Poems of the Week from 2023

Poem of the Week December 30th

The place where we are right, Yehuda Amichai ' From the place where we are right flowers will never grow in the spring. the place where we are right is hard and trampled like a yard'

Poem of the Week: December 23rd

For My Wife, Reading in Bed by John Glenday ' I know we’re living through all the dark we can afford. Thank goodness, then, for this moment’s light and you, holding the night at bay—a hint of frown, those focussed hands, that open book. I’ll match your inward quiet, breath for breath. What else do we have but words and their absences to bind and unfasten the knotwork of the heart; to remind us how mutual and alone we are, how tiny and significant? Whatever it is you are reading now my love, read on. Our lives depend on it.' John Glenday Reprinted by permission of Picador from Selected Poems (2020)

Poem of the Week: December 16th

Moment in a Peace March, Grace Nichols ‘A holy multitude pouring Moment in a Peace March through the gates of Hyde Park – A great hunger repeated in cities all over the world’

Poem of the Week: December 9th

The London Breed I love dis great polluted place Where pop stars come to live their dreams Here ravers come for drum and bass And politicians plan their schemes, The music of the world is here Dis city can play any song They came to here from everywhere Tis they that made dis city strong. A world of food displayed on streets Where all the world can come and dine On meals that end with bitter sweets And cultures melt and intertwine, Two hundred languages give voice To fifteen thousand changing years And all religions can rejoice With exiled souls and pioneers. Benjamin Zephaniah Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Too Black Too Strong (2001)

Poem of the Week: December 2nd

Rainforest, Judith Wright 'The forest drips and glows with green. The tree-frog croaks his far off song. His voice is stillness, moss and rain drunk from the forest ages long.'

Poem of the Week: November 25th

Long Exposure by Garous Abdolmalekian Translated from Persian by Idra Novey & Ahmad Nadalizadeh Even after letting go of the last bird I hesitate There is something in this empty cage that never gets released Garous Abdolmalekian Translated from Persian by Idra Novey & Ahmad Nadalizadeh Reprinted by permission of Penguin from Lean Against This Late Hour (2020)

Poem of the Week: November 18th

from Elegy for a Dead Soldier by Karl Shapiro We ask for no statistics of the killed, For nothing political impinges on This single casualty, or all those gone, Missing or healing, sinking or dispersed, Hundreds of thousands counted, millions lost. More than an accident and less than willed Is every fall, and this one like the rest. However others calculate the cost, To us the final aggregate is one, One with a name, one transferred to the blest; And though another stoops and takes the gun, We cannot add the second to the first. Karl Shapiro Reprinted by permission of University of Illinois Press from The Wild Card: Selected Poems, Early and Late (1998)

Poem of the Week: November 11th

Poem of the Week: November 4th

In a Loaning by Seamus Heaney Spoken for in autumn, recovered speech Having its way again, I gave a cry: ‘Not beechen green, but these shin-deep coffers Of copper-fired leaves, these beech boles grey.’ Seamus Heaney Reprinted by permission of Faber from District and Circle (2006) Loaning: a lane (Ulster-Scots) boles: tree trunks

Poem of the Week: October 28th

Axe by Anthony Joseph My father, God bless his axe. He grooved deep in pitch pine. He spun his charm like bachelor galvanise in hurricane. Once I saw him peep through torrential rain like a saint at a killing. And when the wind broke his cassava trees, and the water overcame his eight-track machine, and his clothes were swept away in the flood, his Hail Mary fell upon a fortress of bone. So he crossed his chest with appointed finger and hissed a prayer in glossolalic verse. He may grand-charge and growl but he woundeth not, nor cursed the storm that Papa God send to wash away the wish of him and every dream he built. Anthony Joseph Reprinted by permission of Bloomsbury from Sonnets for Albert (2022)

Poem of the Week: October 21st

from Beacon of Hope (for John La Rose) by Linton Kwesi Johnson ' welcome nocturnal friend I name you beacon of hope tonight fear fades to oblivion as you guide us beyond the stars to a new horizon tomorrow a stranger will enter my hut my cave my cool cavern of gloom I will give him bread he will bring good news from afar I will give him water he will bring a gift of light'

Poem of the Week: October 14th

Rising, Jean Binta Breeze having some summers gone dug out that old tree stump that darkened my garden having waited without planting (for it was impossible then to choose the growth) having lost the dream but not the art of healing having released the roots of pain into content I now stir the skies

Poem of the Week: October 7th

History and Away, Andrew Salkey 'What we do with time and what time does with us is the way of history, spun down around our feet. So we say today, that we meet our Caribbean shadow just as it follows the sun, away into the curve of tomorrow. In fact our sickle of islands and continental strips are mainlands of time with our own marks on them, yesterday, today and tomorrow.'

Poem of the Week: September 30th

Barter, Nii Ayikwei Parkes ‘That first winter alone, the true meaning Barter of all the classroom rhymes that juggled snow and go, old and cold, acquired new leanings.’

Poem of the Week: September 23rd

Poem of the Week: September 16th

London Poems on the Underground After the Lunch, Wendy Cope. On Waterloo Bridge, where we said our goodbyes, The weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.

Poem of the Week: September 9th

from To Autumn, John Keats ' Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.'

Poem of the Week: September 2nd

Colmcille the Scribe from the Irish, c.11th century, Seamus Heaney ‘My hand is cramped from penwork. My quill has a tapered point. Its bird-mouth issues a blue-dark Beetle-sparkle of ink.’

Poem of the Week: August 26th

Poem of the Week: August 19th

Midsummer, Tobago, Derek Walcott 'Broad sun-stoned beaches. White heat. A green river. A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August. Days I have held, days I have lost, days that outgrow, like daughters, my harbouring arms.'

Poem of the Week: August 12th

Leaf , Seán Hewitt from Tongues of Fire 'For woods are forms of grief grown from the earth. For they creak with the weight of it. For each tree is an altar to time. For the oak, whose every knot guards a hushed cymbal of water. For how the silver water holds the heavens in its eye. For the axletree of heaven and the sleeping coil of wind and the moon keeping watch. For how each leaf traps light as it falls. For even in the nighttime of life it is worth living, just to hold it.'

Poem of the Week: August 5th

To My Daughter by Stephen Spender (1909-95) ' Bright clasp of her whole hand around my finger My daughter, as we walk together now. All my life I'll feel a ring invisibly Circle this bone with shining: when she is grown Far from today as her eyes are far already. ' Reprinted by permission of Faber from Collected Poems 1928-1985 Poems on the Underground 1,000 Years of Poetry in English

Poem of the Week: July 29th

The only thing far away In this country, Jamaica is not quite as far as you might think. Walking through Peckham in London, West Moss Road in Manchester, you pass green and yellow shops where tie-headwomen bargain over the price of dasheen. And beside Jamaica is Spain selling large yellow peppers, lemon to squeeze onto chicken. Beside Spain is Pakistan, then Egypt, Singapore, the world. . . here, strangers build home together, flood the ports with curry and papayas; in Peckham and on Moss Road, the place smells of more than just patty or tandoori. It smells like Mumbai, like Castries, like Princess Street, Jamaica. Sometimes in this country, the only thing far away is this country. Kei Miller Reprinted by permission of Carcanet from There Is an Anger That Moves (2007)

Poem of the Week: July 22nd

The Two Apes of Brueghel by Wislawa Szymborska translated by Sharon Olds 'Here's my dream of a final exam: two apes, in chains, sitting at a window. Outside the sky is flying and the sea bathes. I am taking the test on human history. I stammer and blunder. One ape, staring at me, listens with irony, the other seems to doze- but when I am silent after a question, she prompts me with a soft clanking of the chain.' Wislawa Szymborska (b.1923) Translated by Sharon Olds © Quarterly Review of Literature Poems on the Underground

Poem of the Week: July 15th

The London Breed I love dis great polluted place Where pop stars come to live their dreams Here ravers come for drum and bass And politicians plan their schemes, The music of the world is here Dis city can play any song They came to here from everywhere Tis they that made dis city strong. A world of food displayed on streets Where all the world can come and dine On meals that end with bitter sweets And cultures melt and intertwine, Two hundred languages give voice To fifteen thousand changing years And all religions can rejoice With exiled souls and pioneers. Benjamin Zephaniah Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Too Black Too Strong (2001)

Poem of the Week: July 8th

Windrush Child (for Vince Reid, at 13 the youngest passenger on the Empire Windrush) Behind you Windrush child palm trees wave goodbye above you Windrush child seabirds asking why around you Windrush child blue water rolling by beside you Windrush child your Windrush mum and dad think of storytime yard and mango mornings and new beginnings doors closing and opening John Agard Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Alternative Anthem: Selected Poems (2009)

Poem of the Week: July 1st

Hour, Carol Ann Duffy ‘Love’s time’s beggar, but even a single hour, bright as a dropped coin, makes love rich. We find an hour together, spend it not on flowers or wine, but the whole of the summer sky and a grass ditch.’

Poem of the Week: June 24th

Bourda Marvel again at the market stalls singing the earth’s abundance in the heaped-up homegrown freshness of their own vernacular favoured names. Not Aubergine but Balanjay Not Spinach but Calaloo Not Green-beans but Bora Not Chilli but Bird-pepper And not just any mango but the one crowned, Buxton Spice, Still hiding its ambrosia in the roof of my mouth, still flowering like the bird-picked mornings on the branches of my memory. Grace Nichols Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Passport to Here and There (2020)

Poem of the Week: June 17th

Sea-Song One Come on Seawash of travel Expose new layers of skin Come on calm voice of sea Come and settle on land Sea’s tumble wash Change our rags for riches Come on – tumble wash of sea Clear away the bloody waters Clear away the bloody waters James Berry Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Windrush Songs, reprinted in A Story I Am In: Selected Poems (2011)

Poem of the Week: June 10th

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! '

Poem of the week: June 3rd

A dream of leavin, James Berry ' Man, so used to notn, this is a dream I couldn't dream of dreamin so - I scare I might wake up. One day I would be Englan bound! A travel would have me on sea not chained down below, every tick of clock, but free, man! Free like tourist! Never see me coulda touch world of Englan - when from all accounts I hear that is where all we prosperity end up. I was always in a dream of leavin. My half-finished house was on land where work-laden ancestors' bones lay. The old plantation land still stretch-out down to the sea, giving grazing to cattle.'

Poem of the Week: May 27th

The Tyger, William Blake 'Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes! On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?'

Poem of the Week: May 20th

King James Bible Ecclesiastes 1 iii-vii 'What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose. The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.'

Poem of the Week: May 13th

The Loch Ness Monster's Song, Edwin Morgan 'Sssnnnwhuffffll? Hnwhuffl hhnnwfl hnflhfl? Gdroblboblhobngbl gbl gl g g g g glbgl'

Poem of the Week: May 6th

If Bach Had Been a Beekeeper, Charles Tomlinson ' If Bach Had Been a Beekeeper he would have heard all those notes suspended above one another in the air of his ear as the undifferentiated swarm returning to the exact hive to place in the hive, topping up the cells with the honey of C major, food for the listening generations, key to their comfort and solace of their distress as they return and return to those counterpointed levels of hovering wings where movement is dance and the air itself a scented garden'

Poem of the Week: April 29th

25th April 1974, Sophie de Mello Breyner tr.Ruth Fainlight, 'This is the dawn I was waiting for The first day whole and pure When we emerged from night and silence Alive into the substance of time'

Poem of the Week: April 22nd

Sonnet 65 by William Shakespeare 'Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea But sad mortality o’er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.'

Poem of the Week: April 15th

Anise Koltz Tr. John Montague , The Birds Will Still Sing ' Les oiseaux continuent à chanter Abattez mes branches sciez-moi en morceaux les oiseaux continuent à chanter dans mes racines The Birds Will Still Sing Break my branches saw me into bits the birds will still sing in my roots'

Poem of the Week: April 8th

Qu'une place soit faite... Let a Place be Made by Yves Bonnefoy (b.1923) Translated by Anthony Rudolf 'Let a place be made for the one who draws near, The one who is cold, deprived of any home, Tempted by the sound of a lamp, by the lit Threshold of a solitary house. And if he is still exhausted, full of anguish, Say again for him those words that heal. What does this heart which once was silence need If not those words which are both sign and prayer, Like a fire caught sight of in the sudden night, Like the table glimpsed in a poor house?'

Poem of the Week : April 1st

Sun a-shine, rain a-fall, Valerie Bloom 'Sun a-shine, rain a-fall, The Devil an' him wife cyan 'gree at all, The two o'them want one fish-head, The Devil call him wife bonehead, She hiss her teeth, call him cock-eye, Greedy, worthless an 'workshy, While them busy callin' name, The puss walk in, sey is a shame To see a nice fish go to was'e, Lef' with a big grin pon him face.'

Sun A-Shine Rain A-Fall read by Valerie Bloom

Poem of the Week March 25th

Bond by Diana Anphimiadi translated by Natalia Bukia-Peters and Jean Sprackland ' The honey heather has dried up in my voice, the lullaby ivy in my throat. When I leave, your words follow – you are mine! You know I’ll always come back. I watch the migrating birds - their sign in the sky – and think of the old proverb: go, and your homeland goes with you; return, and it’s lost forever. I leave, and the house is empty without you. I switch off the golden fish as I go though I’d rather keep them flickering – on the ceiling, in the deep sea – for your return' Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books from Why I No Longer Write Poems (2022)

Poem of the Week: March 18th

Seed by Paula Meehan 'The first warm day of spring and I step out into the garden from the gloom of a house where hope had died to tally the storm damage, to seek what may have survived. And finding some forgotten lupins I’d sown from seed last autumn holding in their fingers a raindrop each like a peace offering, or a promise, I am suddenly grateful and would offer a prayer if I believed in God. But not believing, I bless the power of seed, its casual, useful persistence, and bless the power of sun, its conspiracy with the underground, and thank my stars the winter’s ended.'

Seed read by Paula Meehan

Poem of the Week: March 11th

from The Winter’s Tale by William Shakespeare 'Perdita: Now, my fairest friend, I would I had some flowers of the spring, that might Become your time of day . . . Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes; . . . pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength . . . bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The fleur-de-lis being one. O, these I lack To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, To strew him o’er and o’er! '

Poem of the Week: March 4th

What I know of the sea by İlhan Sami Çomak translated by Caroline Stockford ' Rains wander your face, the gentleness of dew is in your voice. Let each and every spring be yours! May all mountains tire and arrive here! Here at the place where stars have spilled you where waters flow; the place where you say Curl up on my lap and let birds take flight In the place where we collected questions such as ‘what was before words?’ What I know of love is so little! Yet I’m constantly thinking of you!' Reprinted by permission of Smokestack Books from Separated from the Sun (2022)

Poem of the Week: February 25th

Truth by Geoffrey Chaucer ' Flee from the press and dwell with truthfulness; Let what you have suffice though it be small. For greed brings hate and climbing trickiness; Fame means envy and wiles blind us all. Enjoy no more than what is right for thee. Rule yourself well if you would others rule, And sure it is that truth shall set you free. Fle fro the prees, & dwelle with sothefastnesse. Suffyce thin owen thing though it be smal. For horde hath hate & clymbyng tykelnesse – Press hath envye & wile blent overal. Savour no more thanne thee bihove schal. Reule wel thyselfe that other folk canst rede, And trouthe shal delyvere it is no drede. British Library MS 10340 by permission of The British Library Board

Poem of the Week: February 18th

Time to be slow, John O’Donohue ‘This is the time to be slow, Lie low to the wall Until the bitter weather passes’

This is the Time to be Slow

Excerpt from For the Break-Up of a Relationship,  from Benedictus (Europe) / To Bless the Space Between Us (US) by John O’Donohue

Poem of the Week: February 11th

Letters From Yorkshire by Maura Dooley (b.1957) ' In February, digging his garden, planting potatoes, he saw the first lapwings return and came indoors to write to me, his knuckles singing as they reddened in the warmth. It's not romance, simply how things are. You out there, in the cold, seeing the seasons turning, me with my heartful of headlines feeding words onto a blank screen. Is your life more real because you dig and sow? You wouldn't say so, breaking ice on a waterbutt, clearing a path through snow. Still, it's you who sends me word of that other world pouring air and light into an envelope. So that at night, watching the same news in different houses, our souls tap out messages over the icy miles'

Poem of the week: February 4th

Poem of the Week: January 28th

Celia Celia, Adrian Mitchell ' When I am sad and weary When I think all hope has gone When I walk along High Holborn I think of you with nothing on'

Poem of the Week: January 21st

Poem of the Week: January 14th

From King Lear, William Shakespeare ' Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these?'

Poem of the Week: January 7th

And if I speak of Paradise, Roger Robinson ‘And if I speak of Paradise then I’m speaking of my grandmother who told me to carry it always on my person, concealed, so no one else would know but me.’