All Poems

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Myfanwy

© John Betjeman

Kind oer the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy,
White oer the playpen the sheen of her dress,
Fresh from the bathroom and soft in the nursery
Soap scented fingers I long to caress.

Seaside Golf

© John Betjeman

How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear'd the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker's back -
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

In Westminster Abbey

© John Betjeman

Let me take this other glove off
As the vox humana swells,
And the beauteous fields of Eden
Bask beneath the Abbey bells.
Here, where England's statesmen lie,
Listen to a lady's cry.

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

Diary of a Church Mouse

© John Betjeman

Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks,
Here where the vicar never looks
I nibble through old service books.

How To Get On In Society

© John Betjeman

Phone for the fish knives, Norman
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.

Your Dad Did What?

© Sophie Hannah

Where they have been, if they have been away,
or what they've done at home, if they have not -
you make them write about the holiday.
One writes My Dad did. What? Your Dad did what?

The Pros and Cons

© Sophie Hannah

He might not want to phone me from work in case someone hears
And begins (or continues) to suspect that theres something
Between us.

The Norbert Dentressangle Van

© Sophie Hannah

I heave my morning like a sack
of signs that don't appear,
say August, August, takes me back...
That it was not this year...

The During Months

© Sophie Hannah

Like summer in some countries and like rain
in mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer,
like food for chefs, for invalids like pain,
You've occupied a large part of the year.

Symptoms

© Sophie Hannah

Although you have given me a stomach upset,
Weak knees, a lurching heart, a fuzzy brain,
A high-pitched laugh, a monumental phone bill,
A feeling of unworthiness, sharp pain

Rondeau Redoublé

© Sophie Hannah

I know the rules and hear myself agree
Not to invest beyond this one night stand.
I know your patter: in, out, like the sea.
The sharp north wind must blow away the sand.

Occupational Hazard

© Sophie Hannah

He has slept with accountants and brokers,
With a cowgirl (well, someone from Healds).
He has slept with non-smokers and smokers
In commercial and cultural fields.

Long For This World

© Sophie Hannah

I settle for less than snow,
try to go gracefully like seasons gowhich will regain their ground -
ditch, hill and field - when a new year comes round.Now I know everything:
how winter leaves without resenting spring,lives in a safe time frame,

Leaving and Leaving You

When I leave you postcode and your commuting station,
When I left undone all the things we planned to do
You may feel you have been left by association
But there is leaving and leaving you.

Manteau Three

© Jorie Graham

must it tangles up into a weave,
tied up with votive offerings laws, electricity
what the speakers let loose from their tiny eternity,
what the empty streets held up as offering
when only a bit of wind
litigated in the sycamores,

Of The Ever-Changing Agitation In The Air

© Jorie Graham

The man held his hands to his heart as
he danced.
He slacked and swirled.
The doorways of the little city

San Sepolcro

© Jorie Graham

In this blue light
I can take you there,
snow having made me
a world of bone
seen through to. This
is my house,

Le Manteau De Pascal

© Jorie Graham

I have put on my great coat it is cold.It is an outer garment.Coarse, woolen.Of unknown origin. *It has a fine inner lining but it is
as an exterior that you see it a grace. *I have a coat I am wearing. It is a fine admixture.
The woman who threw the threads in the two directions
has made, skillfully, something dark-true,

The Guardian Angel Of The Private Life

© Jorie Graham

All this was written on the next day's list.
On which the busyness unfurled its cursive roots,
pale but effective,
and the long stem of the necessary, the sum of events,