Poem of the Week 120

Love is Here to Stay

Ira Gershwin

It’s very clear,

our love is here to stay

Not for a year,

but ever and a day

The radio

and the telephone,

and the movies

that we know

May just be passing fancies

And in time may go.

But, oh my dear

Our love is here to stay

Together we’re

going a long long way

In time the Rockies may crumble

Gibraltar may tumble

They’re only made of clay

But our love is here to stay.


Poem of the Week 119

I’m Making a Hat for the Christmas Party

 Coral Rumble



a hat for the

Christmas party

everyone makes a hat

                                           but mine always seem to go lop-sided

Poem of the Week 118

Song of the Wandering Aengus

W B Yeats


I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.


When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.


Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.


Poem of the Week 117

The New Computerized Timetable

John Coldwell


Science will be in the Art Room.

Art in the History.

History in Maths.

And Maths in the swimming pool.


The lunch hour is from one o’clock to half-past,

Afternoon break has been moved to the morning.

Friday’s timetable will operate

On alternate Thursdays.

Wednesday afternoon will be on Tuesday

Straight after Thursday’s assembly.


From now on

We sit on desks

Write on chairs

And only wear hymn books when it’s raining.


Next …

The new fire drill.


Poem of the Week 116

Words Behaving Badly

Sue Cowling



Develop nasty habits –

Getting out of order,

Going off at tangents,

Breaking rules,

Attention seeking.

Give them fifty lines.

They take delight

In ambushing the reader,

Going round in gangs

With their unsuitable friends

Imagining they’re poems!

Words –

I’d keep an eye on them

If I were you.



Poem of the Week 115


(To R.A.L. Died of Wounds in France, December 23rd, 1915)

Vera Brittain



Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,

And I shall see that still the skies are blue,

And feel once more I do not live in vain,

Although bereft of You.


Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet

Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,

And I shall find the white May blossoms sweet,

Though You have passed away.


Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,

And crimson roses once again be fair,

And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,

Although You are not there.


Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain

To see the passing of the dying year,

And listen to the Christmas songs again,

Although You cannot hear.


But, though kind Time may many joys renew,

There is one greatest joy I shall not know

Again, because my heart for loss of You

Was broken, long ago.



Poem of the Week 114


Wilfred Owen



Move him into the sun –

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.


Think how it wakes the seeds, –

Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides,

Full-nerved, – still warm, – too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

– O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth’s sleep at all?


Poem of the Week 113

The Sound Collector

Roger McGough


A stranger called this morning

Dressed all in black and grey

Put every sound into a bag

And carried them away.


The whistling of the kettle

The turning of the lock

The purring of the kitten

The ticking of the clock


The Popping of the toaster

The crunching of the flakes

When you spread the marmalade

The scraping noise it makes


The hissing of the frying-pan

The ticking of the grill

The bubbling of the bathtub

As it starts to fill


The drumming of the raindrops

On the window-pane

When you do the washing-up

The gurgle of the drain


The crying of the baby

The squeaking of the chair

The swishing of the curtain

The creaking of the stair


A stranger called this morning

He didn’t leave his name

Left us only silence

Life will never be the same.



Poem of the Week 112

The Moon

Robert Louis Stevenson


The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;
She shines on thieves on the garden wall,
On streets and fields and harbour quays,
And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.

The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,
The howling dog by the door of the house,
The bat that lies in bed at noon,
All love to be out by the light of the moon.

But all of the things that belong to the day
Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way;
And flowers and children close their eyes
Till up in the morning the sun shall arise.



Poem of the Week 111

The Painting Lesson


Trevor Harvey



‘What’s THAT, dear?’

asked the new teacher.


‘It’s Mummy,’ I replied.


‘But mums aren’t green and orange!

You really haven’t TRIED.

You don’t just paint in SPLODGES

– You’re old enough to know

You need to THINK before you work …

Now – have another go.’


She helped me draw two arms and legs,

A face with sickly smile,

A rounded body, dark brown hair,

A hat – and, in a while,

She stood back (with her face bright pink):

‘That’s SO much better – don’t you think?’


But she turned white

At ten to three

When an orange-green blob

Collected me.


‘Hi, Mum!’