Instructions for Traveling with Living Poets
I’m hosting today at http://www.ethicalela.com for the fourth day of VerseLove to celebrate National Poetry Month. Hop on over there and write with us today! Follow this link.
Inspiration
I made a commitment to follow more living poets in 2026, and I’ve been on a remarkable journey of discovery ever since. As a third-year member of The Stafford Challenge, it brings great joy to see a surge of interest in modern poetry! At my father’s funeral in June 2025, I chose a poem from an anthology of living poets to read at his graveside – not one written long ago. I reached out to the poet to let her know I planned to read it, and I sent her a recorded clip of that reading. Imagine my surprise when, with tears in her eyes, she sent her own recorded message back explaining that it was her own cancer journey that had inspired her deeply moving poem. I hope to meet her in person this summer when I travel to Portland, Oregon.
Joy Sullivan, author of Instructions for Traveling West, is one of the living poets I follow on social media. Her Substack, Necessary Salt, captivates me with each new post. I think what I find most enthralling is the sheer glory she finds in everyday moments. I invite you to go on a living poet journey to find new writers throughout the month. Use their work to inspire your own, even borrowing their style and a line or two to frame your own poem. You can find living poets at Teach Living Poets, Poetry Foundation, and by using search engines to discover others.
Process
I’ve selected a poem by Joy Sullivan to get us acquainted with each other using the title alone: The cashier at the gas station asks me where I’m from. Here is the poem free to download from Pinterest.

Choose a person and setting (i.e. cashier at the gas station, pastor at church, mysterious stranger at the bar, waitress at a restaurant, passenger on an airplane, etc.) and introduce yourself. Title your poem as Joy Sullivan does, and offer us a glimpse into your world.
My Poem
The Soapmaster of Green Willow Soaps asks me where I’m from
so I tell her: an hour south of Atlanta
because no one has ever heard of this place
and besides, these towns are so tiny we all just say
Pike County
which is small enough to spit watermelon seeds
across, where the sunsets rival Titian red
when we look over Alabama-way
but what I don’t tell her as I place bars of
Mountain Mist, Morning Citrus, and Purple Haze
into my arm basket
is that I’m plotting retirement in these mountains
sipping black coffee on my porch
in the shadows of Blue Ridge
channeling inner birdsong and crystal-splashing waterfalls










