Our latest autumn 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.
A Light Snow-Fall after Frost
On the flat road a man at last appears:
How much his whitening hairs
Owe to the settling snow's mute anchorage,
And how much to a life's rough pilgrimage,
One cannot certify.
The frost is on the wane,
And cobwebs hanging close outside the pane
Pose as festoons of thick white worsted there,
Of their pale presence no eye being aware
Till the rime made them plain.
A second man comes by;
His ruddy beard brings fire to the pallid scene:
His coat is faded green;
Hence seems it that his mien
Wears something of the dye
Of the berried holm-trees that he passes nigh.
The snow-feathers so gently swoop that though
But half an hour ago
The road was brown, and now is starkly white,
A watcher would have failed defining quite
When it transformed it so.
Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)
On the flat road a man at last appears:
How much his whitening hairs
Owe to the settling snow's mute anchorage,
And how much to a life's rough pilgrimage,
One cannot certify.
The frost is on the wane,
And cobwebs hanging close outside the pane
Pose as festoons of thick white worsted there,
Of their pale presence no eye being aware
Till the rime made them plain.
A second man comes by;
His ruddy beard brings fire to the pallid scene:
His coat is faded green;
Hence seems it that his mien
Wears something of the dye
Of the berried holm-trees that he passes nigh.
The snow-feathers so gently swoop that though
But half an hour ago
The road was brown, and now is starkly white,
A watcher would have failed defining quite
When it transformed it so.
Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)
The Poetry of Earth
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain
For hips and haws,
Lo, shining flowers upon my window pane
The silver pencil of the winter draws.
When all the snowy hill
And the bare woods are still;
When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,
And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs –
More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain
For hips and haws,
Lo, shining flowers upon my window pane
The silver pencil of the winter draws.
When all the snowy hill
And the bare woods are still;
When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,
And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs –
More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)
A Winter Hedgerow
The wintry wolds are white; the wind
Seems frozen; in the shelter'd nooks
The sparrows shiver; the black rooks
Wheel homeward where the elms behind
The manor stand; at the field's edge
The redbreasts in the blackthorn hedge
Sit close and under snowy eaves
The shrewmice sleep 'mid nested leaves.
William Sharp (1855–1905)
The wintry wolds are white; the wind
Seems frozen; in the shelter'd nooks
The sparrows shiver; the black rooks
Wheel homeward where the elms behind
The manor stand; at the field's edge
The redbreasts in the blackthorn hedge
Sit close and under snowy eaves
The shrewmice sleep 'mid nested leaves.
William Sharp (1855–1905)
From Winter in Strathearn
She crumbled the brown bread, she crumbled the white;
The snow lay deep, but the crumbs lay light:
The sparrows swept down like withered leaves;
The starlings sidled with scarlet greaves.
And burnished, black green harness scrolled
With damaskings of dark old gold;
The gallant robin, he came not nigh.
But tom-tit sparkled a frightened eye;
The blue blackbird with his saffron bill
Hopped with the crowd; and the finches sped
With their scarves of white and their vests of red
From the sea-green laurels; and out of the hill,
Where the steep Blue-rocks stood, stark and grey,
A jackdaw flew; and the carrion crow
Frightened them now and again away,
Swooping down on the bloodless prey
All in the powdery snow-white snow.
She crumbled the brown bread, she crumbled the white,
She fed them morning, noon and night.
They fought and scolded till supper was done,
Then wing after wing went away with the sun.
John Davidson (1857–1909)
She crumbled the brown bread, she crumbled the white;
The snow lay deep, but the crumbs lay light:
The sparrows swept down like withered leaves;
The starlings sidled with scarlet greaves.
And burnished, black green harness scrolled
With damaskings of dark old gold;
The gallant robin, he came not nigh.
But tom-tit sparkled a frightened eye;
The blue blackbird with his saffron bill
Hopped with the crowd; and the finches sped
With their scarves of white and their vests of red
From the sea-green laurels; and out of the hill,
Where the steep Blue-rocks stood, stark and grey,
A jackdaw flew; and the carrion crow
Frightened them now and again away,
Swooping down on the bloodless prey
All in the powdery snow-white snow.
She crumbled the brown bread, she crumbled the white,
She fed them morning, noon and night.
They fought and scolded till supper was done,
Then wing after wing went away with the sun.
John Davidson (1857–1909)
Shorter Poems II
Even in the city, I
Am ever conscious of the sky;
A portion of its frame no less
Than in the open wilderness.
The stars are in my heart by night;
I sing beneath the opening light,
As envious of the bird; I live
Upon the pavement, yet I give
My soul to every growing tree
That in the narrow ways I see.
My heart is in the blade of grass
Within the courtyard where I pass;
And the small, half-discovered cloud
Compels me till I cry aloud.
I am the wind that beats the walls
And wanders trembling till it falls;
The snow, the summer rain am I,
In close communion with the sky.
Philip Henry Savage (1868–99)
Even in the city, I
Am ever conscious of the sky;
A portion of its frame no less
Than in the open wilderness.
The stars are in my heart by night;
I sing beneath the opening light,
As envious of the bird; I live
Upon the pavement, yet I give
My soul to every growing tree
That in the narrow ways I see.
My heart is in the blade of grass
Within the courtyard where I pass;
And the small, half-discovered cloud
Compels me till I cry aloud.
I am the wind that beats the walls
And wanders trembling till it falls;
The snow, the summer rain am I,
In close communion with the sky.
Philip Henry Savage (1868–99)
Dusk from a Train Window
There is a moment between day and night
When magic lives in light,
When snow upon the fields lies like blue sleep,
And the purple intricate trees
Stand out enchanged in the cold silences
Like branching mysteries;
A moment when one farm-lamp's window glow
Seems as I pass upon a speeding train
To make all human loss a sudden gain,
Because the ancient sacraments of home,
The humble sacraments of food and rest,
Are taken there in the untroubled gloam
By hearts that love, the ministrant, has blest.
There is a moment between day and night
When magic lives in light.
Cale Young Rice (1872–1943)
There is a moment between day and night
When magic lives in light,
When snow upon the fields lies like blue sleep,
And the purple intricate trees
Stand out enchanged in the cold silences
Like branching mysteries;
A moment when one farm-lamp's window glow
Seems as I pass upon a speeding train
To make all human loss a sudden gain,
Because the ancient sacraments of home,
The humble sacraments of food and rest,
Are taken there in the untroubled gloam
By hearts that love, the ministrant, has blest.
There is a moment between day and night
When magic lives in light.
Cale Young Rice (1872–1943)
Snow
Look up...
From bleakening hills
Blows doen the light first breath
Of wintry wind... look up, and scent
The snow!
Adelaide Crapsey (1878–1914)
Look up...
From bleakening hills
Blows doen the light first breath
Of wintry wind... look up, and scent
The snow!
Adelaide Crapsey (1878–1914)
Childhood Christmas
What I remember most
are the flimsy glitter-cards
from Woolworths –
frosted fields and roof-tops,
spangled snow-scenes that sparkled
by firelight, strung from
the picture rail;
special ones from relatives
set upon the mantelpiece,
warmest wishes
scribbled in thin ink
marking my name
with love
Denise Bennett (1950– )
What I remember most
are the flimsy glitter-cards
from Woolworths –
frosted fields and roof-tops,
spangled snow-scenes that sparkled
by firelight, strung from
the picture rail;
special ones from relatives
set upon the mantelpiece,
warmest wishes
scribbled in thin ink
marking my name
with love
Denise Bennett (1950– )
Toadstools, New Year
By Cranham’s road, where ceaseless traffic flows,
they perched, on awkward toes,
beside bleached hogweed, mud.The lowest fought. Their orange lords leapt free.
White ribs, fanned to a tree,
matched palest clouds. Paths led
our stony scramble to a wind-shocked height.
There Gloucester rose to light,
each tower wore mist’s slow hood.
By ferns, persistent streams, I thought of them,
gold, amber, apricot on one small stem.
They burned the brightest thing in all the wood.
Alison Brackenbury (1953– )
By Cranham’s road, where ceaseless traffic flows,
they perched, on awkward toes,
beside bleached hogweed, mud.The lowest fought. Their orange lords leapt free.
White ribs, fanned to a tree,
matched palest clouds. Paths led
our stony scramble to a wind-shocked height.
There Gloucester rose to light,
each tower wore mist’s slow hood.
By ferns, persistent streams, I thought of them,
gold, amber, apricot on one small stem.
They burned the brightest thing in all the wood.
Alison Brackenbury (1953– )
Hearth
Conjured from matches and twists of paper,
the log-fire burns – a friend for a stranger,
warmth for damp days. Flames lean in and then turn,
swaying and waving, their heads raised in praise
of the moment. The heart sings in return:
ther is a sense of home, a place to laze,
enjoy the glow, somewhere to lose concerns
as movement and colour absorb your gaze.
Embers shift and stir, silhouettes form
of tigers, forests, castles, a box of jewels;
while in the flames themselves, a swirling storm
of plasma churns, as atoms and molecules
break and whirl. Light shines in this world of ours –
a hearth can hold the substance of the stars.
Isobel Montgomery Campbell (1956– )
Conjured from matches and twists of paper,
the log-fire burns – a friend for a stranger,
warmth for damp days. Flames lean in and then turn,
swaying and waving, their heads raised in praise
of the moment. The heart sings in return:
ther is a sense of home, a place to laze,
enjoy the glow, somewhere to lose concerns
as movement and colour absorb your gaze.
Embers shift and stir, silhouettes form
of tigers, forests, castles, a box of jewels;
while in the flames themselves, a swirling storm
of plasma churns, as atoms and molecules
break and whirl. Light shines in this world of ours –
a hearth can hold the substance of the stars.
Isobel Montgomery Campbell (1956– )
Editor: Helen Lee.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2020. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2020. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
