A 14-Year-Old Convalescent Cat In The Winter- Gavin Ewart

I want him to have another living summer,
to lie in the sun and enjoy the douceur de vivre --
because the sun, like golden rum in a rummer,
is what makes an idle cat un tout petite peu ivre--

I want him to lie stretched out contented,
revelling in the heat, his fur all dry and warm,
an Old Age Pensioner, retired, resented
by no one, and happiness in a beelike swarm

to settle on him -- postponed for another season
that last fated hateful journal to the vet
from which there is no return (and age the reason),
which must soon come -- as I cannot forget.

Wild Geese- Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

PS September

Friday 4th September

1. Voyage- Tamar Yoseloff. Michael
2008 Forward Prize Book of Poetry

2. Wild Geese- Mary Oliver. Juliette
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wild-geese-by-mary-oliver/

3. Inheritance- Evan. Michael
2008 Forward Prize Book of Poetry

4. A 14-Year-Old Convalescent Cat In The Winter- Gavin Ewart. Juliette

5. London- Elaine Fanshaw. Michael
2008 Forward Prize Book of Poetry


Juliette
Michael
Monica
Brian
2008 Forward Prize Book of Poetry

Clown in the Moon- Dylan Thomas

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

Everything Changes- Cicely Herbert

Based on the poem 'Alles wandelt sich' by Bertroit Brecht.

Everything changes. We plant

trees for those born later

but what's happened has happened,

and poisons poured into the seas

cannot be drained out again.

What's happened has happened.

Poisons poured into the seas

cannot be drained out again, but

everything changes. We plant

trees for those born later.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven- W. B. Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

PS August

1. Dylan Thomas- Clown In The Moon
www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason

2. Cicely Herbert- Everything Changes
(Based on Bertroit Brecht's 'Alles Wandelt Sich')

3. W. B. Yeats- He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven
www.readprint.com/work-1582/He-Wishes-For-The-Cloth-Of-Heaven-William-Butler-Yeats

4. Sheenagh Pugh- In The Moment
Taken from Poetry Review volume 98:2 Summer 2009

5. Wendy Cope- The Traditionalist
Taken from Poetry Review volume 98:2 Summer 2009

6. Wendy Cope- The Radical
Taken from Poetry Review volume 98:2 Summer 2009

7. Jo Shapcott- Procedure
Taken from Poetry Review volume 98:2 Summer 2009

8. Charles Evans- Libetto
Taken from Poetry Review volume 98:2 Summer 2009


(Link to the Poetry Society's website is as follows: http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content/homepage/
You cannot access the poems from there but it has some interesting stuff as well as a list of all the contributors (to the book Michael read from) and a review of the poems too!)

A Boy's Head

In it there is a space-ship
and a project
for doing away with piano lessons.

And there is
Noah's ark,
which shall be first.

And there is
an entirely new bird,
an entirely new hare,
an entirely new bumble-bee.

There is a river
that flows upwards.

There is a multiplication table.

There is anti-matter.

And it just cannot be trimmed.

I believe
that only what cannot be trimmed
is a head.

There is promise
in the circumstance
that so many people have heads.

Miroslav Holub - age 14

A Martian Sends A Postcard Home

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings -

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside -
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves -
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

Craig Raine

A Few Words on the Soul

We have a soul at times.
No one's got it non-stop,
for keeps.

Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.

Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood's fears and raptures
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.

It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.

For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.

Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.

It's picky,
it doesn't like seeing us in crowds.
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.

Joy and sorrow
aren't two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.

We can count on it
when we're sure of nothing
and curious about everything.

Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.

It won't say where it comes from
or when it's taking off again,
though it's clearly expecting such questions.

We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.

Wislawa Syzmborska
(Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)

PS July

1. A Few Words on The Soul - Wislawa Szymborska. Juliette

2. A Martian Sends a Postcard Home - Craig Raine. Juliette

3. A Boy's Head - Miroslav Holub. Juliette

There were 3 of us but i was the only which which read this session.

Don't Say I Said

Don't Say I Said
Next time you speak to you-know-who
I’ve got a message for him.
Tell him that I have lost a stone
Since the last time I saw him.
Tell him that I’ve got three new books
Coming out soon, but play it
Cool, make it sound spontaneous.
Don’t say I said to say it.

He might ask if I’ve mentioned him.
Say I have once, in passing.
Memorise everything he says
And, no, it won’t be grassing
When you repeat his words to me –
It’s the only way to play it.
Tell him I’m toned and tanned and fine.
Don’t say I said to say it.

Say that serenity and grace
Have taken root inside me.
My top-note is frivolity
But beneath, dark passions guide me.
Tell him I’m radiant and replete
And add that every day it
Seems I am harder to resist.
Don’t say I said to say it.

Tell him that all my ancient faults
Have been eradicated.
I do not carp or analyse
As I might have when we dated.
Say I’m not bossy any more
Or, better still, convey it
Subtly, but get the point across.
Don’t say I said to say it.

Sophie Hannah
http://www.sophiehannah.com/biographical.html

Never- ending ardour

so I have loved Africa
With no illusions and no madness
I am woken up by the insomnia
Of the terror of the trembling earth

so I have thought of the sea
Believing that happiness
Was an immense river
Which will flow in the midst of the desert

so I have crossed the Atlantic ocean for the West
In search of democracy
But I am woken up by the insomnia
Of the great disappointment of my loss of identity

so I have thought of my mother
And I believe that maternal love
Is an unchangeable flower – sempiternal
Which flowers in my veins to give me more ardour

Aime Kongolo

PS June 5th

1. Lament of a Teapot - Michael MacKian. Michael
2. Never ending Ardour - Aime Kongolo. Juliette
3. Ingrids Husband - Paul Henry. Michael
4. Paul Henry. Michael
5. Paul Henry. Michael
6. Don't Say i Said - Sophie Hannah. Juliette

Michael please feel free to put the Paul henry titles in - i am unsure of them !

PS May 09

1. For Alistair Darlings New Budget - Andrew Motion (Poet Laurette) MICHAEL

2. On The Exhumation of Seamus Heaney 2020 - Stephen Smith SARA (? think its this title)

3. The Earthling - Brian Pattern JULIETTE

4. Panther Pawed - Ray Bradbury MICHAEL

5. 'What Do Women Want? - Kim Addonizio (Womans Work) SARA

PS April

1. Slate, Oak, Glass - Gillian Clarke Michael
2. Arts Poetica - Archibald McLeish Mike
3. White - WB Yeats Juliette
4. Digging - Seamus Heaney Michael
5. Marching Through a Novel - John Updike Mike
6. Afterlife - John Burnside Juliette

Contemplation

For those unaccustomed to contemplation, knowing where to start can be daunting. One simple method is contemplative reading, a traditional Christian practice known as lectio divina, Latin for divine reading of sacred texts.

Choosing a cherished poem can be a useful starting point. 'Poetry is a great vehicle for contemplation because it asks us top aspire to be better, to stretch mentally and experience deep thought,' says Rick Benjamin, a poet and lecturer at the institute of Contemplative Studies based at Brown University in the US. He suggests that it doesn't matter what poem you read as long as you love it. Read It aloud so you can savour hearing it in your own voice, finding where the inflections and intonations are. Then memorise it. 'What you are aiming for is to have the poem inside you. Something extraordinary happens when you hold a poem in your own body, your own mind. Its a transfer of one thinker to another.'

Every morning when Benjamin awakes, her recites in his mind a poem by the thirteenth century mystic poet Rumi, Across the Doorsill. 'I sometimes say it 10 times a day or more. it begins, 'The breeze at dawn has secrets top tell you / Don't go back to sleep'. It reminds you that life is mysterious and that what we can't see doesn't indicate there isn't a world beyond this one. It is also a way of reminding myself that thinking is important. Its not our actions but the way we think about the world that has real power to transform it.'

Taken from The Art of Contemplation article - Psychologies Magazine March 09

PS March 6th

1. A few poems taken from Women's Work: Modern Women Poets Writing in English, eds Eva Salzman and Amy Wack Michael
2. One of his own published poems - didnt know the name! Sorry!) Philip
3. Robot Boy / Anchor baby - Tim Burton (taken from Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy) Philip
4. Passage on writing poetry / Passage on poetry and musicians - Alice Walker (taken from Her Blue Body Everything We Know: Earthling ) Juliette
5. No Dialects Please - Merle Collins Michael
6. Earthy Anecdote - Wallace Stevens (taken from Harmonium) Philip
7. The Caged Bird Sings - Maya Angelou Michael
8. Contemplation - from Psychologies magazine Juliette

I'll post up any of my poems / pieces if i have time this month. Also please feel free to post up the ones you read :-)

What the World Could be Like

The smell of lime was coming in to the open air,
Blue sky flying over us,
Red roses going backwards and forwards,
Dogs crying louder and louder,
Suddenly a car crash in to a brick wall,
Then there was a bang it was a bomb.
There was a lovely smell of opium.
The fresh smell was a peach rose,
Sparkling water running down the stream.
The people are trying to walk but they can't.
At the end of the world bones lying ever way
And the bubbly waters going all over.

Linzi age 9yrs

Chapter: Learning more about Lives pg 49
Read my Mind - young children, poetry and learning
Fred Sedgwick

How to Leave the World that Worships should

Let faxes butter-curl on dusty shelves.
Let junkmail build its castles in the hush
of other people’s halls. Let deadlines burst
and flash like glorious fireworks somewhere else.
As hours go softly by, let others curse
the roads where distant drivers queue like sheep.
Let e-mails fly like panicked, tiny birds.
Let phones, unanswered, ring themselves to sleep.

Above, the sky unrolls its telegram,
immense and wordless, simply understood:
you’ve made your mark like birdtracks in the sand -
now make the air in your lungs your livelihood.
See how each wave arrives at last to heave
itself upon the beach and vanish. Breathe.

Ros Barber

from the Herne Bay sonnets.
Published in Material (Anvil 2008).
Also available on the Oxfam Lifelines 2 CD.