Poem of the Week 75

Hope

Langston Hughes

 

 

Sometimes when I’m lonely,

Don’t know why,

Keep thinkin’ I won’t be lonely

By and by.

 

 

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Poem of the Week 74

The Uncertainty of the Poet

 

Wendy Cope

 

 

I am a poet.

I am very fond of bananas.

 

I am bananas.

I am very fond of a poet.

 

I am a poet of bananas.

I am very fond,

 

A fond poet of ‘I am, I am’ –

Very bananas,

 

Fond of ‘Am I bananas,

Am I?’ – a very poet.

 

Bananas of a poet!

Am I fond? Am I very?

 

Poet bananas! I am.

I am fond of a ‘very’.

 

I am of very fond bananas.

Am I a poet?

 

Poem of the Week 72

The Months

Sara Coleridge

 

 

January brings the snow,

Makes our feet and fingers glow.

 

February brings the rain,

Thaws the frozen lake again.

 

March brings breezes loud and shrill,

Stirs the dancing daffodil.

 

April brings the primrose sweet,

Scatters daisies at our feet.

 

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,

Skipping by their fleecy dams.

 

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,

Fills the children’s hand with posies.

 

Hot July brings cooling showers,

Apricots and gillyflowers.

 

August brings the sheaves of corn,

Then the Harvest home is borne.

 

Warm September brings the fruit,

Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

 

Fresh October brings the pheasant;

Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

 

Dull November brings the blast,

Then the leaves are falling fast.

 

Chill December brings the sleet,

Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

Poem of the Week 71

Warning

Jenny Joseph

 

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me,

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

 

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

 

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

 

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Poem of the Week 70

Almost New Year

Brian Moses

 

It’s the last afternoon

of the old year

and already a full fat moon

is in charge of the sky.

It has nudged the sun

into a distant lake

and left it to drown,

while bare branch trees

like blackened fireworks

burst with sunset.

Frost is patterning the fields,

a tractor tries to furrow

the iron hard hill.

Winter’s frown settles

on the face of the landscape.

It shrugs its shoulders,

gives in to January.