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.
The First Ploughing
Calls the crow from the pine-tree top
When the April air is still.
He calls to the farmer hitching his team
In the farmyard under the hill.
“ Come up,” he cries, “come out and come up,
For the high field’s ripe to till.
Don’t wait for word from the dandelion
Or leave from the daffodil.”
Cheeps the flycatcher ‒ “Here old earth
Warms up in the April sun;
And the first ephemera, wings yet wet,
From the mould creep one by one.
Under the fence where the flies frequent
Is the earliest gossamer spun.
Come up from the damp of the valley lands,
For here the Winter’s done,”
Whistles the high-hole out of the grove
his summoning loud and clear:
“Chilly it may be down your way
But the high south field has cheer.
On the sunward side of the chestnut stump
The woodgrubs wake and appear.
Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing,
The time for ploughing is here.”
Then dips the coulter and drives the share,
And the furrows faintly steam.
The crow drifts furtively down from the pine
To follow the clanking team.
The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole darts
In the young noon’s yellow gleam;
And wholesome sweet the smell of the sod
Upturned from its Winter’s dream.
Sir Charles G D Roberts (1860-1943)
*high-hole – the Northern Flicker, colaptes auratus, a bird in the woodpecker family found in the USA.
Calls the crow from the pine-tree top
When the April air is still.
He calls to the farmer hitching his team
In the farmyard under the hill.
“ Come up,” he cries, “come out and come up,
For the high field’s ripe to till.
Don’t wait for word from the dandelion
Or leave from the daffodil.”
Cheeps the flycatcher ‒ “Here old earth
Warms up in the April sun;
And the first ephemera, wings yet wet,
From the mould creep one by one.
Under the fence where the flies frequent
Is the earliest gossamer spun.
Come up from the damp of the valley lands,
For here the Winter’s done,”
Whistles the high-hole out of the grove
his summoning loud and clear:
“Chilly it may be down your way
But the high south field has cheer.
On the sunward side of the chestnut stump
The woodgrubs wake and appear.
Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing,
The time for ploughing is here.”
Then dips the coulter and drives the share,
And the furrows faintly steam.
The crow drifts furtively down from the pine
To follow the clanking team.
The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole darts
In the young noon’s yellow gleam;
And wholesome sweet the smell of the sod
Upturned from its Winter’s dream.
Sir Charles G D Roberts (1860-1943)
*high-hole – the Northern Flicker, colaptes auratus, a bird in the woodpecker family found in the USA.
The Robin
Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
High on its blossom-rimmed branches aswing,
Here where I listen earth-bound, it seems to me
You are the voice of the Spring.
Herald of Hope to the sad and faint-hearted,
Piper the gold of the world cannot pay,
Up from the limbo of things long departed
Memories you bring me to-day.
You are the echo of songs that are over,
You are the promise of songs that will come,
You know the music, oh light-winged rover,
Sealed in the souls of the dumb.
All of the past that we wearily sigh for,
All of the future for which our hearts long,
All Love would live for, and all Love would die for
Wordless, you weave in a song.
Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
My spirit answers each note that you sing,
And while I listen ‒ earth-bound ‒ it seems to me
You are the voice of the Spring.
Virna Sheard (1862-1943)
Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
High on its blossom-rimmed branches aswing,
Here where I listen earth-bound, it seems to me
You are the voice of the Spring.
Herald of Hope to the sad and faint-hearted,
Piper the gold of the world cannot pay,
Up from the limbo of things long departed
Memories you bring me to-day.
You are the echo of songs that are over,
You are the promise of songs that will come,
You know the music, oh light-winged rover,
Sealed in the souls of the dumb.
All of the past that we wearily sigh for,
All of the future for which our hearts long,
All Love would live for, and all Love would die for
Wordless, you weave in a song.
Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
My spirit answers each note that you sing,
And while I listen ‒ earth-bound ‒ it seems to me
You are the voice of the Spring.
Virna Sheard (1862-1943)
Budding Time Too Brief
O little buds, break not so fast!
The Spring’s but new.
The skies will yet be brighter blue,
And sunny too.
I would you might thus sweetly last
Till this glad season’s overpast,
Nor hasten through.
It is so exquisite to feel
The light warm sun;
To merely know the Winter done,
And life begun;
And to my heart no blooms appeal
For tenderness so deep and real,
As any one
Of these first April buds, that hold
The hint of Spring’s
Rare perfectness that May-time brings.
So take not wings!
Oh, linger, linger, nor unfold
Too swiftly through the mellow mould,
Sweet growing things!
And errant birds, and honey-bees,
Seek not to wile;
And, sun, let not your warmest smile
Quite yet beguile
The young peach-boughs and apple-trees
To trust their beauty to the breeze;
Wait yet awhile!
Evaleen Stein (1863–1923)
O little buds, break not so fast!
The Spring’s but new.
The skies will yet be brighter blue,
And sunny too.
I would you might thus sweetly last
Till this glad season’s overpast,
Nor hasten through.
It is so exquisite to feel
The light warm sun;
To merely know the Winter done,
And life begun;
And to my heart no blooms appeal
For tenderness so deep and real,
As any one
Of these first April buds, that hold
The hint of Spring’s
Rare perfectness that May-time brings.
So take not wings!
Oh, linger, linger, nor unfold
Too swiftly through the mellow mould,
Sweet growing things!
And errant birds, and honey-bees,
Seek not to wile;
And, sun, let not your warmest smile
Quite yet beguile
The young peach-boughs and apple-trees
To trust their beauty to the breeze;
Wait yet awhile!
Evaleen Stein (1863–1923)
The Coin
Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin, ‒
Oh better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe kept memory
Of a lovely thing.
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin, ‒
Oh better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe kept memory
Of a lovely thing.
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
Spring
Once more the lark with song and speed
Cleaves through the dawn, his hurried bars;
Fall, like the flute of Ganymede
Twirling and whistling from the stars.
The primrose and the daffodil
Surprise the valleys, and wild thyme
Is sweet on every little hill,
When lambs come down at folding time.
In every wild place now is heard
The magpie’s noisy house, and through
The mingled tunes of many a bird
The ruffled wood-dove’s gentle coo.
Sweet by the river’s noisy brink
The water-lily bursts her crown,
The kingfisher comes down to drink
Like rainbow jewels falling down.
And when the blue and grey entwine
The daisy shuts her golden eye,
And peace wraps all those hills of mine
Safe in my dearest memory.
Francis Ledwidge (1887-1917)
Flowers and Light
Flowers have uncountable ways of pretending to be
Not solid, but moonlight or sunlight or starlight with scent.
Primroses strive for the colour of sunshine on lawns
Dew-besprent.
Freesias are flames wherein light more than heat is desired,
As candles on altars burn amethyst, golden and white.
Wall-flowers are sun streaked with shade. Periwinkles blue noon
At the height.
Lesbia Harford (1891-1927)
Flowers have uncountable ways of pretending to be
Not solid, but moonlight or sunlight or starlight with scent.
Primroses strive for the colour of sunshine on lawns
Dew-besprent.
Freesias are flames wherein light more than heat is desired,
As candles on altars burn amethyst, golden and white.
Wall-flowers are sun streaked with shade. Periwinkles blue noon
At the height.
Lesbia Harford (1891-1927)
Magic
Three seagulls crossed on the space of sky
That is all my window frames for me,
And flashed like silver, fluttering by,
From the far, wide, foam-blown sea;
I only glimpsed them – white as they flew,
And the sky was greyer than lead;
But I cared little, for I saw the blue
Of the distant sea instead.
George O’Neil (1896-1940)
Three seagulls crossed on the space of sky
That is all my window frames for me,
And flashed like silver, fluttering by,
From the far, wide, foam-blown sea;
I only glimpsed them – white as they flew,
And the sky was greyer than lead;
But I cared little, for I saw the blue
Of the distant sea instead.
George O’Neil (1896-1940)
Happiness
As if coming to,
colours open in the stones’
wetted eyes.
Then their gloss quickly dries off.
Happiness can feel like that –
Iris-bright then gone.
Muted wakefuless returns
but there were minutes
you felt grand – a wind-breathed tree
suddenly sat up
inside your body. Smiling,
you liked the look of your life.
It will happen again.
Jim Friedman (1947- )
As if coming to,
colours open in the stones’
wetted eyes.
Then their gloss quickly dries off.
Happiness can feel like that –
Iris-bright then gone.
Muted wakefuless returns
but there were minutes
you felt grand – a wind-breathed tree
suddenly sat up
inside your body. Smiling,
you liked the look of your life.
It will happen again.
Jim Friedman (1947- )
About Windows
The window
paints the day
as shadows shrink,
the sun
tip-toeing in
across the window sill.
Birds describe
the sky,
each
with a looping line,
as plants find
their place
in the order
of things.
Trees
present themselves
half-clothed
or fully dressed,
gathering-up the wind,
perhaps already
brushed with rain.
Lawns and hedges,
all tamed from
wilder country,
are as if rain
were a pot of greenery
or green
a pot of rain.
Phil Barrett (1952- )
The window
paints the day
as shadows shrink,
the sun
tip-toeing in
across the window sill.
Birds describe
the sky,
each
with a looping line,
as plants find
their place
in the order
of things.
Trees
present themselves
half-clothed
or fully dressed,
gathering-up the wind,
perhaps already
brushed with rain.
Lawns and hedges,
all tamed from
wilder country,
are as if rain
were a pot of greenery
or green
a pot of rain.
Phil Barrett (1952- )
Beating the Bounds
Beating the Bounds of Great Bentley
We trod in the footsteps of time,
To the memory of going a-ganging
Encircling this village of mine.
Across stubble fields sheltered by hawthorn
To meadows of sunlight and air
Through oak woods of dark ancient secrets
They bore witness with love and with care.
With wands cut from birch and white willow
They made claim to the boundary line,
To the edge of the creek’s tidal water
Which ebbed outwards and on to the brine.
So today we have followed the whispers
Of ghosts of an earlier time,
To bless and hold safe all we value
Encircling this village of mine.
Julie Mead (1955- )
Beating the Bounds of Great Bentley
We trod in the footsteps of time,
To the memory of going a-ganging
Encircling this village of mine.
Across stubble fields sheltered by hawthorn
To meadows of sunlight and air
Through oak woods of dark ancient secrets
They bore witness with love and with care.
With wands cut from birch and white willow
They made claim to the boundary line,
To the edge of the creek’s tidal water
Which ebbed outwards and on to the brine.
So today we have followed the whispers
Of ghosts of an earlier time,
To bless and hold safe all we value
Encircling this village of mine.
Julie Mead (1955- )
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.
