This Month’s Poems

This month our May poems celebrate traditional festivals, the renewal of nature and the rebirth of love.

We also feature a selection of poems recorded by poets for Poems on the Underground

The Argument of His Book by Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674) 'I sing of Brooks, of Blossomes, Birds, and Bowers: Of April, May, of June, and July-Flowers. I sing of May-poles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bride-grooms, Brides, and of their Bridall-cakes. I write of Youth, of Love, and have Accesse By these, to sing of cleanly-Wantonnesse. I sing of Dewes, of Raines, and piece by piece Of Balme, of Oyle, of Spice and Amber-Greece. I sing of Times trans-shifting; and I write How Roses first came Red, and Lillies White. I write of Groves, of Twilights, and I sing The Court of Mab, and of the Fairie-King. I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all. '

Poems On May Morning

Song: On May Morning, John Milton Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail bounteous May that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.'

Sumer is icumen in, Anon 'Sumer is icumen in, Loud sing cuckoo! Groweth seed and bloweth mead And springeth the wood now. Sing cuckoo! Ewe bleateth after lamb, Cow loweth after calf, Bullock starteth, buck soundeth, Merry sing cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo, well singest thou cuckoo, Nor cease thou never now! Sing cuckoo now, sing cuckoo! Sing cuckoo, sing cuckoo now! '

Cuckoo, Fujiwara no Toshinari ‘Has it flown away, The cuckoo that called Waking me at midnight?’

Small Brown Job, Gwyneth Lewis ‘May you be led on all your walks By an unidentified bird Flitting ahead, at least one branch, The tease, between you And it. Is that an eyeStripe? Epaulette? Your desire For a name grows stronger.’

Distances, Philippe Jaccottet (b.1925) Translated by Derek Mahon 'Les distances Tournent les martinets dans les hauteurs de l' air: plus haut encore tournent les astres invisibles. Que le jour se retire aux extrémités de la terre, apparaîtront ces feux sur l' etendue de sombre sable… Ainsi nous habitons un domaine de mouvements et de distances; ainsi le coeur va de l' arbre à l' oiseau, de l' oiseau aux astres lointains, de l' astre à son amour. Ainsi l' amour dans la maison fermée s' accroît, tourne et travaille, serviteur des soucieux portant une lampe à la main. Swifts turn in the heights of the air; higher still turn the invisible stars. When day withdraws to the ends of the earth their fires shine on a dark expanse of sand. We live in a world of motion and distance. The heart flies from tree to bird, from bird to distant star, from star to love; and love grows in the quiet house, turning and working, servant of thought, a lamp held in one hand. '

Distances by Philippe Jaccottet read by John Glenday

Swallows, Owen Sheers 'The Swallows are italic again, cutting their sky-jive between the telephone wires, flying in crossed lines.'

In the Heart of Hackney, for Aidan Andrew Dun by Sebastian Barker Poems on the Underground 2007 poster ' Behold, a swan. Ten houseboats on the Lee. A cyclist on the towpath. Gentle rain. A pigeon in a white apple - blossoming tree. And through the Marsh the rumble of a train. Two courting geese waddle on the bank Croaking. A man unties his boat. Police cars howl and whoop. And vast and blank The rain cloud of the sky is trampled underfoot. Behold, a dove. And in Bomb Crater Pond Fat frogs ignore the rain. Each trembling rush signals like a wand Earthing the magic of London once again. In the heart of Hackney, five miles from Kentish Town, By Lammas Lands the reed beds are glowing rich and brown '.Sebastian Barker Reprinted by permission of Enitharmon Press from Damnatio Memoriae: Erased from Memory (2004)

Coltsfoot and Larches by David Constantine (b. 1944) ' I love coltsfoot that they Make their appearance into life among dead grass: Larches, that they Die colourfully among sombre immortals.' Poems on the Underground Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe from Collected Poems (2004) © David Constantine

Ragwort, Anne Stevenson 'They won't let railways alone, those yellow flowers. They're that remorseless joy of dereliction

Ragwort by Anne Stevenson read by Linda Anderson

London Fields, Michael Rosen ‘Evening falls between the trees The drumming for Ghana fills the leaves’

Poems for May Day

Cuts, Sam Riviere ' I can see that things have gotten pretty bad our way of life threatened by financiers assortments of phoneys and opportunists and very soon the things we cherish most will likely be taken from us the wine from our cellars our silk gowns and opium but tell me what do you expect Chung Ling Soo much ridiculed conjurer of the court and last of the dynasty of brooms to do about it?'

A Song Laetitia Pilkington 'Lying is an occupation, Used by all who mean to rise; Politicians owe their station, But to well concerted lies. These to lovers give assistance, To ensnare the fair-one's heart; And the virgin's best resistance Yields to this commanding art. Study this superior science, Would you rise in Church or State; Bid to Truth a bold defiance, 'Tis the practice of the great.'

A Dead Statesman, Rudyard Kipling 'I could not dig: I dared not rob: Therefore I lied to please the mob. Now all my lies are proved untrue And I must face the men I slew. What tale shall serve me here among Mine angry and defrauded young?'

A Dead Statesman by Rudyard Kipling read by Elizabeth Cook

The Leader, Roger McGough Poems on the Underground 1995 Poster 'I wanna be the leader I wanna be the leader Can I be the leader? Can I? I can? Promise? Promise? Yippee. I'm the leader I'm the leader OK what shall we do?'

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, Emily Dickinson, Much Madness is divinest Sense- To a discerning Eye- Much Sense- the starkest Madness- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, Prevail- Assent- and you are sane- Demur- you're straightway dangerous- And handled with a Chain-''

Happiness, Stephen Dunn ' A state you must dare not enter with hopes of staying, quicksand in the marshes, and all the roads leading to a castle that doesn't exist. But there it is, as promised, with its perfect bridge above the crocodiles, and its doors forever open.'

Bowl by Elizabeth Cook Give me a bowl, wide and shallow. Patient to light as a landscape open to the whole weight of a deepening sky. Give me a bowl which turns for ever on a curve so gentle a child could bear it and beasts lap fearless at its low rim.' Poems on the Underground Reprinted by permission of Worple Press from Bowl (2006)

Bowl written and read by by Elizabeth Cook

The Creel by Kathleen Jamie 'The world began with a woman, shawl-happed, stooped under a creel, whose slow step you recognize from troubled dreams. You feel obliged to help bear her burden from hill or kelp-strewn shore, but she passes by unseeing thirled to her private chore. It's not sea birds or peat she's carrying, not fleece, nor the herring bright but her fear that if ever she put it down the world would go out like a light.'

The Creel by Kathleen Jamie read by John Glenday

Inversnaid by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-89) Poems on the Underground 1995 ' This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home. A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth Turns and twindles over the broth Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning ,It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning. Degged with dew, dappled with dew Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn. What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and wilderness yet.' Poems on the Underground The British Library (Zweig Programme) London Arts Board .Design Tom Davidson.

Inversnaid by Gerard Manley Hopkins read by Niall Campbell

Loving the rituals by Palladas (4th century AD) tr. Tony Harrison Poems on the Underground 1999 1,000 years of poetry in English ‘Loving the rituals that keep men close, Nature created means for friends apart: pen, paper, ink, the alphabet, signs for the distant and disconsolate heart.’

Loving the Rituals by Palladas read by John Glenday

Fear by Ciaran Carson read by Paula Meehan

When you are Old, W. B. Yeats ' When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;'

When You Are Old by W B Yeats read by Paula Meehan

Piano , D.H. Lawrence 1989 poster 'Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.'

Piano by D H Lawrence read by George Szirtes

Virtue, George Herbert 'Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright The bridal of the earth and sky: The dew shall weep thy fall tonight, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eyes: Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie: My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal. Then chiefly lives.'

Virtue by George Herbert read by George Szirtes

I am Raftery the poet read by Ian Duhig

A Collector, Erich Fried tr. Stuart Hood 'The things I found But they'll scatter them again to the four winds as soon as I am dead Old gadgets fossilised plants and shells books broken dolls coloured postcards And all the words I have found my incomplete my unsatisfied words '

A Collector by Erich Fried read by Ian Duhig

The Present by Michael Donaghy Poems on the Underground 2001 ' For the present there is just one moon, though every level pond gives back another .But the bright disc shining in the black lagoon, perceived by astrophysicist and lover ,is milliseconds old. And even that light's seven minutes older than its source. And the stars we think we see on moonless nights are long extinguished. And, of course, this very moment, as you read this line, is literally gone before you know it. Forget the here-and-now. We have no time but this device of wantonness and wit. Make me this present then: your hand in mine, and we'll live out our lives in it.'

The Present by Michael Donaghy read by Patience Agbabi

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