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We were thinking about midpoints because July 1 is the midpoint of this year. That thought sent us to the bookshelf for a copy of John Updike's Midpoint and Other Poems. Updike published this book of poetry in 1969. “Midpoint” is the long poem that opens the book. Updike says that it was written “to take inventory of his life at the end of his thirty-fifth year – a midpoint.”
This may be the midpoint of the calendar year, but it is a lot harder to pick out the midpoint of your life. In fact, Updike was close, but he was a few years too early. Born in 1932, he was 35 when he wrote the poem and 37 when he was putting together the book, but he lived to 2009 and was almost 77.
Updike doesn't get as much attention for his poetry as he does for his prose, but I like a lot of his poetry. His humorous verse (not easier to write than serious stuff) and his more serious poetry often remind me of his poetic prose.
"Midpoint" (the poem) is ambitious and long (43 pages). He uses the meters of Dante, Spenser, Pope, Whitman, and Pound. He even uses some arrangements on the page that are more like concrete poetry. “Midpoint” has five "cantos" (sections, as in Dante), and each canto begins with an “argument” that sets forth the poet’s own summary of that section. (more about the book here)
For submissions this month, we were looking more to the concept of Updike's poem and book than to the poem itself. We asked poets to write about life midpoints. They are moments of transition, reflection, or redirection that often mark significant psychological or chronological turning points. They may not actually be the chronological halfway point in a life or set of experiences. For example, when children become independent, parents may be prompted to shift from active parenting to self-rediscovery.
The term midpoint suggests a central marker, but in life it’s more symbolic than mathematical. It might occur early or late, depending on a person's experiences, choices, or circumstances. A pivotal moment—like a major insight, loss, or turning point—can feel like a “middle,” even if it’s not halfway through chronologically. In literature, the midpoint often refers to a narrative shift rather than a time-based measure. Life follows similar rhythms.
John Updike (1932-2009) was a highly acclaimed American novelist, short story writer, poet, and essayist. He is best known for his detailed portrayals of American middle-class life, particularly in his "Rabbit" series of novels, which follow the life of Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom through various social and personal upheavals. Updike was a prolific writer, publishing over 20 novels, numerous short story collections, poetry, and essays. He was also a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner and received numerous other accolades for his work.
He attended Harvard University, where he was editor of The Harvard Lampoon and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in English in 1954.
He also studied at the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art at the University of Oxford.
John Updike’s poetry is witty, observant, and grounded in the everyday. Known for its formal precision and playful language, his work often explores suburban life, aging, and sensuality. Though more famous as a novelist, Updike’s verse reveals a sharp eye for detail and a sly sense of humor rooted in tradition.
Updike also published Endpoint (2009), a collection of poems that he wrote during the last seven years of his life and put together only weeks before he died. It is his final book.
Besides his individual poetry collections, Updike has a Selected Poems and Collected Poems 1953-1993.
UNLIKE CICADAS
Unlike the cicadas returning after seventeen years,
ready to swarm and percuss in chorus,
I shunned my acquaintances, sold the house
and headed west to inhale the hope
that sweetens the harshness of new starts.
Unlike those incurious cicadas, programmed by God
to withstand the dampness of the dirt
and emerge to take on the world —
one where cicadas are symbols of certainty —
I rolled a pair of American dice.
The droll croupier announces the roll’s number,
as if there’s no role for surprise,
unlike the cicadas that will crash into
his windshield on his drive home while
I’m halfway to the surf and sunset.
Someone tan built a sand Brian Wilson
near the lifeguard station, carved it from
pailsful of Pacific sand, shell and jetsam.
Surfers bob atop swells, and unlike cicadas,
share with me their resigned surly optimism.
Rob Friedman
FULCRUM
The doctor's edict came one month before
my partner died. Edict was for me:
a 30-minute daily walk for my aging bones.
A release from hospice presence,
if only for half an hour, a non-pharmaceutical
remedy with great effect. I was freed
to walk, to lose myself in a woodland trail,
spirit floating just ahead of my unleashed
stride. I got in the rhythm. It carried
me through final hospice days.
The dawn I found him passed in sleep,
I walked all morning in his memory, because
he couldn't anymore. The rhythm
carries me still – walking as if life depended
on keeping the spirit moving.
Every morning, more than 30 minutes
if it’s a good trail. Walking till I'll find him
on the other side. Step by step for balance.
Taylor Graham
IN REMISSION
I’ve had two forms of cancer
Could rid myself of only one
The other sleeps within my bones
It could wake up at any time
I am much closer to my end
Than my beginning
And yet, I sometimes feel
This is a midpoint in my life
Being in remission is a pause
The battles I have waged are history
The ones ahead have yet to be defined
This is a time to think back and reflect
Years are not the only measure of
A life, misspent or lived with purpose
Time has always been a slippery thing
It drags on forever, then speeds up
I’ve had more than ample helpings of
Failure and success, anxiety, depression
Joy and happiness — enough to know
They’re all fleeting and amorphous
I’ve made mistakes enough to know
Some will morph into success
While others leave an ugly scar
Hard to differentiate between the two
I’ve learned to value my relationships
Treat them as the precious gifts they are
Resign myself to grieving when they end
Believe this is the best alternative
So, waiting for the cancer to return
I’m mindful of the way life twists and turns
Knowing I do not have time to burn
I treat each precious day with tenderness
Frank Kelly
ON THE ORIGIN OF DAD JOKES
I no longer live to play
but I play to stay in touch
the phatic function of puns, and such
oh yes, it's much better if they come with a laugh
but now, past the midpoint, saying howdy is enough.
Rachel Vanbora
MIDDLE EARTH or THE BATTLE OF MIDWAY
My father died
at what I thought would prove
the middle
in days of tights labelled flesh
when they were merely caucasian
- like the crayons in the box
at my school. Were all schools
guilty, or just six out of twelve?
[You are now entering the forest
but you can only go in half way -
past that point you are exiting]
.
She wanted the light to hit
the porcelain - dark blue and white -
of the fruit-bowl in the exact middle
of the dining room table
but for an entire month
that meant I had the bright sun
directly in my eyes and
could barely see my lunch
One man's meat, as they say
although I never knew
who they were
Gastronomically, the midpoint
of the bathroom scale
should read obese
Will wonder never cease?
Well begun is half done.
Midway isn't an island, you know;
it's a whole atoll.
What is poetry
but the story of a moment –
one moment – but one
that contains a story
as long as The Odyssey
You try to capture that moment
write it for the world
in poems: explanations
of life that aren’t all
explanation…
See, I never read poetry
so I can never legitimately
be accused of plagiarizing
Am I halfway there
or halfway home?
Timea Deinhardt
MIDPOINT
Midpoint
Decision time
Halfway there
Things to do
Things to learn
What can I offer?
Advice?
A listening ear?
What can I share?
My wealth?
My time?
What will matter
In the arc of time?
Only time will tell.
Carolyn Wiley
DIVERGENT BOUNDARIES
Post school, post marriage, post family
No longer entirely
Who I once was
The great divide
Has long since passed
But the great shift
The real movement
Is happening now
Is still in progress
Perhaps we come apart
To form the new
Work and body winding down
Anxiety ratcheting up
Evening thoughts
Taking me on long journeys
Unbidden yet not unpleasant
Captive to the conductor
That is my unconscious
Needing less
Or rather
Wanting less
Less things, less stuff
Less of what doesn’t matter
Yet Wanting
Or rather
Needing more
More people, more poetry
More sun, more laughter
More choices
More understanding- of what was and is
And yes, more time- so much more
Being
Both less and more
Of who I am
Than ever before
It begins, I think
Not in the acquisition of things
Not in the rising of our stars
But rather in the declining
With the losses within and without
The way is more clear
The path no longer breaking off
Into so many branches
My road map
Old, faded and folded over
Crumpled and illegible in some spots
I’m still trying to smooth it out
Never good with directions
Hoarder of all things paper
Wondering about
God's positioning system
Am I where I should be
Am I way out of range
Just not picking up the signals
Or is God the sender
Of my dreams ever recurring
Lost, always lost
Yet, somehow saved
Terri J. Guttilla
DARK WOOD
In the middle of the journey of my life
there was a hiccup. Actually, it was
more of a burp. It came from being full
of heartbreak. And amazement. And sick
with desire for the world. And something
not of the world. In the middle of the journey
of my life I kind of lost it. I couldn’t
find it. So what I did was, I paused. It wasn’t
the ceremonious way some people pause
to give thanks before a meal,
nor the sudden mid-sentence pause after the name
of someone you loved so much you lose
your breath every time. Nor was it the solemn
moment of silence sitting on all the bowed heads in a room,
nor the silence that fills a room when a room
empties, the door snapping to. It was more of a listening
for the aftertaste of something in the mouth,
something not in the mouth anymore but
in the body now. In the middle of the journey
of my life I stopped, I looked around, and I listened
the way you listen at the mouth of a well
for a dropped stone, waiting for it to tell you something.
Paul Hostovsky
IN THE GAME
— for my spouse of fifty-two years
Today I learned that I would schedule
surgery yet another time. Number fifteen,
to be exact. They tell me it is not
a big deal when the cancer resurfaces
in the bladder. We just have to stay
on top of it, you say. So, I’m staying
vigilant. Looking at life under
the microscope. I want to jump
with the mullet come springtime,
to roll in the aspen leaves in fall.
To drive country roads in the summer,
to taste blackberries on your sweet lips
and tongue. I just want to play. To play
hard, like a troll in darkness, leaving marks
in caverns and caves. To play Hide
and Seek with the poetic muse,
to find joy from the journal’s blank
page. I want to run the bases and hear
the crowd’s roar when the grand slam wins
the game. To play Mother May like I did
as a child, this time permission granted
to throw grace to the refs and umpires,
to pitch love to mere shadows and dust.
Jo Taylor
MEDITATION ON THE MIDPOINT
Midpoint, Midlife, Midwinter, Midwife, Midway, Midshipman,
Midriff, Midterm, Midmorning…..
Everything, it seems, has a middle,
But every middle can change, and we aren’t always sure
Where it’s shifting. Time, place, space and weather can affect
Every outcome, so we need to study contexts, myths and legends,
Histories, chronologies, narratives and even astronomy.
We also have to study ourselves. Are we at the midpoint of a
Nervous breakdown? At the midpoint of a meteoric rise,
An ascension of some sort? Is democracy at the midpoint of total
Collapse? And how can we discern the start and the finish,
Or the top or the bottom? Then there’s math. Does every tercet and
Trinity have a midpoint, like a triangle?
And what about geography?
Maybe we need to mull over all these midpoints from our spot here
At the midpoint of the largest and deepest ocean on a middle sized
Planet in the middle of a galaxy that might be the midpoint
Of the universe, but probably not. Here we are, the most
Remote civilization on earth, mid-way among Alaska and all its salmon
To the north, our friend Mexico to the east, who ships us avocados and oranges;
To our west lies far-off Taiwan, creator of computer chips and AI, and lastly,
Way down south, Tahiti, birthplace of our current residents’ ancestors, is still
Carving the fastest koa-wood canoes on earth. Will our home here in the midpoint
Fall apart from melting glaciers and over-fishing in the cold northern waters,
If the farm workers in Mexico all disappear or exit to Texas,
If war and aggression end the Era of Electronics
And the cruise ships stop docking in the South Pacific?
Will we still be in the middle of everything, out here by ourselves,
In the blue waves, with nothing on the horizon, farming, fishing
And carving our own canoes?
Rose Anna Higashi
A BLESSING
The trek to midlife has been arduous,
the route, narrow and winding. Your only companion,
a constant thought - 'How long till the peak?'
Doubts jostle for space like a flame of orange weeds-
'Is this where you want to be? Are you lost?'
The sudden burst of the bulbuls’ babble
sounds bizarre.'What were you thinking?'
The turquoise river has evaporated into a silent trickle.
A raucous burst of brambles crowd the path
at autumn’s turnpike. 'Turn back. Retreat.'
A sudden comma is thrust upon the aching muscles,
tired synapses, as you wait on the whispering rock,
a pause in the sentence of time, when you notice
a hundred wildflowers with yellow centers
bob like little crowned suns in the vermilion breeze.
The caress of breath, a dictionary of scents.
A brook frolics somewhere close by.
Preeth Ganapathy
HEADED WEST
It’s mid-semester and I
daydream of heading west,
of draining my bank account,
getting in my truck, and driving
out past San Antonio, past
Marfa and Big Bend toward the
unreachable El Paso until the
light changes and the sky opens
up and the nights blaze and I’m
engulfed in desert silence.
Here amid the pines and the
heavy air one cannot hear nor
breathe: planes continuously
thunder overhead, traffic burps
and beeps, computers sigh, fans
whir, and the AC complains as
teachers jabber and students
stumble and bawl down corridors
under a fluorescent glow that
blots the mind, sots the soul.
Somewhere, out in the West,
alone, surely I can breathe again,
can think again, can begin again,
can find my way out of this barbed
wire that turns and twists round
and round in tightening coils
constricting life to the point
that simply sitting or thinking
causes the flesh to prickle, the
mind to sputter and wrinkle.
The old urge of Ishmael is deep
in the American soul: an un-
quietness, a restlessness, that
makes us feel caged and twisted,
fettered in the daily chores of
hearth and home and goalless
work that circles round and
round and sots the soul in endless
forms of obligation to those
who suck us dry as desert air.
So I dream of heading west,
where no one lives, no one grasps,
no one demands, no one begs,
where Nature reigns supreme in her
indifference, cold, and pure, and
free of all the chains claiming
those enmeshed in human longing,
human needing, human grasping:
to be, again, at one with the atoms
of the desert sand and distant stars.
Rob Miller
MIDLIFE CRISES
She was already at the midpoint of her life
when she gave birth,
though of course,
she didn’t know it then,
and was happy to light another roll up.
It was a difficult birth.
Even though the baby was small
her insides were smaller
and the effort burst blood vessels in her legs
which would cause ulcers throughout the rest of her life,
but the healthy child growing up was her joy and consolation.
She had married late to a much older man,
a widower already past the midpoint of his life
and of course, he knew it even then,
but what could he do but light another roll up.
At his life’s midpoint his first child had died
so the healthy child brought him joy and consolation
and he cared for both while he could.
Her life went on,
only the first half done.
Both halves were hard
but she loved and was loved
in the best and worst of times.
In both halves of her life she was whole.
Lynn White
EQUIDISTANT: A STEAM TRUNK MENAGERIE
“At the midpoint on the journey of life, I found myself in a dark forest,
for the clear path was lost.”— Dante Alighieri, The Inferno,
Halfway to accomplishing nothing
midlife’s crisis passed me by without a nod
a sportscar, or validation’s plea; I pushed aside
sheets each morning, awoke to novel prospects
far gone come noon; by twilight I limped past opportunities,
ambitions scattered like breadcrumb trails, goals trapped—
imprisoned by dissembling honey’s promises; restrained
via septuagenarian footsteps, flanked by a grim reaper’s
visage, digits extend and skeletal fingers beckon.
Harry Haller I’ve admired your nature,
felt the Steppenwolf stir within me striving
to gnaw through confines of etiquette alienation,
allowing unbridled instinct to triumph over reason…
howls mute logic, no middle ground negotiating
bourgeois normalcy and quirky nonconformity
as unchecked desires spark halfhearted beginnings,
jinx conclusions, thwart agreeable compromises
between my dreamlike existence and isolated reality.
Give me a magic theatre where I can observe
my seven selves weigh extremity’s advantage
drag life’s steam trunk menageries roughshod
across the stage for audience reassessment
as secrets within etched in parchment love letters
break fourth walls, and I spout surreal dialogue to my
multiple faces searching for an acceptable median
framed by self-acceptance, bypassing savage
intellect held at bay by midpoint’s absurdity.
Sterling Warner