Reasons For Staying (2 poems + 1 prompt)

 

Reasons to Live Through the Apocalypse

by Nikita Gill

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Sunrises. People you have still to meet and laugh with. Songs about love, peace, anger, and revolution. Walks in the woods. The smile you exchange with a stranger when you experience beauty accidentally together. Butterflies. Seeing your grandparents again. The moon in all her forms, whether half or full. Dogs. Birthdays and half-birthdays. That feeling of floating in love. Watching birds eat from bird feeders. The waves of happiness that follow the end of sadness. Brown eyes. Watching a boat cross an empty sea. Sunsets. Dipping your feet in the river. Balconies. Cake. The wind in your face when you roll the car window down on an open highway. Falling asleep to the sound of a steady heartbeat. Warm cups of tea on cold days. Hugs. Night skies. Art museums. Books filled with everything you do not yet know. Long conversations. Long-lost friends. Poetry.

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Reasons for Staying (an excerpt)

by Ocean Vuong

 

The October leaves coming down, as if called.

Morning fog through the wild rye beyond the train tracks.

A cigarette. A good sweater. On the sagging porch. While the family sleeps.

That I woke at all & the hawk up there thought nothing of its wings.

That I snuck onto the page while the guards were shit-faced on codeine.

That I read my books by the light of riot fire.

That my best words came farthest from myself & it’s awesome.

That you can blow a man & your voice speaks through his voice.

Like Jonah through the whale.

Because a blade of brown rye, multiplied by thousands, makes a purple field.

Because this mess I made I made with love.

Because they came into my life, my brothers, like something poured.

Because crying, believe it or not, did wonders.

. . . . 

Because I made a promise.

That the McDonald’s arch, glimpsed from the 2 am rehab window, was enough.

That mercy is small but the earth is smaller.

Summer rain hitting Peter’s bare shoulders.

Because I stopped apologizing myself toward visibility.

Because this body is my last address.

 . . . .

Sleeping in the back seat, leaving the town that broke me, intact.

Early snow falling from a clear, blushed sky.

As if called.

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Prompt:

 

 Set your timer for 5-15 minutes. In a grammar-be-damned free-write, or a loosey-goosey list, write your own "reasons" for living what you live: your beloveds, your dependents, your devotions, your questions, your answers; words you tell yourself, or silent knowings. Maybe you walk yourself through a day-in-your-life, and list a bunch of concrete images: faces, sensations, moments spent in the presence of animals, artwork, colleagues, or cake. Maybe you expand the aperture to view a longer timeline,  imagining moments from before you were born (your ancestor's reasons),  childhood memories, or moments you haven't lived yet (from the future). 

 

What are your anchors, your reasons, your reminders of why you stay right here? Think of the reasons inside of you and outside of you.

 

This free write might feel affirming and joyful (cue The Sound of Music "Favorite Things") Or it might be heavy, remembering moments of struggle, moments you didn't want to keep going. Maybe this free-write is a combination of both.

 

As you write, take care of yourself. Go only to the places that feel possible and ready for language. Breathe deeply, and pay attention to how your body feels. 

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If it is useful, you can keep repeating the word,

 

Because

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Because. . . .

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Because . . .

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~ From The Writing Room, June 2nd, 2022 ~

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​​I Tried, But Now (1 reading + 1 prompt)

 

Nude II 

by Shira Erlichman

The Rumpus

November, 2025 
 

I tried to keep her at arm’s distance, this
woman I’ve become. Now she’s pouring out
of me, no tits to hide, all seek. She leans
back, neck to ceiling. A waterfall her
hair, a lobe readied. Her lids close, a song
undresses in the depths. I want––I did
not expect this––her mouth on mine. Sterile
is every cage. Let this be a lesson.
Where horses buck and language unravels
she’s found the knob for no-door. Take me, take
me, me. Butter in the throat, music in
the pan, sizzle the no-door open, yes,
now. No hospital wing, no religion,
no man could empty me of peonies.
 

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Prompt:

 ​Set a timer for 15 minutes (or however many minutes you have!). Then use the below sentence-beginnings as walking sticks on your free-writing path. Push off of them; lean on them to steady you & propel you forward. Or think of these sentence-starters as door-handles, something to grip onto and twist, that might open unto the rooms inside of you today, wanting language—memories, emotions, dreams, wishes, hungers, fears, regrets, free-associative hops n giggles. 

 

Sentence-beginnings to try:
 

I tried. . .  . (but) now . . . 

I tried . . . (but) now . . .

 

Or:

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I did not expect this . . .  this . . .

I did not expect this . . . . this . . .

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Or maybe: 

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This woman I’ve become. Now she's  . . . [adapt with your pronoun]

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Stick with one of these, or you can move among all three of the above sentence-starters in a musical chairs fashion, spending 5 minutes inside each one. Let yourself go where you want to go, stay where you want to stay.​ Observe & enjoy what comes through the door.

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~ From The Writing Room, April 16th, 2026 ~ 

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~ More prompts from the Writing Room Archive are coming soon. ~

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If you feel the pull of these prompts, and would like to gather around similar readings & practices with other writers, I’d love to have you in our next Writing Room. Learn more & sign up here.

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