21. Margaret Walker ~ who I am

Margaret Walker's small and spare poems invite the reader into the heart of what it means to be human.

chronic illness the rests of my life

The plural rests carries the poem past the plain statement of living out one's days with chronic illness. Like the rests — or silences — in a piece of music, the illness becomes part of the structure of a life. The periods of rest that it obligates arrange and frame the time that remains. And before we even have the privilege of considering what remains of our lives, and how we might shape it within the limits of our bodies, there may simply be the need to rest — as in the following reading of the monoku:

chronic illness
the rests . . .
of my life

A different attunement to sound and silence is found in:

alone tonight a single malt

The poem's solitude resonates on multiple levels. Semantically, the play on single doubles its meaning: a single malt, a solitary drinker. Imagistically, the poem suggests a blank surface punctuated by one small glass. And sonically, the line falls into four iambs — unstressed then stressed syllables — paired two and two: "aLONE toNIGHT" and "a SINgle MALT," mirroring the double solitude of narrator and malt. For all it leaves unsaid, the poem evokes a mood far larger than its five words, and opens a question about that aloneness — one that surely reaches well beyond a single drink on a single night.

Margaret Walker's poems show modern English-language haiku at its best: a handful of words that invite the reader into a kaleidoscopic journey of meanings, sounds, and spaciousness, in which we may discover ourselves.

Ryland Shengzhi Li, confluence editor

chronic illness the rests of my life

rose-colored glasses the frame

alone tonight a single malt

before the morning after she knew

too young to be the child i left behind

64 crayons white the least used

deposit on a dream refunded

v-neck blouse
wishing I had worn
the push-up bra

the blizzard raging white power outage

red dress and tux
abandoned in the sand
we dance

left unsaid words too loud

new friends…
a lonely child’s
first fiction

welcome mat
belonging
just inside

climate change in her wardrobe

her coat no longer on the hook

spring formal first dip of the season

rough seas
she wears his old jacket
still holding her

ashes scattered
the surfboard gathers dust
in the corner​

deep in wildflowers
my feet
find his stone marker

life rushes by a series of stills

three water fountains one colored

when no one remembers when

feeling dirty eyes at work

Hide and Seek

I have on my nightgown about to be tucked in. We can see it out our window. Right in front of my friend’s house. “On a hill far away . . . ”

A cross burning on the hill. A cross just like in Sunday School where we sing “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white they are precious in his sight . . . ” almost every week. A cross just like in the church window where the sunshine comes in.

My friend doesn’t come to school for a long time. I hear adults saying her daddy “helped that colored family.” Nobody tells little kids anything, but we saw.

dunce caps white robes wearing fear

Walkway 8

every morning if you watch and listen. if you feel the change in the air as it softens and see the ghost crabs scuttle over the new turtle nest filled with eggs. if you sit on the worn boards no longer there deep in memories, you too may remember

when the day is still a promise kept.

Epilogue

The pergola no longer covered in muscadine vines. The prize rose beds gone. A few scraggly azaleas and camellias near the pond. No longer Sam’s showplace, and Tunie’s carefully groomed yard.

The vinca still spread, the asparagus emerge every spring, and the popcorn tree fills with white berries for Christmas.

Along the border a profusion of purple flowers from early spring to late fall the Mexican petunias some call a weed.

the gators eyes close on mute swans

Born and raised in the American South I knew the “rules” of appropriate social behavior — at the top of that list “hide your tears, hide illness” — any unpleasantness that might make others uncomfortable. Plunk me into almost any social setting and I could adapt. But who was I — how could I put together the pieces after a lifetime of hiding me from me. Did I dare show any part of me to others? With a life-altering chronic illness I set out to hide it, to follow the rules —until I couldn’t.

Almost housebound, I began to write haiku-based memories. Telling the story of what made me who I am in words that I hoped might say something, without revealing too much. And I discovered as I read and wrote that “I wasn’t the only one who . . . . ”

I delved into the core of a question that years ago, in a job interview, had stunned me into responding, without thought: “what are the core beliefs that guide your actions?” Surprising myself by my answer, in this new world of chronic illness I began to examine the moments that made me — and to dare, in a few words to express them.

Could I also, in few words, expose the often “not pretty” reality of the lives of others? Could my words lead someone else to look beyond the boundaries of how we see the world and into the reality of others? I had learned how much harm only a few wrong words could cause. Could I use my words — only a few — my memories, for good? I write to express only what I know — from my heart and soul — continuing to surprise myself with what often seems to appear from nowhere onto the paper.

My question to myself and others — if what is on the paper shows why I write, does it also reveal who I am?”

Anthony Q. Rabang

Margaret’s senryus are eye-catching like a box of 64 crayons, regardless of their presentation, whether in monostich or in three lines. Between the two, her single-line poems appeal to me more because they feel fresh each time I read them, a quality that is inherent to this form. Walker explores the personal and the socio-political aspect of life in her poems. Brevity, punning, rapid shift of focus, and grammatical ambiguity are evident elements in her works that contribute to the quality and depth of meaning, making them outstanding.

chronic illness the rests of my life

This seems like a very emotional senryu. The meaning can change depending on the reader’s perspective and personal experience. It may reflect the persona’s initial exasperation and lingering anxiety after discovering their illness — perhaps type 2 diabetes — which may require maintenance medication for years or even a lifetime. On the other hand, it can express the persona’s contentment with the quality of life enjoyed before the bad news — indulging in cakes, ice cream, sodas, long hours of sleep, and playing video games. The slashes below indicate possible breaks, each producing a distinct reading:

chronic illness / the rests of my life

chronic illness / the rests / of my life

I also enjoyed her eco-poetry, as it reflects aspects of everyday life. Whether one is living in the concrete jungles or in the outskirts, change in one’s clothing to adapt to the environment is unavoidable. Some people wear sleeveless shirts and lightweight materials, and some even go topless. This has very much been our reality in the Philippines and continues to be so: last March, April, and May 2025, temperatures rose to dangerous levels exceeding 42°C, causing the cancellation of several face-to-face classes. Again, the slashes below indicate several possible readings for her "climate change" monoku:

climate / change / in her wardrobe

climate change / in her wardrobe

climate change / in her / wardrobe

Reading Margaret’s poems invites readers to remove their 'rose-colored’ lenses and take a second look.

Sophia Conway

Margaret's essay is a wonderful reminder of why so many people write poetry — to see the world and themselves more clearly. Her haiku capture this journey with honesty and precision, touching on themes such as longing, discovery, loss, and identity. There is a strength and determination behind her work; a clear message that speaks to her persistence to continue on her path despite what may come, as well as an offering of compassion to those who may feel similarly. 

Her final question in her essay, “If what is on the paper shows why I write, does it also reveal who I am?”, begs to be carefully contemplated. My answer is yes. Writing about what’s around us gives an insight into how we see the world, our past experiences give glimpses into the parts of our lives that helped shape us, our current emotions reveal what we allow to guide and influence ourselves, our hopes for the future can help predict our next steps in life. A standalone poem may only offer one thread of information but a collection of poems (and especially, a personal essay, as confluence is publishing) reveals a bigger part of the tapestry that makes up the poet’s life and identity.

There is, of course, a benefit to ourselves for being transparent in our work. Sometimes it takes putting our emotions and thoughts down into words that helps us realize what it is we are struggling to understand about our own responses to life. The aha! moment that occasionally greets me at the end of a haiku is like running into an old friend. In the black scratches on a white page, I suddenly see myself mirrored, ready to be seen and heard by someone new.

Margaret's drive to write haiku, whether to share compassion, process her past, or see herself better, is one that many of us share. It's a journey we traverse together.

Sam Renda

Something that struck me right away in Margaret’s confluence essay was the question: “How could I put together the pieces after a lifetime of hiding me from me?”

It’s a question that really drives to the heart of what makes these haiku and haibun tick. Throughout her collection, we’re confronted with themes of separation from self, solitude, otherness — and the pull of lives not (or already) lived, as in:

ashes scattered 
the surfboard gathers dust 
in the corner

All of Margaret’s poems seem to highlight this connection between the moment where we find ourselves now and these lost other lives and selves, accompanied by the ever-present nostalgia that pulls us to and fro like a boat rocking on the waves:

welcome mat
belonging
just inside

Adding to this resonance is Margaret’s skill with the technique of monoku, which adds delightful ambiguity to many of her poems. This creates space for the reader to read and re-read, finding new meaning as the cutting point of each poem shifts, as seen in:

before the morning after she knew

and

too young to be the child i left behind

The uncertainty introduced asks the reader to hold multiple realities at the same time, much like a person trying to disentangle their own issues of identity, self-hood and belonging would have to. 

Thank you for reading! We invite you to continue the conversation by hitting the "comment" button below—let us know your favorite of Margaret's poems and your response to her work. Margaret and the editors look forward to reading and replying to your comments.

Margaret's issue is the final poet issue of our second Fellowship year. Over the next couple of months, we'll publish two more issues featuring collaborations between this year's poet Fellows and the wider confluence community. Community is at the heart of confluence, and we're so excited to showcase this new collaborative work.

Speaking of community, confluence will also host our annual poetry reading on Saturday, June 13, at 10:00 - 11:30 am Eastern Time (click here for your local time). Please save the date! We'll email the join link to all subscribers, so if you haven't subscribed yet, you can do so for free on our website. Our poet Fellows will read from their work, and there will also be an open mic and time to get to know other confluence community members in small groups.

Finally, thank you to everyone who submitted to the 2026 confluence Poetry Prize and for sharing your powerful poems on death and dying. We received nearly 800 submissions and look forward to announcing the contest results later this summer.

If you liked the issue, we invite you to share this with others in your community. Hope to see you at the reading on June 13!