have need for me to speak. It is not often that I am inspired to write a poem, but two autumns ago, one welled up in me like a geyser. I, like some other AWAD readers and contributors, am an avid birder. I was on a tour in Ghana; two fellow birders and I were “staked out” at a particular spot, where we were told we would have to wait, quietly and patiently for a couple of hours, for a remarkable bird to appear: A white-necked rockfowl (genus Picathartes). This long-necked, long-tailed bird, about 20” from bill-tip to tail-tip, builds mud nests underneath rocks or boulders that have a large enough overhang. As we waited for one to arrive to roost at the end of its day, I was inspired to write a poem about the unlikely coming together of a German, a Norwegian, and an American, at the edge of a village in a forest in Ghana, each thinking our own thoughts, surrounded by the colors and sounds of the forest, waiting for a stunning bird to bound up from the undergrowth. In the end, I wrote three poems on that trip, one each for the three unusual or difficult-to-find birds we encountered on the tour. I hope I feel that same inspiration again on another birding adventure. -Marc Chelemer, Tenafly, New Jersey (mc2496 att.com)
Your theme for this week reminded me of an attempt I made years ago
to construct an onomatopoetic poem. I fancied the idea of being an
onomatopoet. It went something like this: The rain pattered and splattered Dropped and plopped on the windowpan e My meditative silence shattered By the distant thunder The swishing wind and rain Caused me to wonder Would I ever be the same again I quickly gave it up, as it was taking on a middle-schoolish quality. Even so, the idea still appeals to me. Maybe I’ll return to it one day. Wait, I hear the low rumble of a train pulling into town ... -Russell Lott, Hattiesburg, Mississippi (russellwlott comcast.net)
I didn’t wake up one morning saying I would like to write a poem. It woke
me up in the third grade. Under the influence of youthful inspiration, I
wrote my first one. It was the beginning of a lifetime of writing. Through
the years I sent poems to national magazines with well over 100 published
and many awards. Here is one: All winter long I wrote love letters to Spring And she finally wrote back Slowly at first Melting and dripping Teasing me with mud games And primal buds I invited Her in And She opened her green purse And gave me a sun cookie And two robins She couldn’t stay long There were many stops to make And she wanted to hurry Before Summer took her forsythia shoes Thank you, Spring, for being you And remembering me -Janice Power, Cleveland, Ohio (powerjanice782 gmail.com)
Just a thanks for all your columns: good company now that I live alone
at 93 and value the printed word in many forms. Over the years, I wrote
many poems, and about 120 were published in a little book that people
seemed to enjoy. I kept writing after that, and there are now more than
400. The others are not published, but they give me joy even to reread them myself. -Marlene Arbetter Mitchel, author of Lines, Wilmette, Illinois (marlenemitchel gmail.com)
For the last 27 years of my teaching career, I taught English to middle school
students. We studied lots of poetry, and I had them write a variety of
poems. I usually wrote with them, but nothing very serious. When I retired,
I moved to a beautiful area (California’s Central Coast) and was inspired
to start writing for myself. I have since had quite a number of poems
published in a variety of places, and I’ve put together two chapbooks. One
of my poems is about writing poems. Perhaps it would inspire others. The Thing Is Each time I look out the window, I see a poem passing. -Gwendolyn Brooks The thing about poetry is this: Sometimes you get an idea, and you say here’s a poem. So you sit down and write, choose your words, then cross them out, choose different words, move phrases around, until you have the poem you want. Other times the poem doesn’t gel. Yet even then, the thing is, poetry changes the way you experience the world. You see differently, notice more details, and fragments of poems flit through your head: similes, metaphors, descriptive phrases, adjectives, verbs. Everywhere you look, you see a poem passing, even when you don’t write it down. -Juliane McAdam, Los Osos, California (juliane.mcadam gmail.com)
Many years ago, a little boy, the son of a mentor of mine, asked me a
question that I felt compelled to turn into a poem. The words in quotes are,
I promise you, verbatim what he said to me. I think he was an old soul,
and I wonder to this day how he grew up, as I moved away and lost touch
with his family. I just realized that he’d be about 45 now. “How do you love people?” he said A golden-haired angel of four “I wanted to learn, but no one would teach me.” O little boy, we would all like to learn And sometimes we feel as small and as scared as you. We’re all learning to love without lessons And oh, how we wish that someone would say “How can I, how should I love you?” Thank you, Raymond Zaccaro, wherever you are. I will always remember you as a golden-haired angel of four. I hope you are loved and loving. -Ginny Stahlman Crooks, Bloomfield, New Jersey (via website comments)
Funny you should ask whether we have written a poem, as AWAD inspired
me to begin doing so, assuming that my silly little limericks
count as poetry. Since my first one a little over 11 years ago, I have
submitted 3,790 as of this writing. Hopefully at least 3,795 by the time
of this week’s publication. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com)
I am not a poet, but appreciate found poetry when it happens. My favorite
is the parsing as a poem of some of the exact words Donald Rumsfeld once spoke.
This was done by Hart Seely of Slate magazine. From a press briefing
Rumsfeld gave at the Department of Defense:
The Unknown As we know, There are known knowns. There are things we know we know. We also know There are known unknowns. That is to say We know there are some things We do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns, The ones we don’t know We don’t know. More at Slate (Permalink) -Victor Poleshuck, Rochester, New York (vpoleshuck gmail.com) From: Michael Hegemann (micheg.schlebusch googlemail.com) Subject: A.Word.A.Day--swale A few years ago, I visited Great Britain with my campervan and bicycle. Cycling along the coastline in the County of Kent (a shire at the south-eastern corner of the UK), I discovered a small tidal channel of the Thames estuary named the Swale. Michael Hegemann, Leverkusen, Germany From: ToSeek (via website comments) Subject: swale I live in the planned community of Greenbelt, MD. Included with the landscaping of yards throughout the development is a network of shallow channels that guide water drainage into the sewer system to keep it from ponding. Messing with these swales in your yard is very much frowned upon for this reason. ToSeek, Greenbelt, Maryland From: Pascal Pagnoux (pascal.pagnoux gmail.com) Subject: War
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY: The belief in the possibility of a short decisive war appears to be one of the most ancient and dangerous of human illusions. -Robert Lynd, writer (20 Apr 1879-1949) Not as much an illusion as a sales argument for the public -- who pays for it. As George Orwell wrote in his novel 1984: “The war is not meant to be won. It is meant to be continuous.” Julian Assange also explained in 2011 about the Afghan war: “The goal is to wash money out of the tax bases of the US and Europe through Afghanistan and back into the hands of a transnational security elite. The goal is an endless war, not a successful one.” The Afghan War cost $2.2 trillion, i.e. $15,488 per taxpayer, quite an improvement on the Vietnam war which only cost $1 trillion (in today’s dollars). But still light years away from the WWII that cost $4.4 trillion. WWIII should be able to double that! The Iran war alone should cost the American taxpayer $1 trillion according to the recent estimation of a Harvard policy expert. Pascal Pagnoux, Saint-Gaudens, France From: Ken McKnight (molly7 cox.net) Subject: Adamantine This word brought to mind Nathaniel Hawthorne’s story The Man of Adamant. In the story a stubborn man drops out of society and lives in a cave. His heart and eventually his whole body literally turn to stone. Ken McKnight, Scottsdale, Arizona From: Alex McCrae (ajmccrae277 gmail.com) Subject: viand and verdurous  
Alex McCrae, Van Nuys, California Anagrams
Make your own anagrams and animations. Limericks The golf ball I hit and watched sail Way down in a really deep swale. Although it’s bad form, I cursed up a storm -- That shot was my ninth epic fail! -Marion Wolf, Bergenfield, New Jersey (marionewolf yahoo.com) The townspeople tell a strange tale, Of a fellow once lost in a swale. He was found in the bog, And was stiff as a log. The blame was he’d had too much ale. -Joan Perrin, Port Jefferson Station, New York (perrinjoan aol.com) “Through the Strait of Hormuz they won’t sail, For I’ll drain it and make it a swale!” Posted Donald. “My power Grows greater each hour! I’ll soon shut down Harvard and Yale!” -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) swound Dreadful omens just seem to abound When Mary and I are around. There are so many scary Signs I’m afraid Mary -- Or I! -- will succumb to a swound! -Bindy Bitterman, Chicago, Illinois (bindy eurekaevanston.com) His proposal had made her heart pound, As she slipped from her stance to the ground. He said to her, “So, Is it yes? Is it no?” But, no answer was found in her swound. -Joan Perrin, Port Jefferson Station, New York (perrinjoan aol.com) From a life of the senses cocooned, Pope Leo had never been mooned. So when Donald dropped trou In his face, “Holy cow!” He exclaimed, and fell down in a swound. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) viand The viands were tasty indeed! I scarfed them all down at high speed. “Go easy,” you’d said, But I went ahead, And now an antacid I need. -Marion Wolf, Bergenfield, New Jersey (marionewolf yahoo.com) Pioneers when they traveled out West, Stocked their wagons with food that was best. With much water and viands When crossing the dry lands, They bravely completed their quest. -Joan Perrin, Port Jefferson Station, New York (perrinjoan aol.com) Said Gandhi, “My tactics won’t fail; I won’t eat while I sit here in jail. With nary a viand I’ll moan and I’ll cry and The British will quickly turn tail.” -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) adamantine Now “Trump Always Caves,” some do say. Adamantine decisions? No way! For we often will find That he changed his small mind. We mistrust him, and games he will play. -Joan Perrin, Port Jefferson Station, New York (perrinjoan aol.com) A young epileptic from Scranton Was refusing to take his Dilantin. And so he had fits, Shaking almost to bits; It’s a shame he was so adamantine. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) verdurous It once was a verdurous spot, But now it is certainly not. The White House South Lawn Is totally gone, For Trump has paved over the plot. -Marion Wolf, Bergenfield, New Jersey (marionewolf yahoo.com) The verdurous greenery pleases, But, often brings on many sneezes. It seems that in spring, It’s an allergy thing, As the pollen is carried by breezes. -Joan Perrin, Port Jefferson Station, New York (perrinjoan aol.com) “Come right in! But you won’t find it verdurous; After all, this is Hades,” said Cerberus. There’s a room that’s just swell If you lived your life well, But the torments, if not, can be murderous.” -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) Digging coal on lands formerly verdurous Will make Earth one day lifeless as Uranus. Shrugs Donald, “That’s fine, Just as long as it’s mine.” The man’s rants against “windmills” are scurrilous. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) Puns “I will find and catch thi-swale if it kills us,” said Captain Ahab. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) “He get-swound up and starts fights, but I’m sure he’ll grow out of it,” said little Donald’s father. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) “It’-swound-erful to be here with you tonight,” Lawrence Welk would greet his viewing audience. -Joan Perrin, Port Jefferson Station, New York (perrinjoan aol.com) “WRONG AGAIN! VIAND VI MAKE XII,” shouted the Roman math teacher at her students. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) “You co-verdurous-ty car with a coat of paint to sell it? Give them their money back, Donald,” sighed his long-suffering mother. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) “Adamantine years are always tough,” counseled the therapist after Cain slew Abel. -Steve Benko, New York, New York (stevebenko1 gmail.com) A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
I don’t know why we are here, but I’m pretty sure that it is not in order
to enjoy ourselves. -Ludwig Wittgenstein, philosopher (26 Apr 1889-1951)
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