Mirth, n. joy, lightness of mind, from OE myrhðe
Subscribe to my newsletter, Mirth, to receive regular updates about my writing, including sneak-peaks of upcoming releases, new poems, and articles that deliver a behind-the-scenes look at my writing process. Mirth Newsletters are typically divided into one of three categories, corresponding to days of the week (though not all three are guaranteed to appear on any given week). On Mondays, I offer critical reflections on the poetic process with a short essay. Tune in Wednesdays to read one of my new or unpublished poems. Fridays I provide a reading (audio only) of a poem from various historical periods. Below you will find an archive of past newsletters.
To My Children
Pickety pack your stuff Leave out all the fluff Toys go here (for the garbage, I fear) And all your father’s guff! Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first…
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Small Town
These towns aren’t small They recover space in our heart If we let our feet out the door The nothing we might wander into Keeps our aspirations honest A jug of milk swinging at my side Refreshes the sidewalk What else has been carried Upon these crumbling paths? I must unlearn the driving eye Fixed…
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The Refuge
Unsought miles of land roll down from mountainsideAs children nestle ‘round their grinning fatherAnd strive to show their lineage to all.A skad of Saskatoons await the dawn,Entangling Poplar, Spruce, or barbed fence posts.I see the dark stain of purple berriesUpon my daughter’s hands. She has feastedOn each small wonder in this restful place,While I, without…
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These Tears Are For You
Cedar grimace in cold summer showersWhile lonely pools drown out the undergrowth,Exposing ragged roots to somber air.The storm has passed but its wild mark remains.Birch and Hawthorne, skewered by tongues of fire,Lay spent in the mud, never more to rise.Rain obscures our memory, washing outYears of triumph or trouble with urgentSummons to attend the trials…
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Mrs. Dombey and Daughter
The window stood openThe window which lay forever closedNow stood open to the twilightAnd the child pressed against her cheekSpoke no sound nor cried outNor would she moveBright cheek against a pale cheekNeither moving but all quietHer hair golden shining in candle lightAgainst her mother’s cheek just soAnd nothing to be doneWhile on rolled twilightWhile…
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You Can’t Have Two Homes
Our door is hardly knocked now.It opens and closes to laughter:“Come in” shouted from living rooms.There is a thought. A room alive!And what makes it so, but living soulsLounging half-aware in splendid daze?Or rapt to some performance keen,Waiting for our part: head-back-blastOf air and joy mingling as one.Living rooms may be sent to Earth’s endOr…
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Beauty
The funny thing about beautyShe never turns herself offOh she may turn a cornerOr dance with sweeping graceBeyond a fair horizonBut you never catch her becomingShe has no seat by the mirrorNeeds no foundation or coffeeBut to the ear or eye or at a touchSuddenly she strikes the waiting soul Todd Anderson (Stuff of the…
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Risk a Little Light
Art is what occurs when light passes through a soul; all inspiration is translucent. Todd Anderson (Stuff of the Rind, Sand and Sail, The Reluctant Prophet) writes the newsletter Mirth to share a behind-the-scenes look at his writing process as well as to offer readers the first fruits of his poetry and reflections. He grew…
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“Great Books” and the Cultivation of Critical Thinking
This week, through a question-and-response format, I offer some reflections on “Great Books”, Critical Thinking, and the purpose of university in an effort to dispel what I believe to be some underlying misconceptions about the value of reading and studying various texts (like Shakespeare or Plato) in the context of formation. I hope to offer…
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Art
The sky behind the clouds Was baby blue and the clouds Were peach and stately canvas for the sun And the sun was marching Away from palette and brush And the palette was drying out But the brush was still full of oil And the oil mixed in the bristles And mixed on the canvas But the bristles could not know The magic they delivered…
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Todd Edward Anderson 