Poem of the Week 69

Sonnet 116

William Shakespeare

 

 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand’ring bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov’d,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

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Poem of the Week 68

Colours Passing Through Us

Marge Piercy

 

Purple as tulips in May, mauve

into lush velvet, purple

as the stain blackberries leave

on the lips, on the hands,

the purple of ripe grapes

sunlit and warm as flesh.

 

Every day I will give you a colour,

like a new flower in a bud vase

on your desk. Every day

I will paint you, as women

colour each other with henna

on hands and on feet.

 

Red as henna, as cinnamon,

as coals after the fire is banked,

the cardinal in the feeder,

the roses tumbling on the arbor

their weight bending the wood

the red of the syrup I make from petals.

 

Orange as the perfumed fruit

hanging their globes on the glossy tree,

orange as pumpkins in the field,

orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs

who come to eat it, orange as my

dog running lithe through the high grass.

 

Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,

yellow as a hill of daffodils,

yellow as dandelions by the highway,

yellow as butter and egg yolks,

yellow as a school bus stopping you,

yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

 

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing

song of all the things you make

me think of, here is oblique

praise for the height and depth

of you and the width too.

Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

 

Green as mint jelly, green

as a frog on a lily pad twanging,

the green of cos lettuce upright

about to bolt into opulent towers,

green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear

glass, green as wine bottles.

 

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,

bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,

blue as Saga. Blue as still water.

Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.

Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring

azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

 

Cobalt as the midnight sky

when day has gone without a trace

and we lie in each other’s arms

eyes shut and fingers open

and all the colours of the world

pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

 

 

 

 

Poem of the Week 67

This Year I Will Stay Awake

Paul Cookson

 

This year I will stay awake

all night long make no mistake.

On this Christmas Eve I’ll keep

my eyes open, try to peep.

This year I won’t drowse or dream

but be alert till Santa’s been,

see just what he leaves and how

he fits down our chimney now,

how the presents all appear

hear the sleigh bells and reindeer.

This year I will not count sheep

but pretend to be asleep.

No catnaps or snoozing but I

won’t drop off and get some shut-eye.

 

This year there will be no slumber

I won’t let myself go under.

No forty winks or throwing zeds.

No blinking, kipping, heavy headszz …

This year I won’t nod or doze

or let my heavy eyelids close.

This year I won’t nod or doze

or let my heavy eyelids close

or let my heavy eyelids close

or let my he…avy eye…li…ds clo…se

or let my he…avy eye…liiids clo…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz