Favourite poems

Oh how I love Billy Collins

John Donne’s The Good Morrow.

A far from simple love poem.

The Journey of the Magi by TS Eliot. Heard it first at college and haven't since found a poem I like more. Not to hand at the moment, but will look on my bookshelf.

Having had to be grown up from a very early age, this poem has become my ambition. I've started to wear purple

“Warning” by 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 practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised,
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

What the Living Do
Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

chestnut I am in tears reading your poem “The last time” I will send it to my DD who waited so long to have her baby girl and like every loving mother will struggle as she grows up .
Thank you for sharing

Miss Adventure . Yes , the child , teenager, young bride, young mother, they are all still within

Snap Minimoon - I can remember my teacher reading it out as she chalked it up on the blackboard- shows how far back that was!

Your poem about children made me well up Chestnut.
I’ve copied and pasted it to my email.
❤️

Crabbit Old Woman

What do you see nurses? What do you see?

What are you thinking when you are looking at me?

A crabbit old woman not very wise,

Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes,

Who dribbles her food, and makes no reply,

When you say in a loud voice, ‘I do wish you’d try’.

Who seems not to notice, the things that you do,

And forever is losing, a stocking or shoe,

Who unresisting or not, lets you do as you will

With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill,

Is this what you’re thinking? Is this what you see?

Then open your eyes nurse, you’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still,

As I use at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I’m a small child of ten, with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters who, love one another,

A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,

Dreaming that soon now, a lover she’ll meet:

A bride soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap,

Remembering the vows, that I promised to keep:

At twenty-five now, I have young of my own 5

Who need me to build, a secure happy home.

A young woman of thirty, my young now grow fast,

Bound to each other, with ties that should last:

At forty my young ones, now grown will soon be gone,

But my man stays beside me, to see I don’t mourn:

At fifty once more, babies play round my knee,

Again we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead,

I look at the future, I shudder with dread,

For my young are all busy, rearing young of their own,

And I think of the years, and the love I have known.

I’m an old woman now, and nature is cruel

‘Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body it crumbles, grace and vigour depart,

There now is a stone, where I once had a heart:

But inside this old carcass, a young girl still dwells,

And now and again, my battered heart swells,

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

And I’m loving and living, life over again,

I think of the years, all too few – gone too fast,

And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes nurses, open and see,

Not a crabbit old woman, look closer – see ME.’

This is a particular favourite of mine.

Pets, death and indoor plants
By Myron Lysenko

We're becoming old enough
to want to change our lifestyles;
we're looking for substitutes
for sex & drugs & rock & roll.

But our dog...died
our cat...collapsed
budgies... wouldn't... budge.
Our roses...sank
our ferns...fizzled
cactus...carked it.

Yet seated around roast dinners
our parents still talk about
the possibility of grandchildren.

Our minds...boggle
our bodies...fidget
our voices...falter.

We're still immature
& we'd like to be
for a few years yet.

The world's not ready for our baby;
we're not ready for the world.
We're still trying to learn

how to make love properly;
still trying to come to terms
with pets & death & indoor plants.

Dear Ancestor
Here's a poem for anyone who has done their family history or looked for the grave of an ancestor.

It was written by a lady in Plymouth and I just thought it was quite moving.

Love it Chestnut

Here's another one for us oldies:

Growing Older is Part of God’s Plan
You can’t hold back the dawn
Or stop the tides from flowing
Or keep a rose from withering
Or still a wind that’s blowing
And Time cannot be halted
In it’s swift and endless flight
For age is sure to follow youth
Like day comes after night.
For he who sets our span of years
And watches from above
Replaces Youth and Beauty
With Peace and Truth and Love
And then our souls are privileged
To see a Hidden Treasure
That in our youth escaped our eyes
In our pursuit of pleasure.
So birthdays are but blessings
That open up the way
To the everlasting beauty
Of God’s Eternal Day

Helen Steiner Rice

agnurse and Dee1012 beautiful poems, so poignant. I shall keep them both.

Ditto Bathsheba !

Oh Chestnut ???

agnurse
I had a beautifully illustrated poetry book when I was a child, and I loved Wynken, Blinken and Nod.
I had forgotten all about it.

I love this.....

There’s a meadow in my perfect world
where wind dances the branches of a tree
casting leopard spots of light across the face of a pond.
The tree stands tall and grand and alone,
shading the world beneath it.

There will come a day when I rest
against its spine and look out over a valley
where the sun warms, but never burns . . .

I will watch leaves turn
green, then amber, then crimson.
Then no leaves at all . . .

But the tree will not die
For in this place, winter never comes . . .
It is here, in the cradle of all I hold dear,
I guard every memory of you.

And when I find myself frozen in the mind of the real—
far from your loving eyes, I will return to this place,
close mine, and take solace in the simple perfection
of knowing you.

My parents bought a plaque for my paternal Grandmother with the following poem on it. When my nephew was born, Grandma gave it to my mum, because Mum was now a Grandma too.

Walking with Grandma

I like to walk with Grandma,
Her steps are short like mine.
She doesn't say, "Now hurry up",
She always takes her time.

I like to walk with Grandma,
She sees things as I do,
Wee pebbles bright, a funny cloud,
Half-hidden drops of dew.

Most people have to hurry,
They do not stop and see.
I'm glad that God made Grandma
Unrushed and young like me!

I don't cry easily but that poem is guaranteed to bring a tear to the eye of anyone who has been a parent.

So poignant!
Brought a tear to my eye!

Oh Chestnut you’ve just made me cry ?

This never fails to make me cry.....

The Last Time
From the moment you hold your baby in your arms,
you will never be the same.
You might long for the person you were before,
When you have freedom and time,
And nothing in particular to worry about.
You will know tiredness like you never knew it before,
And days will run into days that are exactly the same,
Full of feedings and burping,
Nappy changes and crying,
Whining and fighting,
Naps or a lack of naps,
It might seem like a never-ending cycle.
But don’t forget …
There is a last time for everything.
There will come a time when you will feed
your baby for the very last time.
They will fall asleep on you after a long day
And it will be the last time you ever hold your sleeping child.
One day you will carry them on your hip then set them down,
And never pick them up that way again.
You will scrub their hair in the bath one night
And from that day on they will want to bathe alone.
They will hold your hand to cross the road,
Then never reach for it again.
They will creep into your room at midnight for cuddles,
And it will be the last night you ever wake to this.
One afternoon you will sing “the wheels on the bus”
and do all the actions,
Then never sing them that song again.
They will kiss you goodbye at the school gate,
The next day they will ask to walk to the gate alone.
You will read a final bedtime story and wipe your last dirty face.
They will run to you with arms raised for the very last time.
The thing is, you won’t even know it’s the last time
Until there are no more times.
And even then, it will take you a while to realize.
So while you are living in these times,
remember there are only so many of them
and when they are gone, you will yearn for just one more day of them.
For one last time.
-Author Unknown-

Love this one - can't imagine why it appeals to me!

Billy Collins is an American and the poem is called: Another Reason why I don't keep a Gun n the House.

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

— by Billy Collins