Poems in the Waiting Room
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Our latest autumn poetry selection

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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.

from The Lady of the Lake 
​

And now, to issue from the glen,  
No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken,  
Unless he climb, with footing nice  
A far projecting precipice.  

The broom’s tough roots his ladder made,  
The hazel saplings lent their aid;  

And thus an airy point he won,  
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,  
One burnished sheet of living gold,  
Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,  
In all her length far winding lay,  
With promontory, creek, and bay,  
And islands that, empurpled bright,  

Floated amid the livelier light,  
And mountains, that like giants stand,  
To sentinel enchanted land.  
 
​

Walter Scott (1771-1832) 

Ruth 
​

She stood breast hight among the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
 

On her cheek and autumn flush, 
Deeply ripened; –such a blush 
In the misdst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn.
 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell, 
But long lashes veiled a light, 
That had else been all too bright.  
​

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim; 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks:
 ​

Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean, 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 
 
Thomas Hood  (1799 – 1845) 

Colour 

What is pink? a rose is pink 
By a fountain's brink. 
What is red? a poppy's red 
In its barley bed. 
What is blue? the sky is blue 
Where the clouds float thro'. 
What is white? a swan is white 
Sailing in the light. 
What is yellow? pears are yellow, 
Rich and ripe and mellow. 
What is green? the grass is green, 
With small flowers between. 
What is violet? clouds are violet 
In the summer twilight. 
What is orange? Why, an orange, 
Just an orange!  

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) 

 The source  
 
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does anybody know from where 
it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, 
in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with 
glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there it 
comes to kiss baby's eyes. 
 
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does 
anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young 
pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn 
cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew 
washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he 
sleeps. 
 
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--does 
anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was 
a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent 
mystery of love--the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on 
baby's limbs. 
 
Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941) 

Green
 

The dawn was apple-green,  
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,  
The moon was a golden petal between.
 
​

She opened her eyes, and green  
They shone, clear like flowers undone 
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
 


D H Lawrence (1885-1930) 

November Blue 

O, Heavenly colour! London town 
Has blurred it from her skies; 
And hooded in an earthly brown, 
Unheaven'd the city lies. 
No longer standard-like this hue 
Above the broad road flies; 
Nor does the narrow street the blue 
Wear, slender pennon-wise.
 


But when the gold and silver lamps 
Colour the London dew, 
And, misted by the winter damps, 
The shops shine bright anew - 
Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, 
It dyes the wide air through; 
A mimic sky about their feet, 
The throng go crowned with blue.
 


Alice Meynell (1847 - 1922) 

Bossington Hill (Exmoor)  
 
Remember when we followed the sheep path to eternity  
you and me  
stumbling and laughing  
walking higher and higher  
heads full of love  
shoes tacky with briars  
 
the higher we walked the lighter our step  
gasping for breath  
stood in silence  
(September was warm that year)  
 
a host of hirondelles flew past like a whisper  
milk-white breast of downey feathers  
tug at the heart  
 
you showed me a fern  
whose leaves when crushed  
smell of citrus  
shared like a secret 
 
Saffron Summerfield 
​

Coming home 

It’s later now. The sun has wedged itself 
in between the rooftops, 
bathing the garden russet leaves in gold. 
Branches shiver and the evening air 
nibbles your fingers as you get closer to home. 
You know warmth waits for you. 


It’s later now. The sun has ducked low 
beneath the roofs and you hug your teacup 
steam mingling with the lamplight. 
Outside, squirrels circle the tree trunks, 
their reddish tails making patterns in the dusk. 


Freyer Jeffries (1994 -- 


Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
​Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2020. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.

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