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 selection.
The solitary reaper
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
. . .
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
. . .
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
October 20th 1876
A clear crispy day, dry and breezy air full of oxygen. Out of the sane silent beauteous miracles that envelope and fuse me—trees, water, grass, sunlight and early frost—the one I am looking at most today is the sky. It has that delicate transparent blue, peculiar to autumn, and the only clouds are little or larger white ones, giving their still and spiritual motion to the great concave. All through the earlier day (say from 7 to 11) it keeps a pure yet vivid blue. But as noon approaches the color gets lighter, quite gray for two to three hours—then still paler for a spell till sundown— which last I watch dazzling through the interstices of a knoll of big trees—darts of fire and a gorgeous show, light yellow, liver-color and red, with a vast silver glaze askant on the water — the transparent shadows, shafts, sparkle and vivid colours beyond all the paintings ever made.
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
A clear crispy day, dry and breezy air full of oxygen. Out of the sane silent beauteous miracles that envelope and fuse me—trees, water, grass, sunlight and early frost—the one I am looking at most today is the sky. It has that delicate transparent blue, peculiar to autumn, and the only clouds are little or larger white ones, giving their still and spiritual motion to the great concave. All through the earlier day (say from 7 to 11) it keeps a pure yet vivid blue. But as noon approaches the color gets lighter, quite gray for two to three hours—then still paler for a spell till sundown— which last I watch dazzling through the interstices of a knoll of big trees—darts of fire and a gorgeous show, light yellow, liver-color and red, with a vast silver glaze askant on the water — the transparent shadows, shafts, sparkle and vivid colours beyond all the paintings ever made.
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
The little dancers
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky
Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street
Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.
Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;
And all is dark, save where come flooding rays
From a tavern-window: there, the brisk measure
Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,
Two children, all alone and no one by,
Holding their tattered frocks, thro’ an airy maze
Of motion lightly threaded with nimble feet
Dance sedately; face to face they gaze,
Their eyes shining, grave with perfect pleasure.
Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky
Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street
Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.
Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;
And all is dark, save where come flooding rays
From a tavern-window: there, the brisk measure
Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,
Two children, all alone and no one by,
Holding their tattered frocks, thro’ an airy maze
Of motion lightly threaded with nimble feet
Dance sedately; face to face they gaze,
Their eyes shining, grave with perfect pleasure.
Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)
Unity
The primrose has her gentle root
A hundred miles beyond the sod,
Deep buried in the Absolute,
Safe in the inmost will of God.
The One Thing that is everything,
Is very close to grass and trees;
Hers is the song the satyrs sing,
the wild fern clings about her knees.
And Psyche’s lamp, and Buddha’s dream,
Those words that shall not fade or pass,
Are but the lilt of a lost stream
That flows under the world’s grass.
Eva Selina Gore-Booth (1870-1926)
The primrose has her gentle root
A hundred miles beyond the sod,
Deep buried in the Absolute,
Safe in the inmost will of God.
The One Thing that is everything,
Is very close to grass and trees;
Hers is the song the satyrs sing,
the wild fern clings about her knees.
And Psyche’s lamp, and Buddha’s dream,
Those words that shall not fade or pass,
Are but the lilt of a lost stream
That flows under the world’s grass.
Eva Selina Gore-Booth (1870-1926)
Cats sleep anywhere
Cats sleep, anywhere,
Any table, any chair
Top of piano, window-ledge,
In the middle, on the edge,
Open drawer, empty shoe,
Anybody's lap will do,
Fitted in a cardboard box,
In the cupboard, with your frocks-
Anywhere! They don't care!
Cats sleep anywhere.
Eleanor Farjeon (1881- 1965)
with kind permission
Cats sleep, anywhere,
Any table, any chair
Top of piano, window-ledge,
In the middle, on the edge,
Open drawer, empty shoe,
Anybody's lap will do,
Fitted in a cardboard box,
In the cupboard, with your frocks-
Anywhere! They don't care!
Cats sleep anywhere.
Eleanor Farjeon (1881- 1965)
with kind permission
To my left knee
We’ve been together seventy years, my friend,
so here’s my sonnet thank-you note, to say
on staircases you’ve never failed to bend.
You helped me put my socks on every day.
When I was young, you took sport in your stride
and though there were brief spasms of the pain
that osteoarthritis can provide
with keyhole magic we could go again.
You kept supporting me as I grew old;
you faced replacement with a fearless eye.
Scar tissue didn’t take its deadly hold
and airports echoed your metallic cry.
All good. Except for one small oversight.
What happened to that blighter on the right?
Paul Francis (1944 - )
We’ve been together seventy years, my friend,
so here’s my sonnet thank-you note, to say
on staircases you’ve never failed to bend.
You helped me put my socks on every day.
When I was young, you took sport in your stride
and though there were brief spasms of the pain
that osteoarthritis can provide
with keyhole magic we could go again.
You kept supporting me as I grew old;
you faced replacement with a fearless eye.
Scar tissue didn’t take its deadly hold
and airports echoed your metallic cry.
All good. Except for one small oversight.
What happened to that blighter on the right?
Paul Francis (1944 - )
Four-leafed clover
Love, I write this from the garden
where late September warms my arms -
our rhododendrons are now shrunk
back to darkening green
but the white rose blooms still
swallows gather, apples fall.
A thrush chimes in the dusk.
I recount such small thisses and thats –
the friends who’ve called – shake up
memories vibrant as the scent of mint.
And at the crown of this page I tape
a four-leafed clover, fresh picked,
trust it will guard you, constant
as the chambers of my heart.
Danielle Hope (1960 - )
Love, I write this from the garden
where late September warms my arms -
our rhododendrons are now shrunk
back to darkening green
but the white rose blooms still
swallows gather, apples fall.
A thrush chimes in the dusk.
I recount such small thisses and thats –
the friends who’ve called – shake up
memories vibrant as the scent of mint.
And at the crown of this page I tape
a four-leafed clover, fresh picked,
trust it will guard you, constant
as the chambers of my heart.
Danielle Hope (1960 - )
Liszt
When my son
starts to play
piano
his fingers poised
shadowing
the keys
they come down
sweet as dew
at dawn
then trickle and drip
like a force
of Nature.
Peter Wallis (1954 - )
When my son
starts to play
piano
his fingers poised
shadowing
the keys
they come down
sweet as dew
at dawn
then trickle and drip
like a force
of Nature.
Peter Wallis (1954 - )
Editor: Isobel Plantings.
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.
