Poem of the Week Archive

Poem of the Week: Monday, April 07, 2008

Black Pansies

Dark holes in the blue
blaze of every day’s
sky-inflected flowers,
they spread nothing
of cheer like the blithe
tricolour heart’s-ease.
Under the nodding
hours of columbines they
flutter their velvety
portions of previous night.
How they wag
their burdens close
to the soil –
they pull your heart
down, these dis-
enchanted bleak soliloquies
I grew myself. But not
to be uprooted, for
all that, they’re
part of this mortal
summer seen through
the terrible apertures
of their petals;
with a sleight
of shade in sun-
light they pretend to
indigo. Each evening
like death’s little
flotilla returning
they grow to
fill the sky.

-- Rodney Pybus
Cicadas in Their Summers (Carcanet)

Poem of the Week: Monday, October 22, 2007

To Autumn

    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-brimm’d their clammy cells.

                                            II

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
        Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
        Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
    Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
        Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
            Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
        Steady thy laden head across a brook;
        Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
            Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

                                           III

    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
        Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
        And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
        Among the river sallows, borne aloft
            Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
        Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
        The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
           And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-- John Keats
The Complete Poems (Wordsworth)

Poem of the Week: Monday, October 15, 2007

Song 1

'Midst beauty and pleasure's gay triumphs, to languish
And droop without knowing the source of my anguish;
To start from short slumbers and look for the morning—
Yet close my dull eyes when I see it returning;

Sighs sudden and frequent, looks ever dejected,
Sounds that steal from my tongue, by no meaning connected!
Ah say, fellow-swains, how these symptoms befell me?
They smile, but reply not. Sure Delia will tell me!

-- Thomas Gray
Selected Poems of Thomas Gray (Penguin)

Poem of the Week: Monday, September 03, 2007

September

The sun shines high above
The sounds of laughter
The birds swoop down upon
The crosses of old grey churches
We say that we're in love
While secretly wishing for rain
Sipping coke and playing games
September's here again
September's here again

-- David Sylvian
Secrets of the Beehive (Virgin)

Poem of the Week: Monday, July 30, 2007

Memorial Tablet

Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derby’s Scheme). I died in hell—
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
And I was hobbling back; and then a shell
Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.

At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:
For, though low down upon the list, I’m there;
‘In proud and glorious memory’... that’s my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that he’s never guessed.
Once I came home on leave: and then went west...
What greater glory could a man desire?

-- Siegfried Sassoon
Collected Poems (Faber and Faber)

Poem of the Week: Monday, June 04, 2007

Beauty

Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt all poets' love,
mute and noble as matter itself.

With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.

In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:

The timeless light of my wide eyes.

-- Charles Baudelaire
Complete Poems (Carcanet Press)

Poem of the Week: Monday, May 14, 2007

Yesterday, Without End

Our life, these paths
That call us
In the coolness of meadows
Where water shines.

Some of them go roaming
On the crowns of trees,
Just as in our sleep, a dream
Will seek its other earth.

They wander, hands full
Of golden dust.
They spread their fingers, And night falls.


trans. by Hoyt Rogers

-- Yves Bonnefoy
The Curved Planks (Farrar Straus Giroux)

Poem of the Week: Monday, April 23, 2007

An Immorality

Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.

-- Ezra Pound
Collected Shorter Poems (Faber and Faber)

Poem of the Week: Monday, April 16, 2007

The Black Prince

It might be a footfall in the forest
or an outdated dispatch from the Mouse King,
saying, come back to the frontier, all is forgiven.

And he was lost, gibbering on the coast of some
uncharted isle. His gestures and speech made perfect sense
when taken together. It was only when the wind blew them apart
that they didn't matter, mattered only to some.

-- John Ashbery
A Worldly Country (Ecco Press)

Poem of the Week: Monday, April 09, 2007

Science

Science explains nothing
but holds all together as
many things as it can count

science is a basket
not a religion he said
a cat as a big as a cat

the moon the size of the moon
science is the same as poetry
only it uses the wrong words.

-- Robert Kelly

Poem of the Week: Monday, April 02, 2007

Kevin

I don't know where the dead go, Kevin.
The one far place I know
is inside the heavy radio. If I listen late at night,
there's that dark, celestial glow,
heaviness of the cave, the hive.

Music. Someone warms his hands at the fire,
breaking off the arms of chairs,
breaking the brute bodies of beds, burning his comfort
surely to keep alive. Soon he can hardly see,
and so, quietly, he listens: then someone lifts him
and it's some terrible breakfast show.

There are mothers and fathers, Kevin, whom we barely know.
They lift us. Eventually we all shall go
into the dark furniture of the radio.

-- Bill Manhire

Poem of the Week: Monday, March 26, 2007

Bats' Ultrasound

Sleeping-bagged in a duplex wing
with fleas, in rock-cleft or building
radar bats are darkness in miniature,
their whole face one tufty crinkled ear
with weak eyes, fine teeth bared to sing.

Few are vampires. None flit through the mirror.
Where they flutter at evening's a queer
tonal hunting zone above highest C.
Insect prey at the peak of our hearing
drone re to their detailing tee:

ah, eyrie-ire, aero hour, eh?
O'er our ur-area (our era aye
ere your raw row) we air our array,
err, yaw, row wry - aura our orrery,
our eerie ü our ray, our arrow.

A rare ear, our aery Yahweh.

-- Les Murray
Learning Human: New Selected Poems (Carcanet Press)

May's Books of the Month

The Book of Hours The Book of Hours
Rainer Maria Rilke
Camden House
In Another Light In Another Light
Patricia G. Berman
Thames & Hudson Ltd

-- View archive