June 2024

Look out for our summer Poems on the Underground on London Underground and Overground cars throughout June

We are delighted to welcome the joys of summer with a selection of summer poems that celebrate our common humanity.

This month we also feature poems to mark the 76th Anniversary of the Empire Windrush’s arrival in Britain  bringing men, women and children from the Caribbean to help rebuild a war-ravaged country.

We also feature poems of Exile and Loss, celebrating the contributions and creativity of refugees and people seeking sanctuary.

New Summer Poems on the Underground

A Glimpse by Azita Ghahreman, translated from the Persian by Elhum Shakerifar and Maura Dooley

A Glimpse So caught up in our conversation that darkness fell and covered us with large damp wings and not a single light showed in that blue hour where we stood grown-up children held for a moment, astonished, watching a paper boat as the water swallowed it. Azita Ghahreman, translated from the Persian by Elhum Shakerifar and Maura Dooley Reprinted with permission from Negative of a Group Photograph (The Poetry Translation Centre / Bloodaxe Books, 2018)

A Glimpse read in Persian by Azita Ghahreman

A Glimpse by Azita Ghahreman read by Maura Dooley

from We Refugees by Benjamin Zephaniah

from We Refugees We can all be refugees Sometimes it only takes a day, Sometimes it only takes a handshake Or a paper that is signed. We all came from refugees Nobody simply just appeared, Nobody’s here without a struggle, And why should we live in fear Of the weather or the troubles? We all came here from somewhere Benjamin Zephaniah from We Refugees Reprinted by permission of Penguin Books Limited from Wicked World (Puffin, 2000).

By Yourself, Boy. . . (1988-2007) by Nii Ayikwei Parkes

By Yourself, Boy. . . (1988-2007) Nat King Cole’s on the TV staring hard at his audience, his hands setting up plays while he sings. Ray Charles said he sang so damn well people forgot how good he was on keys, and I see it now; his right hand stuffs a melody down the grand piano’s throat – that’s the fake – he dribbles the sound down to low notes until you expect the left hand to come in lower. That’s when he breaks mould, hustles his left hand over the right, throws high notes into your ear -crossover, up, swish. Now the trash talk it’s better to be by yourself boy… He smiles like the silent men on my tapes and, suddenly, every move has a name, a sound, a history. Nii Ayikwei Parkes Reprinted by permission of Peepal Tree Press from The Makings of You (2010)

By Yourself Boy…. read by Nii Ayikwei Parkes

The Isle of Portland by A.E. Housman

The Isle of Portland The star-filled seas are smooth to-night From France to England strown; Black towers above the Portland light The felon-quarried stone. On yonder island, not to rise, Never to stir forth free, Far from his folk a dead lad lies That once was friends with me. Lie you easy, dream you light, And sleep you fast for aye;, And luckier may you find the night Than ever you found the day. . A. E. Housman

The Isle of Portland by A.E. Housman read by Maura Dooley

‘Sumer is icumen in’ Anon

‘Sumer is icumen in’ 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 farteth, Merry sing cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo! Well singest thou cuckoo, Nor cease thou never now! Sing cuckoo now, sing cuckoo! Sing cuckoo, sing cuckoo now! Anon (13th century) Music manuscript by permission of The British Library Board, BL Harley 978f.1.1v

Taste by Don Paterson

Taste Gooseberry, banana, pear and apple, all the ripenesses . . . Read it in the child’s face: the life-and-death the tongue hears as she eats . . . This comes from far away. What is happening to your mouth? Where there were words, discovery flows, all shocked out of the pith – What we call apple . . . Do you dare give it a name? This sweet-shop fire rising in the taste, to grow clarified, awake, twin-sensed, of the sun and earth, the here and the now – the sensual joy, the whole Immense! Don Paterson Reprinted by permission of Faber & Faber from Orpheus: A Version of Rilke’s ‘Die Sonette an Orpheus’ (2006)

Summer Poems on the Underground

The Railway Children, Seamus Heaney ' When we climbed the slopes of the cutting We were eye-level with the white cups Of the telegraph poles and the sizzling wires.' '

Listen to Seamus Heaney reading The Railway Children

Cuckoo by Fujiwara no Toshinari

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

Repeat that, repeat by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Small Brown Job by Gwyneth Lewis

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.’

Swallows by Owen Sheers

Swallows, Owen Sheers Poems on the Underground 2012 'The swallows are italic again, cutting their sky-jive between the telephone wires, flying in crossed lines. Their annual regeneration so flawless to human eyes that there is no seam between parent and child. Just always the swallows and their script of descenders, dipping their ink to sign their signatures across the page of the sky.'

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616) Poems on the Underground 1994 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all to short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometimes declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breath, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. '

Celebrating Windrush Day

Like a Beacon by Grace Nichols

Like A Beacon, Grace Nichols 2009 Poster 'In London every now and then I get this craving for my mother’s food I leave art galleries in search of plantains saltfish/sweet potatoes I need this link I need this touch of home swinging my bag like a beacon against the cold'

Listen to Like a Beacon by Grace Nichols read by Valerie Bloom

Epilogue , Grace Nichols Poems on the Underground 1000 years of poetry in English ' I have crossed an ocean I have lost my tongue from the roots of the old one a new one has sprung'

James Berry, ‘Sea-Song One’

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)

John Agard, ‘Windrush Child’ (for Vince Reid, the youngest passenger on the Windrush, then aged 13)  

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)

Benjamin Zephaniah, ‘The London Breed’ 

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)

Louise Bennett, ‘Colonization in Reverse’ 

Colonization in Reverse Wat a joyful news, Miss Mattie, I feel like me heart gwine burs’ Jamaica people colonizin Englan in reverse. By de hundred, by de t’ousan From country and from town, By de ship-load, by de plane-load Jamaica is Englan bound. Dem a-pour out o’ Jamaica, Everybody future plan Is fe get a big-time job An settle in de mother lan. What a islan! What a people! Man an woman, old an young Jusa pack dem bag and baggage An tun history upside dung! Louise Bennett © Louise Bennett 1966 from Jamaica Labrish (Sangsters, 1966)

Kei Miller, ‘The only thing far away’ 

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)

Grace Nichols, ‘Bourda’ 

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)

Beacon of Hope (for John La Rose)by Linton Kwesi Johnson

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'

Poems of Exile and Loss

Eavan Boland, The Emigrant Irish Poems on the Underground 1992 ' Like oil lamps we put them out the back, of our houses, of our minds. We had lights better than, newer than and then a time came, this time and now we need them. Their dread, makeshift example. They would have thrived on our necessities. What they survived we could not even live. By their lights now it is time to imagine how they stood there, what they stood with, that their possessions may become our power: Cardboard. Iron. Their hardships parcelled in them. Patience. Fortitude. Long-suffering in the bruise-coloured dusk of the New World. And all the old songs. And nothing to lose.' .''

The Emigrant Irish by Eavan Boland read by Fleur Adcock

The Exiles by Iain Crichton Smith

The Exiles translated from the author's own Gaelic by Iain Crichton Smith (b.1928) ' The many ships that left our country with white wings for Canada. They are like handkerchiefs in our memories and the brine like tears and in their masts sailors singing like birds on branches. That sea of May running in such blue, a moon at night, a sun at daytime, and the moon like a yellow fruit, like a plate on a wall to which they raise their hands like a silver magnet with piercing rays streaming into the heart. ' Reprinted by permission of Carcanet from Selected Poems (1985) Poems on the Underground 1995 The British Council. The British Library (Zweig Programme). Designed by Tom Davidson.

Green the Land of My Poem by Mahmoud Darwish

Green the land of my poem, Mahmoud Darwish ‘Green the land of my poem is green and high Slowly I tell it slowly with the grace of a seagull riding the waves on the book of water I bequeath it written down to the one who asks to whom shall we sing when salt poisons the dew?’

Exodus by Lotte Kramer

Exodus by Lotte Kramer (b.1923) ' For all mothers in anguish Pushing out their babies In a small basket To let the river cradle them And kind hands find And nurture them Providing safety In a hostile world: Our constant gratitude. As in this last century The crowded trains Taking us away from home Became our baby baskets Rattling to foreign parts Our exodus from death.'

The Expulsion from Eden from Paradise Lost by John Milton

The Expulsion from Eden Paradise Lost from Book 12 John Milton1608-1674 Poems on the Underground 1998 Poster 'In either hand the hast'ning angel caught Our ling'ring parents, and to th' eastern gate Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast To the subjected plain; then disappeared. They looking back, all th'eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late their happy seat ,Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.'

My Voice by Partaw Naderi

My Voice ,Partaw Naderi Translated by Sarah Maguire and Yama Yari ' I come from a distant land with a foreign knapsack on my back with a silenced song on my lips As I travelled down the river of my life I saw my voice (like Jonah) swallowed by a whale And my very life lived in my voice' Kabul, December 1989

The Birds will Still Sing by Anise Koltz

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'

A Picture for Tiantian’s fifth birthday by Bei Dao

A Picture for Tiantian's fifth birthday by Bei Dao (b. 1949)Translated by Bonnie S. McDougall and Chen Maiping 'A Picture for Tiantian's fifth birthday Morning arrives in a sleeveless dress apples tumble all over the earth my daughter is drawing a picture how vast is a five-year-old sky your name has two windows one opens towards a sun with no clock-hands the other opens towards your father who has become a hedgehog in exile taking with him a few unintelligible characters and a bright red apple he has left your painting how vast is a five-year-old sky' Tiantian, the nickname given to the poet's daughter, is written with two characters which look like a pair of windows. Written in exile after Tienanmen Square Reprinted from Old Snow (Anvil, 1992)

My Children by Choman Hardi

My children by Choman Hardi I can hear them talking, my children fluent English and broken Kurdish. And whenever I disagree with them they will comfort each other by saying: Don't worry about mum, she's Kurdish. Will I be the foreigner in my own home? '

And yet the Books by Czeslaw Milosz

And Yet The Books, Czeslaw Milosz ' And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings, That appeared once, still wet As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn, And, touched, coddled, began to live In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up, Tribes on the march, planets in motion. “We are, ” they said, even as their pages Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame Licked away their letters. So much more durable Than we are, whose frail warmth Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes. I imagine the earth when I am no more: Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant, Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.'

Listen to And Yet the Books by Czeslaw Milosz read by Gerard Benson

Let a Place be Made by Yves Bonnefoy

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?'

You can find our poems from May 2024 here