Our latest winter poetry selection
Our poetry is chosen from the work of both well-known and new poets, and assessed by a practising psychotherapist for suitability for patients waiting to see their doctor. We hope you enjoy our latest winter selection.
Ubique
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,
Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the Sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,
Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Wheresoe'er I am,—below, or else above you--
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
Joshua Sylvester 1563 - 1618
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,
Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the Sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,
Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Wheresoe'er I am,—below, or else above you--
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
Joshua Sylvester 1563 - 1618
Meeting at Night
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low:
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Robert Browning 1812 - 1889
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low:
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Robert Browning 1812 - 1889
It was the lovely moon
It was the lovely moon--she lifted
Slowly her white brow among
Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted
Faintly, faintlier afar.
Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,
Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,
Watching the earth that dwindled under
Faintly, faintlier afar.
It was the lovely moon that lovelike
Hovered over the wandering, tired
Earth, her bosom grey and dovelike,
Hovering beautiful as a dove....
The lovely moon:--her soft light falling
Lightly on roof and poplar and pine--
Tree to tree whispering and calling,
Wonderful in the silvery shine
Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.
John Freeman (1880 - 1929)
It was the lovely moon--she lifted
Slowly her white brow among
Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted
Faintly, faintlier afar.
Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,
Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,
Watching the earth that dwindled under
Faintly, faintlier afar.
It was the lovely moon that lovelike
Hovered over the wandering, tired
Earth, her bosom grey and dovelike,
Hovering beautiful as a dove....
The lovely moon:--her soft light falling
Lightly on roof and poplar and pine--
Tree to tree whispering and calling,
Wonderful in the silvery shine
Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.
John Freeman (1880 - 1929)
Friday 11 o’clock: communion
Lift high the cups! Let crockery proclaim
the sacred moment: here, where nephew treats
the aunt he seldom sees, and grandpa meets
the grandchild and, for joy, weeps without shame.
Lift high the scone, the crumpet and the toast:
where staff smile at the solitary bloke,
the crumpled one—greet him by name; and cake
(one slice, two forks) becomes a kind of Host.
Lift high the tea, the coffee! Sacred drink:
here, where friends’ talk with love irradiates
the dregs in emptied mugs, the crumbs on plates.
Such blessedness, this sharing what we think
and feel. Alleluia! Praise god indeed
for lattes, love, and getting what we need.
Lucy Crispin (1968 -
First published by Eildan Tree
Lift high the cups! Let crockery proclaim
the sacred moment: here, where nephew treats
the aunt he seldom sees, and grandpa meets
the grandchild and, for joy, weeps without shame.
Lift high the scone, the crumpet and the toast:
where staff smile at the solitary bloke,
the crumpled one—greet him by name; and cake
(one slice, two forks) becomes a kind of Host.
Lift high the tea, the coffee! Sacred drink:
here, where friends’ talk with love irradiates
the dregs in emptied mugs, the crumbs on plates.
Such blessedness, this sharing what we think
and feel. Alleluia! Praise god indeed
for lattes, love, and getting what we need.
Lucy Crispin (1968 -
First published by Eildan Tree
Barmouth
To be there in February is to know
the mizzle cry of gulls circling
the hollow between hills and estuary,
sweep down with them from mossy crags
mottled with bracken-drawn sheep
to wheel the sleeping esplanade
where carousel and sweet spiralled rock
wait for summering children,
and join their squealed hesitation
over winter waves before curving
towards the harbor, where tilting boats
also wait, for any who would go to sea.
Sharon Ashton (1957 -)
To be there in February is to know
the mizzle cry of gulls circling
the hollow between hills and estuary,
sweep down with them from mossy crags
mottled with bracken-drawn sheep
to wheel the sleeping esplanade
where carousel and sweet spiralled rock
wait for summering children,
and join their squealed hesitation
over winter waves before curving
towards the harbor, where tilting boats
also wait, for any who would go to sea.
Sharon Ashton (1957 -)
Walking
Walking,
I stare,
At the ground,
To find a path,
That's safe and sound.
Walking,
I stare,
At the sky,
For deep at heart,
I wish to fly.
Jim Murray (1967 - )
Walking,
I stare,
At the ground,
To find a path,
That's safe and sound.
Walking,
I stare,
At the sky,
For deep at heart,
I wish to fly.
Jim Murray (1967 - )
Friday 11 o’clock: communion
Lift high the cups! Let crockery proclaim
the sacred moment: here, where nephew treats
the aunt he seldom sees, and grandpa meets
the grandchild and, for joy, weeps without shame.
Lift high the scone, the crumpet and the toast:
where staff smile at the solitary bloke,
the crumpled one—greet him by name; and cake
(one slice, two forks) becomes a kind of Host.
Lift high the tea, the coffee! Sacred drink:
here, where friends’ talk with love irradiates
the dregs in emptied mugs, the crumbs on plates.
Such blessedness, this sharing what we think
and feel. Alleluia! Praise god indeed
for lattes, love, and getting what we need.
Lucy Crispin (1968 -)
Lift high the cups! Let crockery proclaim
the sacred moment: here, where nephew treats
the aunt he seldom sees, and grandpa meets
the grandchild and, for joy, weeps without shame.
Lift high the scone, the crumpet and the toast:
where staff smile at the solitary bloke,
the crumpled one—greet him by name; and cake
(one slice, two forks) becomes a kind of Host.
Lift high the tea, the coffee! Sacred drink:
here, where friends’ talk with love irradiates
the dregs in emptied mugs, the crumbs on plates.
Such blessedness, this sharing what we think
and feel. Alleluia! Praise god indeed
for lattes, love, and getting what we need.
Lucy Crispin (1968 -)
Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2024. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2024. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
