Poem of the Week 78

It’s Dark in Here

Shel Silverstein

 

I am writing these poems

From inside a lion,

And it’s rather dark in here.

So please excuse the handwriting

Which may not be too clear.

But this afternoon by the lion’s cage

I’m afraid I got too near.

And I’m writing these lines

From inside a lion.

And it’s rather dark in here.

 

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Poem of the Week 77

Jim – Who ran away from his Nurse and

was eaten by a Lion

Hilaire Belloc

 

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;

His Friends were very good to him.

They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,

And slices of delicious Ham,

And Chocolate with pink inside

And little Tricycles to ride,

And read him Stories through and through,

And even took him to the Zoo–

But there it was the dreadful Fate

Befell him, which I now relate.

 

You know–or at least you ought to know,

For I have often told you so–

That Children never are allowed

To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;

Now this was Jim’s especial Foible,

He ran away when he was able,

And on this inauspicious day

He slipped his hand and ran away!

 

He hadn’t gone a yard when–Bang!

With open Jaws, a lion sprang,

And hungrily began to eat

The Boy: beginning at his feet.

Now, just imagine how it feels

When first your toes and then your heels,

And then by gradual degrees,

Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,

Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.

No wonder Jim detested it!

No wonder that he shouted “Hi!”

 

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,

Though very fat he almost ran

To help the little gentleman.

“Ponto!” he ordered as he came

(For Ponto was the Lion’s name),

“Ponto!” he cried, with angry Frown,

“Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!”

The Lion made a sudden stop,

He let the Dainty Morsel drop,

And slunk reluctant to his Cage,

Snarling with Disappointed Rage.

But when he bent him over Jim,

The Honest Keeper’s Eyes were dim.

The Lion having reached his Head,

The Miserable Boy was dead!

 

When Nurse informed his Parents, they

Were more Concerned than I can say:–

His Mother, as She dried her eyes, Said,

“Well–it gives me no surprise,

He would not do as he was told!”

His Father, who was self-controlled,

Bade all the children round attend

To James’s miserable end,

And always keep a-hold of Nurse

For fear of finding something worse.

 

Poem of the Week 76

A Slash of Blue

Emily Dickinson

 

A slash of Blue –

A sweep of Grey –

Some scarlet patches on the way,

Compose an Evening Sky –

A little purple – slipped between

Some Ruby Trousers hurried on –

A Wave of Gold –

A Bank of Day –

This just makes out the Morning Sky.

 

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.

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.