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


Poem of the Week 66

The Millennium Falcon


Roger Stevens




I know

You’re right

It doesn’t look much

A plastic tube

Metallic paint, some wood, some wire

But it’s the Millennium Falcon

Spaceship for hire


It’s been travelling the universe

For five years and a day

And it was built by granddad

Before he passed away



I know

You’re right

It doesn’t look much

Metallic paint, some wire, some wood

But it fought and beat the Empire

For the forces of good


And now upon my bedroom shelf

It’s found its final rest

I know it doesn’t look much

But in its day it was the best

Poem of the Week 65

I’m Still Here

 (from ‘Follies’)

Stephen Sondheim


Good times and bum times,

I’ve seen them all, and, my dear,

I’m still here.


Plush velvet sometimes,

sometimes just pretzels and beer,

But I’m here.


I’ve stuffed the dailies in my shoes,

Strummed ukuleles, sung the blues.

Seen all my dreams disappear,

But I’m here.


I’ve slept in shanties,

Guest of the W.P.A.,

But I’m here.


Danced in my scanties,

Three bucks a night was the pay,

But I’m here.


I’ve stood on bread lines with the best,

Watched while the headlines did the rest.

In the depression was I depressed?

Nowhere near.

I met a big financier,

And I’m here.


I’ve been through Gandhi,

Windsor and Wally’s affair,

And I’m here.


Amos ‘n’ Andy,

mah-jongg and platinum hair,

And I’m here.


I got through Abie’s Irish Rose,

Five Dionne babies, Major Bowes,

Had heebie-jeebies for Beebe’s Bathysphere.

I got through Shirley Temple,

And I’m here


I’ve gotten through Herbert and J. Edgar Hoover;

Gee, that was fun and a half!

When you’ve been through Herbert and J. Edgar Hoover,

Anything else is a laugh.


I’ve been through Reno,

I’ve been through Beverly Hills,

And I’m here.


Reefers and vino,

rest cures, religion and pills,

And I’m here.


Been called a “pinko-commie tool,”

Got through it stinko by my pool.

I should’ve gone to an acting school,

that seems clear.

Still, someone said, “She’s sincere,”

So I’m here.


Black sable one day,

next day it goes into hock,

But I’m here.


Top billing Monday,

Tuesday you’re touring in stock,

But I’m here.


First you’re another sloe-eyed vamp,

Then someone’s mother, then you’re camp;

Then you career from career to career.

I’m almost through my memoirs,

And I’m here.


I’ve gotten through “Hey, lady, aren’t you whoozis?

Wow, what a looker you were.”

Or better yet, “Sorry, I thought you were whoozis;

Whatever happened to her?”


Good times and bum times,

I’ve seen ’em all, and, my dear,

I’m still here.


Plush velvet sometimes,

sometimes just pretzels and beer,

But I’m here.


I’ve run the gamut, A to Z;

Three cheers and, dammit, c’est la vie.

I got through all of last year,

And I’m here.


Lord knows, at least I’ve been there,

And I’m here.

Look who’s here.

I’m still here.

Poem of the Week 64

The Book

Michael Rosen


 I opened a book

and a hand fell out.

I turned a page

and heard a shout:

‘I’m lost in a wood;

my mother’s no good.’

I couldn’t bear to look

so I closed the book.


But the girl called out:

‘Don’t leave me here;

I need you to help me.’

I was cold with fear

so the book stayed shut.

I put it back on the shelf;

put it out of my mind

but then –

it opened itself.

Right there in front of me

it opened up wide

and I heard a voice say,

‘Come inside.’


The hand that fell out

jumped back in the book,

the girl inside

gave me a long, cool look

and before I knew it

I was in that wood,

running and running

as fast as I could,

running and running

as fast as I could,

running and running

as fast as I could …

Poem of the Week 63

For the Fallen

Robert Laurence Binyon


With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.


Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.


They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.


They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.


They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England’s foam.


But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;


As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.


Poem of the Week 61


Adrienne Rich


Living in the earth-depositis of our history


Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth

one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old

cure for fever or melancholy a tonic

for living on this earth in the winters of this climate


Today I was reading about Marie Curie:

she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness

her body bombarded for years by the element

she had purified

It seems she denied to the end

the source of the cataracts on her eyes

the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends

till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil


She died a famous woman denying

her wounds


her wounds came from the same source as her power

Poem of the Week 60

I Like Words

Steve Turner


I like words.

Do you like words?

Words aren’t hard to find:

Words on walls and words in books,

Words deep in your mind.


Words in jokes

That make you laugh,

Words that seem to smell.

Words that end up inside out,

Words you cannot spell.


Words that fly

And words that crawl,

Words that screech and bump.

Words that glide and words that swing,

Words that bounce and jump.


Words that paint

And words that draw,

Words that make you grin.

Words that make you shake and sweat,

Words that touch your skin.


Words of love

That keep you warm,

Words that make you glad.

Words that hit you, words that hurt,

Words that make you sad.


Words in French

And words in slang,

Words like ‘guy’ and ‘dude’.

Words you make up, words you steal,

Words they say are rude.


I like words.

Do you like words?

Words come out and play.

Words are free and words are friends,

Words are great to say.