Karly

I’m playing curator today because I caught myself panicking about what to write for Monday. Instead, of forcing an idea into shape I let my mind drift back to the poems I’ve been carrying around lately, which felt fitting given that I had already been thinking about whimsy back in November before it became a word everyone started reaching for online. Now that the internet has collectively decided that 2026 is the year of softness and wonder and small delights, I find myself quietly pleased rather than surprised, as if this was always the direction I was walking in even before it had a name.

Whimsy, at least as I understand it, has very little to do with aesthetics and almost everything to do with attention, with allowing yourself to notice what does not demand to be noticed, with choosing delight even when it serves no purpose, with letting tenderness exist without immediately trying to justify it or turn it into something useful. It is not about being unserious, but about refusing hardness as the default, about staying open in a world that rewards detachment, about letting language linger instead of rushing past it.

When I think about poems that hold that kind of energy, poems that make room for gentleness without sentimentality and joy without performance, I come back to these six again and again, not because they belong together thematically or aesthetically, but because each of them reminds me in a different way how to stay human inside my days.

The Orange by Wendy Cope

Some days are allowed to be good without explanation, and this poem understands that completely, offering the simple pleasure of a shared moment, a piece of fruit, a small burst of happiness that does not need to be framed as extraordinary in order to be real. It reminds me that joy can be immediate and uncomplicated, that you don’t need a narrative arc or a dramatic shift in circumstance to feel grateful, and that noticing something sweet in the middle of an ordinary day is not naïve but deeply wise.

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

There is something profoundly steady in the way this poem imagines returning to yourself without punishment, as if the self you left behind has been waiting patiently rather than resentfully, ready to welcome you back without questions or conditions. It speaks to the long work of remembering who you are beneath expectation and obligation, and it carries the quiet reassurance that you are allowed to come home to yourself at any point, even if you took the scenic route getting there.

Small Kindnesses by Danusha Laméris

I was fortunate enough to hear this poem read aloud in person, twice, and there is something about hearing these lines carried by a human voice that makes their meaning land even more gently and firmly at the same time. The poem pays attention to gestures that are easy to overlook but impossible to forget once you need them, reminding us that the world is often held together not by grand acts or declarations, but by people choosing to be kind when no one is watching and nothing is required of them.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

This poem offers permission in its purest form, permission to belong without earning it, permission to be imperfect and uncertain and still part of the living world. Every time I return to it, I am reminded that I do not need to contort myself into goodness or productivity to deserve space, that there is room for me exactly as I am, moving through the world alongside everything else that is alive and searching.

Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón

There is no urgency in this poem, no command to be hopeful or resilient on demand, only an invitation to look closely at how beginnings actually happen, slowly and unevenly and often without announcement. It reminds me that growth does not always feel triumphant, that returning to yourself can be quiet and hesitant and still count, and that noticing the smallest signs of green is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.

Love Me When I’m Old by Bee Rawlinson

I first heard this poem read aloud by Helena Bonham Carter at the Queen’s Reading Room Festival, and what stayed with me most was not just the warmth of her voice or the care with which she shaped each line, but the way the audience responded almost instinctively, breaking into gentle laughter at moments that were both funny and beautiful in a way that felt completely unforced. There was something deeply moving about that shared reaction, about watching a room full of people chuckle together not because they had been prompted to, but because the poem touched something recognisable and human, something about aging and love and vulnerability that is easier to meet through humour than solemnity. Listening to that collective response made me think about how we receive language when it is spoken aloud, about how beauty does not always demand silence, and about how laughter can be a form of agreement, a way of saying yes, I know this feeling too, without needing to explain it. The poem itself asks for love that endures into ordinariness, into wrinkles and repetition and familiarity, and hearing it delivered in a way that allowed the room to soften together reminded me that whimsy often lives in that exact space, where tenderness and humour meet and people feel safe enough to respond honestly.

I don’t know what this year will ask of me or who I will be by the time it ends, and I’m trying to resist the urge to script it in advance, but I do know that I want to move through it with more attention and less armour, with more softness than speed, with a willingness to pause when something beautiful appears and let it matter even if it does not lead anywhere else.

Also, I’m still working on fixing the fact that I unpacked all over my office when I came back from London and now have to resort to writing in places that aren’t very glamorous or writer-appropriate, and yes, I know I came back three months ago, but I work slowly. I think of it as an analogue task for 2026, since it involves not looking at my phone for extended periods of time.