Lucky Words

Jeffrey Windsor

A weekly* email newsletter about literature, art, trail running or hiking or riding or camping or walking or just sitting in the Utah mountains or the desert of the Colorado Plateau, and a good deal of poetry. luckywords.substack.com

  1. "What lips my lips have kissed" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

    4D AGO

    "What lips my lips have kissed" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

    Howdy! Another audio-first production, this time a sonnet by the fabulous 20th century poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. This one was recorded on a hike up Provo Canyon (yes, again—hey, it’s just up the street and, frankly, it’s a pretty great canyon) shortly before we finally (!) got some snow. What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. As I mention in the audio, there’s much to love about this poem. Mostly for me, it’s wonderful because it’s a love poem to herself. All sonnets are love poems, or they contain the echo of a love poem. In this poem, Milay is longing for the woman she used to be. The men in this poem? They’re forgotten. They have no faces and no bodies. They are “unremembered lads.” What Milay does remember is how they made her feel, long ago. This is a poem about aging. She remembers those times back when she was young and beautiful and carefree, when the boys lined up. Those were in the summer, and now, in the poem, it’s winter. What were once branches full of noisy birds, now the “birds have vanished one by one” and in the present of the poem, those “boughs [are] more silent than before.” What we can get from this poem is a feeling. We can take Milay’s nostalgia and try it on for a while. What do we remember from our summer times, and what does it feel like now, looking back? When our memories of faces has faded, what’s left? Milay’s poem invites you to just hold on to that feeling of used-to-be, and in holding it, find some pleasure in that, too. All is well, Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

    7 min
  2. 12/11/2025

    Advent, week 2: Peace

    Yes, yes it’s very late (again!). I apologize. ON PEACE When Elisabeth finally (finally!) got pregnant, she had to deal with the discomforts of carrying a baby all the while her husband was struck mute. She said that her “reproach” was taken away, but it is hard to imagine that it was a very pleasant time. Meanwhile, her young unmarried cousin, Mary, was also pregnant. More unpleasantness. Mary was “highly favored” among women, but still forced to deal with a pregnancy and the inevitable gossip that surrounded that. Not to mention: travel and childbirth in less-than-ideal conditions. Not only was the birth in a stable, but Mary didn’t have her own mother, any sisters or cousins, any of her support structure except a new husband who probably had never even seen her naked. It sounds like an awkward, lonely way to deliver a child. God sometimes has a funny way of blessing his favorites. It isn’t with comfort, that’s obvious enough. It isn’t with a golden ticket to avoid social scandal. It isn’t with material goods, nor with respite from political strife, nor freedom from family troubles. He doesn’t immediately free His people from oppression, stop wars, or even step in to halt the slaughter of babies. And yet the angels sang, “peace on earth.” It seems clear enough that God’s peace looks nothing like what we would consider peace in a worldly sense. But you know, if you pause to think about it, that you can feel peace anytime. And you know, if you pause to think about it, that peace can be completely divorced from external circumstances. Here’s two quick ideas for finding peace this Christmastime. Warning: neither of these are exactly comfortable, fun, or necessarily easy. * Practice forgiveness. Yes, of course forgive those who have clearly and obviously trespassed against you. But also, can we forgive the everyday things? Forgive the books for being unread. Forgive the dishes for being unwashed. Forgive the traffic for being too heavy, the stores for being too busy, the people who stop in the middle of an aisle with their cart blocking both directions, the New York Times for headlining only depressing news. Forgive Congress for being disappointing, forgive the noodles for being overcooked and mushy, forgive the car for being low on fuel, forgive the leftovers for spoiling in the fridge. This sounds silly, but consider how much annoyance and sadness that you’re carrying around for these things. Sure, some of them you might have prevented; you didn’t, and so you need to forgive yourself, too. Forgive them, and leave a space in your heart to experience the wonder, hope, joy that God rains down as we head into Christmas. Forgive this stuff, so you can fill yourself with the great and good that’s there for the taking. * Wait. Try to find excuses to practice waiting, ten seconds at a time. When discomfort comes, wait an extra ten seconds before doing something about it. Just wait. When boredom comes, count to ten before switching to something new. When you drive somewhere by yourself, give yourself ten seconds to just sit in the car, doing nothing. Wait ten seconds before eating the food that’s set in front of you and everyone else is eating. Just practice waiting. As you practice waiting with these ten second gifts to yourself, start to note what happens in those tiny windows. What sorts of feelings bubble up? Maybe you’ll feel some anxiety at first, but that’ll pass. Maybe you’ll spend it counting down, but your desire to do that will fade, too. You’ll still eat, still get to the store, still get out of that uncomfortable or boring situation. And for ten seconds, you’re like Sisyphus as the stone rolls down the mountain: with a respite, a sense of relief, a feeling of peace before the world starts spinning again. If you’re paying attention, this is a space that God can fill, too. And whatever he fills it with, it comes wrapped in peace. May your next week, as you prepare for Christmas, be filled with peace: ten seconds at a time, and one small act of forgiveness at a time. Think to yourself: what brings you peace at Christmas time? And what do you need to forgive to start to feel peace in other parts of your life? A couple of scriptures: * John 14:27 * Hebrews 12:1 * Alma 38:8 I’m trying to do exactly what I said above and forgive myself for being so late with this post. It’s hard! But this is the way, you know. We’re all going to screw up; and we all need forgiveness from ourselves and from others. I hope that you can forgive me for being so lousy at this. And I do sincerely hope that this little essay thing is helpful to you as you prepare for Christmas. I’m waiting for snow, but the days are still in the 50s most days. I grew up in San Diego, and thought that it was pretty special that I could ride my bike all the way up until Christmas as a kid. Well, I can still ride my bike here — and I live in the land of “the greatest snow on earth.” If there were any snow… Also, no poem and no photos today. I’m choosing for done over perfect. I hope you can forgive that, too. Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

    7 min
  3. 12/03/2025

    Advent, week 1: Hope

    So Advent started last Sunday. I had intended to get this out before then, but then things happened, and I didn’t get it out there. My apologies. About Advent Advent is the season leading up to Christmas, starting the fourth Sunday before. Christmas, the twelve days of it, begins on Christmas Day. Right now, we are in the middle of Advent. For many Christians, they celebrate every Sunday of Advent with a little devotional thing and lighting of candles. We do it in my family. Just like last year, I have written little essays and will be sharing them here. I’m adding a recording of me reading them, in case you’re too lazy to read. The plan is to get these out before Sunday, so you could, if you wanted, to use these readings as a seed for your own Advent celebrations. This week I’m late, but I’ll have out the next one, peace, out on Saturday. WEEK ONE: HOPE Hope sits at the center of any life who tries to follow Jesus Christ. It nestles alongside faith and charity. And like faith and charity, hope is something we must deliberately choose. When we see the messiness of the world around us, it’s easy to give in to despair. Sometimes, maybe, most of us do. The birth of Jesus Christ gives us reason to hope when all the signs around us fail to. We acknowledge the reality of the awfulness of things, but then counter-logically, we choose to live with a feeling of hopefulness. Real hope is firmly grounded in reality. It sees clearly. Hope is not a bury-your-head-in-the-sand virtue. Through hope, we can encounter reality head-on, with clear eyes. We can use all our intellectual gifts to understand the world as it actually is. And, with the gift of hope (and it is indeed a gift), we can see the troubles of the world and yet still hope for something better. Hope powers action. Anxiety takes a place at the opposite of hope. Anxiety is intellectualized fear about the future. I worry about what might come. Maybe most of us do. With hope, we can acknowledge that worry, that potential for failure or ruin, but we also acknowledge that things might work out after all. Sure, the potential for awfulness exists, but the potential for wonderful success exists, too. Hope sees the many options, but chooses the happy path. I have to choose it, I have to put in some effort. Maybe most of us do. For me, Christmas feels intentionally designed to foster hopefulness. At Christmastime, despite whatever is happening in the world or in my life today, I look backwards through traditions and memories, and all the while I anticipate a lovely Christmas Day. I live in a short-term hope. Maybe most of us do. It’s the hope that looks forward to a joyful day just a few weeks from now. But Christmastime also helps me cultivate a larger vision of hope. It reminds me to live in long-term hope. Maybe most of us do that, too. It’s the hope that we will measure up to what God intends for us. It’s the hope that His work can be fulfilled in each of us. He did His part in sending down his Son to exemplify Godly behavior, in sending down his Son to expiate for us—almost like a cheat-code so that our mistakes won’t damn us—though it was enormously painful for everyone involved. After all His hard work, physically and emotionally, I hope that I’m worth it. I hope; I live in hope. Think to yourself now: what do you hope for in these weeks leading up to Christmas? A couple of scriptures: * Isaiah 40:9-11, 30-31 * Ether 12:4 I hope to have a Least Bad Poem to share next time, along with a Christmas song. Until then, may your days be merry and bright. All is well, Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

    7 min
  4. 06/19/2025

    Shakespeare’s sonnets 4-6 (Lucky Words podcast 2025, episode 9)

    Recorded on a lovely afternoon in early June 2025, up on Cascade mountain, a couple thousand feet above my house. In the recording, I promised a photo. Here it is: The recording might be a bit quiet, and I apologize about that. If it’s annoying to you, just send me a note so that I’ll be motivated to find a better solution next time. Text of poems Sonnet 4 Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free. Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? For having traffic with thyself alone, Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Which, used, lives th' executor to be. Sonnet 5 Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel: For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter and confounds him there; Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where: Then, were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. Sonnet 6 Then let not winter's ragged hand deface In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thyself to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. My voice was quite deep because I was dealing with the beginning of a cold that is still lingering. I decided to do three sonnets at once because, frankly, the procreation sonnets get a little tiresome after a while. Every one has something interesting in it, but my whole goal is to give you a hook to learn to enjoy/appreciate poetry like this. If you’re actually paying attention to what you’re reading, and if you pause to think and reread, you will of course see that Shakespeare is making an economic argument in sonnet 6. Basically, if one kid brings happiness, then ten kids will bring 10x happiness. The alternative without children, says Shakespeare is that your only heirs will be worms. Ouch. If you head to the website you can see some unrelated photos I took at my recording spot I grabbed some quick pictures with my phone of the wildflowers that were growing on the trail that day. Beardtongues, mule’s ears, buckwheat, salsify, starwort, and flax. What a wonderful world, don’t you think? All is well, Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

    13 min
  5. 06/02/2025

    “One Patch of Quilt” by Susan Marsh (Lucky Words Podcast 2025, episode 8)

    Recorded on site and in one take on the banks of the Provo River, May 2025. Today’s poem is by Susan Marsh who is in her own words a “writer, poet, artist” based in Wyoming. That career description is one I aspire to, though, of course I’d choose Utah. The poem was published in 2022. Text of poem “One Patch of Quilt” by Susan Marsh We know about the way they treat the chickens But on a budget, buy the cheaper eggs. One man says wolves are meant for shooting, Another lives with a wolf named Cucumber. At the sight of a snake my mother grabbed the hoe. I got there first, carried it to the woods and let it go. Rescued from a backhoe's jaw, a rubber boa Spent the winter eating crickets in a terrarium Until it was warm enough to be set free. The friend who kept it became an expert In the ways of rubber boas, small shy snakes Most of us have never seen. It all comes down to empathy One patch of quilt acknowledging the other For we lie together with stitches tight, The only escape an irreversible rending of the fabric. from The Earth Has Been Too Generous (Finishing Line Press, 2022) I’m fascinated by the idea of interspecies connectedness. I love stories about people working to give rights to trees and rivers, even though it complicates my own interaction with them. In some respects, having empathy for the deer that sneaks down from the foothills at night to snack on suburban gardens is easy: they’re hungry and we just put the food out there in the open. Sometimes it’s harder for me to generate empathy with some of my fellow humans (sidelong glance at the driver of the Cybertruck in the parking lot, Mike Lee, RFK Jr., the person who leaves his empty McDonald’s wrappers on the picnic table and just leaves, any billionaire ever). Perhaps there is a pathway from generating empathy with the natural world and increasing my empathy with my fellow humans. Of course, the route of natural-world-empathy goes through stewardship. I’m trying to learn more about how it all works together, the natural world. And I’m looking at the dead tree right next to me, all its bark pulled off and unable to move the liquid from the river right there just twelve inches away to its leaves. Or to where its leaves used to be. That tree is dead, but it’s surrounded by healthy, living trees. The ecosystem in this stretch of river seems healthy. It’s thriving. On a hike in Zion NP a couple of weeks ago, I had long stretches with no human interaction. I was by myself, and I found myself talking to the plants. When I saw one whose name I knew, I’d say hello as I passed. I’d say, “howdy there, firecracker penstemon. Lookin’ good!” I’d brush the juniper branches in a friendly, nice-to-see-you way. And I know I’m absurd. I’d shut up and keep my hands to myself when I would pass a person going the opposite direction, but so long as I was alone, I pretended that I was at a party, and greeting the people I knew. Was this generating empathy or insanity? Kate laughed when I told her about it. Maybe it’s both? Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this poem and some brief analysis. Marsh says that we are like squares of quilt; can you think of a different metaphor that describes how we relate to others (people or animals)? If you’ve got one, write it down: you’ve got a poem! You can share it with me, if you’d like. I’d love to see them. Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

    6 min
  6. 05/21/2025

    "Why Did the Children Put Beans in Their Ears?" by Carl Sandburg (Lucky Words podcast 2025, episode 7)

    In the spirit of getting more prescriptive, this is the first of an intermittent and irregular series about how and why of poetry. Today: the portability of poetry, illustrated with a classic by Carl Sandburg, “Why Did the Children Put Beans in Their Ears?” ## Text of poem “Why Did the Children Put Beans in Their Ears?” by Carl Sandburg "Why did the children put beans in their ears when the one thing we told the children they must not do was put beans in their ears? "Why did the children pour molasses on the cat when the one thing we told the children they must not do was pour molasses on the cat?" I promised in the recording that you'd have it just about memorized by the time I was done with the episode. Let me know if that's true or not. I strongly suspect that it is, or close enough at least. When I say that a poem is portable, I mean of course that you can carry it in your head. But here's an interesting thing that's true of poetry and very few other forms of art: what you have in your head is not a copy of the art, and it isn't a memory of the art. You have the thing itself. If you have the poem memorized, you have the poem, the original, all the time. You may remember a song's performance, and you may remember a piece of visual art, but each of those are just copies. But for a poem, what is the original? While the manuscript in the poet’s hand is of course a discrete object on its own, the manuscript is not the poem. The poem is the words, and words are abstractions. When we write the poem down, we are simply capturing it. When you read it and especially when you memorize it, the action isn't happening on the page, but in your head. And so, this Sandburg poem. I intentionally chose something easy to remember and apparently straightforward. But as I point out in the podcast, there are layers here. By memorizing this poem, you will discover times when it resonates with you, and the poem will grow in significance. You'll discover more meaning as you stick with it. Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

    6 min
  7. 05/15/2025

    “Variations on the Word Love” by Margaret Atwood (Lucky Words podcast 2025, episode 6)

    Recorded live on the La Virkin Creek Trail in Kolob Canyon, Zion National Park, May 2025. You’ll hear the wind noise pretty prominently at times, and I’m sorry if it annoys you. Not sorry enough to do anything about it, because I personally find it kind of charming. There are a bunch of photos you can see if you visit the website (luckywords.net) that don’t show up in podcast notes. ## Text of poem “Variations on the Word Love” by Margaret Atwood This is a word we use to plug holes with. It's the right size for those warm blanks in speech, for those red heart- shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing like real hearts. Add lace and you can sell it. We insert it also in the one empty space on the printed form that comes with no instructions. There are whole magazines with not much in them but the word love, you can rub it all over your body and you can cook with it too. How do we know it isn't what goes on at the cool debaucheries of slugs under damp pieces of cardboard? As for the weed- seedlings nosing their tough snouts up among the lettuces, they shout it. Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising their glittering knives in salute. Then there's the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear. this word is not enough but it will have to do. It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says O again and again in wonder and pain, a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside. You can hold on or let go. In this recording, as usual I break down some of my favorite lines/images/phrases, but I also use it to help illustrate my favorite definition of what poetry is: saying with words something that cannot be expressed in words. Which is a paradox, yes. But poetry is a paradox. And that’s why so many people dislike it. I had originally written “that’s why so many people struggle with it,” but I realized that “struggling” is the point at issue here. Good poetry will always require some effort, some struggle. Poetry is trying to hang out at the edge of what language can do. All good poems are trying to say, “there’s no word in the language for this thing, and I’m going to try to explain it to you.” That’s what Atwood is trying to do here. Is it any wonder that it requires a little bit of effort from the reader? And in this case, don’t you feel just a little bit that you want to explain it better than she does? I hope you do, and I hope you try. One of my favorite things on this hike was seeing all the flora and fauna. I of course like hiking with all the dramatic cliffs and geology, but I always get a thrill when I see a firecracker penstemon (penstemon eatonii) in glorious, full bloom. And many, many lizards. I edited out of the recording where I saw a lizard and then went quiet for a full minute just watching it watching me. I think this is a western whiptail (aspidoscelis tigris), which is one of the cooler names for a lizard. Strava recorded my hike as 15.88 miles, which I think is slightly exaggerated, but boy howdy were my knees feeling it by the end. Absolutely worth it, but it took a day to recover. I’m certainly glad it wasn’t warmer, and I’m glad to be getting back to my home turf tomorrow. All is well, Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

    13 min
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A weekly* email newsletter about literature, art, trail running or hiking or riding or camping or walking or just sitting in the Utah mountains or the desert of the Colorado Plateau, and a good deal of poetry. luckywords.substack.com