Our latest 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.
from The Kitten
… Doth power in varied measures dwell
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted by the modern muse
Expression technical to use.)
These mock the deftest rhymers skill,
But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.
The featest tumbler, stage bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains,
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too thy feats repay:
For then, beneath some urchin’s hand,
With modest pride though tak’st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy purr;
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whisper’d cheek,
Thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek...
Joanna Baillie
(1762—1851)
excerpt from Tne Task Book 1
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook’d, our fav’rite elms,
That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That as with molten glass inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow’r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list’ning ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful which daily view’d
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.
William Cowper
(1731–1800)
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook’d, our fav’rite elms,
That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That as with molten glass inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow’r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list’ning ear,
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful which daily view’d
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.
William Cowper
(1731–1800)
The Year
The crocus, while the days are dark,
Unfolds its saffron sheen;
At April’s touch, the crudest bark
Discovers gems of green
Then sleep the seasons, full of might;
While slowly swells the pod
And rounds the peach, and in the night
The mushroom bursts the sod.
The Winter falls; the frozen rut
Is bound with silver bars;
The snow-drift heaps against the hut.
And night is pierced with stars.
Coventry Patmore
(1823–1896)
The crocus, while the days are dark,
Unfolds its saffron sheen;
At April’s touch, the crudest bark
Discovers gems of green
Then sleep the seasons, full of might;
While slowly swells the pod
And rounds the peach, and in the night
The mushroom bursts the sod.
The Winter falls; the frozen rut
Is bound with silver bars;
The snow-drift heaps against the hut.
And night is pierced with stars.
Coventry Patmore
(1823–1896)
On The Canal
At locks, such busyness –
winding sluices, toeing
gates open; happiness,
a lock-stair left behind.
Then it’s easy-going
miles, opening their door
to somewhere in your mind
you know you came here for.
The anglers’ listless floats,
two cygnets and a swan,
ducks, painted narrow-boats,
the canal’s regulars,
their traffic going on
alongside bungalows,
brisk dog-walkers, parked cars,
and statuesque willows.
Here the long sleeve of care
you’ve knitted unravels
on this slow thoroughfare
of tow-paths and lock-gates;
of leisurely travels
where an altogether
other state of mind waits
with its own kind weather.
You’re afloat and your thoughts,
between the fore and aft
of the boat, circle noughts
and add them to your sum
of happiness: your craft
in motion with the stream
of your mind, as in some
long, satisfying dream.
On a channel that floats
along dug corridors
past other narrow-boats
and backs of warehouses,
time becomes re-wind, pause,
slow-motion, quiet drift.
Anxiety drowses.Let it go, let it sift.
Jim Friedman
(1947--
At locks, such busyness –
winding sluices, toeing
gates open; happiness,
a lock-stair left behind.
Then it’s easy-going
miles, opening their door
to somewhere in your mind
you know you came here for.
The anglers’ listless floats,
two cygnets and a swan,
ducks, painted narrow-boats,
the canal’s regulars,
their traffic going on
alongside bungalows,
brisk dog-walkers, parked cars,
and statuesque willows.
Here the long sleeve of care
you’ve knitted unravels
on this slow thoroughfare
of tow-paths and lock-gates;
of leisurely travels
where an altogether
other state of mind waits
with its own kind weather.
You’re afloat and your thoughts,
between the fore and aft
of the boat, circle noughts
and add them to your sum
of happiness: your craft
in motion with the stream
of your mind, as in some
long, satisfying dream.
On a channel that floats
along dug corridors
past other narrow-boats
and backs of warehouses,
time becomes re-wind, pause,
slow-motion, quiet drift.
Anxiety drowses.Let it go, let it sift.
Jim Friedman
(1947--
Flight
Flight, to my mind, has nothing to do with wings
We lift off from the ordinary
Into the impossible or absurd
Things that we see, hear, taste, touch, smell, or sing
Remember, imagine; the spoken or written word
I have never envied a bird
Alan Cohen
(1950—)
Flight, to my mind, has nothing to do with wings
We lift off from the ordinary
Into the impossible or absurd
Things that we see, hear, taste, touch, smell, or sing
Remember, imagine; the spoken or written word
I have never envied a bird
Alan Cohen
(1950—)
Springtime Blingtime
When the weather starts turning and everyone’s yearning
For blue skies and leaves on the trees
Though your nose might be cold, plants start to unfold
And you’d just love a sunny spring breeze
Then the sunshine breaks through, and the wild yonder’s blue--
Spring days when there’s no sign of rain,
Baby birdies start singin’ and your ears start a-ringin’
As the dawn chorus choir goes insane.
There’s people with smiles as brides walk down aisles
—Oh the magic, when they both say I do.
The cameras are clickin’ and life is for livin’
And spring is when dreams can come true.
You’ll hear lawn-mower sounds as folk walk up and down
Like robots all guided by lasers;
The finish is clean, a cosmic green dream
As if it’s been shaved with some razors.
Let’s not forget trees, that sway in the breeze
With new clothes, so green and serene,
They provide us with shade as we sip lemonade
And relax in a sweet-scented dream.
Spring is people in gardens and farmers in fields,
It’s for new life and lovers attraction;
It’s flowers and birth, keeping life here on earth,
When spring blings into action.
Ste Bee.
(1952--
When the weather starts turning and everyone’s yearning
For blue skies and leaves on the trees
Though your nose might be cold, plants start to unfold
And you’d just love a sunny spring breeze
Then the sunshine breaks through, and the wild yonder’s blue--
Spring days when there’s no sign of rain,
Baby birdies start singin’ and your ears start a-ringin’
As the dawn chorus choir goes insane.
There’s people with smiles as brides walk down aisles
—Oh the magic, when they both say I do.
The cameras are clickin’ and life is for livin’
And spring is when dreams can come true.
You’ll hear lawn-mower sounds as folk walk up and down
Like robots all guided by lasers;
The finish is clean, a cosmic green dream
As if it’s been shaved with some razors.
Let’s not forget trees, that sway in the breeze
With new clothes, so green and serene,
They provide us with shade as we sip lemonade
And relax in a sweet-scented dream.
Spring is people in gardens and farmers in fields,
It’s for new life and lovers attraction;
It’s flowers and birth, keeping life here on earth,
When spring blings into action.
Ste Bee.
(1952--
Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2022. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2022. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
