This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected which will do for a Human Remains Pouch and bloodshot eyes might hide. So thankful for illusion; is raw: is sonic: is old-eyed première. She was always early. the astronomers, and is become noise of the shop. Inclines to think there is a God, more than worn Which is he? You can’t shave with a tiddlywink, back and forth, left to right, round and round. Who put him up for summer holidays, For I’m wearied wi’ hunting, and fain wad lie down.’, ‘And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son? Two thousand head of cattle, Which prisoners call the sky, vowels ferrous as nails, consonants. and when she turns as turn she must I loved its thick drawl, g’s that rang. on a dusty path that leads from the burnt-out kraal. I sing, and I am the slave of darkness. Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, she’s in her dotage. The barns were down. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling the class recited poetry by rote. I’d never loved a room. Never the least stir made the listeners, And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, Who sits on my right in fashionable clothes, In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon On russet floors, by waters idle, Upon the top of that same craggy ridge, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? If you can trust your neighbour when they trust not you to December’s red jewel, The whole house Get off! But when I came unto my beds, through my skin, straight to my heart And at every drifting cloud that went And what I should be, all but less than he She answer’d, she was poor. And I cannot, cannot go. hermit thrush. by something. Two. Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— Mary stood in the kitchen Dearest, the cockroaches are having babies. Her journey’s shorter, so she may endure They accuse me of absence, they circle me. fine rosettes of lime, Woman! He punched me in the chest. What’s the matter? Before me, whose more years might crave Light she comes out. Stops us, betrays us; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; That was the year of the Munich bother. room! according to friends, when she delivered Forgetting seems such silly waste! Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, with love, regardless of time and income Why does he move like a wraith by the water, cover it with English words. Stand up straight, my son. There’s no-one just satisfied or mildly pleased Fishes that tipple in the deep (Catholics Of a summer evening late, Mother, my hand is full of shame. that so many people have heads. watch transits, measure distances. and walked, leaving the bed his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. hurting the soft iris of darkness the day we woke up face-to-face like lovers Nor swifter greyhound follow, Another door. if her friend is gaining the upper hand his deaf son who slurs his speech. Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom She ordered more coffee. Or busy housewife ply her evening care: They reckon ill who leave me out; The wonder deepens as clouds mass over corn We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly The wasting paper, daytime dreamer. sweet in that air I have been bald I ask’d him what he did abroad Ajax outspread his arms, turned his spear flat, Told the tale about war and peace fast in a corner of his mouth. For the son is brought with the father, Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound. A rocky steep uprose Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet The one who shatters the seas’ sinews into waves. Twenty times better; but once in special, I grow older. For the miraculous birth, there always must be Whole families shopping at night! poor Jeoffry! People have grown sixthsense ‘Who made the eyes but I?’. of speech and that once he had something to say. I don’t fit, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. Dozing out his idle noons, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, Please send him The tradesman thinks, ‘’twere funny Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, What you write is rot. Till Peter’s pale-green eyes ajar Times still succeed the former. His daughter filed her because of my wife & son — to keep from earning. Or human love can think of: till it sees, Drink to me only with thine eyes, You are soft as the nesting dove. What a beautiful operation. his canopy, his occultation; And how good bacon ought to look; a key is turned to free the world. Thou break’st all thy girdles, and break’st forth a god. And she gave me the name of her rat-catcher. He cam also stille making dad blow his fuses and beat me. The fair round face, the snowy beard, What life lead? Strode after me. I am the captain of my soul. In my Victorian nightgown. His top lip gathered. In the Tarn on the fell; For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. And the crushes in the ‘Parlour’, and the letters coming in? Women᾿s lives What is’t ye do? Alone the glory and the spoil We are edible. Puts forth new life again, Bare arms long dangling by the side, meadows that turned into Perry Barr, passes through Witton, heading for the city His small hands were for the fine work of his carpentry. can go fuck themselves. Their sober wishes never learned to stray; The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, ‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays. But no one descended to the Traveller; Mother, I’m not slouching. Some say the world will end in fire, “Learn to play the violin, my son. sparse of leaf. So momentous are his travels among the mountains They’re not all as innocent as you’d think. I lost a river, culture, speech, sense of first space Even street names the power of sound cleft from the mouth, “More hock, Robbie — where is the seltzer? He left it dead, and with its head When you had changed from the one who was all to me, Ruin a-top and a field unploughed. To see a World in a Grain of Sand, No, not that. This poem has seven sections. Short years to thee, thou’lt love me too; a gang of eucalypts Based on the hugely successful secondary-school recitation competition, now in its third year, Poetry by Heart is a collection of over 200 poems, from Chaucer to Emily Dickinson, from Emily Bronte to Benjamin Zephaniah, which have been specially chosen for their suitability for learning and reciting. He cam also stille The tread of grass and shadows, and I returned Galloping about doing good, I saw The window is starless still; the clock ticks, After our midsummer of longest light, Transformation Only then Hiding difference, making unevenness even, And pity me when I am frail– a yellow sunrise I’m over the moon, they said he said. Is a keyhole rusting gently after rain. She tumbled headlong in. Apollo hunted Daphne so, recalling that dull board game and me. Yet it creates, transcending these, Other little children like a slow-burning fuse. She protected him ‘And that’s all that you’ll be underground.’. Perish the proud philosophy, which sought played out endlessly in their heads. Are killing tiny mice, dead snap by the neck, Among the hoary mountains; from the shore No useless coffin enclosed his breast, My grandmother would rise and take my arm, The shade replied,— Cutlass clearing bush at our feet, He is hoarse but word-perfect. that can dilate, hair that can rise Vexed to be still in town, I knit my brow, About the woodlands I will go And the raised rivers of his veins, Jamaica is Englan boun. and proud mums and dads. Why should my victim be so I can’t move. And smiled, for our intelligence. Through the blinds and the windows and bars; Bravery ‘And truly it’s a blessing, ‘Wilder than Gurkhas’ were my father’s words In through the kitchen flaps of back gardens where tomtits That perches in the soul, your Focke-Wulf tailing my Spit What human voice can reach and quench my thirst for something different Poetry By Heart is a national competition in which young people in key stages 2, 3, 4 and 5 choose poems they love, learn them by heart and perform them in a school or college competition. She’s crossing the Star Bar like it’s a catwalk. Alongside in darkness No second morn has ever shone for me; For he can creep. In what distant deeps or skies. That half a rood of rock, a no-man’s land childhood, our childhood. Like a clapper inside a bell made out of sword blades. their voices I am a Quaker she said and Sunday Mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream. Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Utensils and broken flower-pots, groaning in my head. Except the hearse. For pride is virtue in a pagan soul; And she also, to use newfangleness. And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon Obsolescence. swishes among the men of science It wasn’t my fault, the things he made Which seemed to laugh, and say with glee: I am darkening with song, Spilt blood enough to swim in: Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind And you took it under false pretences, And make an end of lying down together. I can do without them. itive. merely dreams but facts. And never breathe a word about your loss; And if a lad is ill to bind, And I must stand to attention The parson and the parson’s wife, And force me to a smile. This is the safety-catch, which is always released with no ill effects. Today we have naming of parts. Of mountain echoes did my boat move on, The mind-forged manacles I hear: How the chimney-sweeper’s cry That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed. Effacement at the wind’s hand. I dipped my oars into the silent lake, Laid in his coffin. patchwork squares We are all in the hands of God, The crime) I am content to live And every poet has acquired Too blue the silver-speckled sky, by her hard ‘What!’ For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention. like a wound working a foreign body to the surface of the skin. My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: The branches butter in ice, high silver coffee pot, “Who makes the bridal bed, Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again To test, Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, What’s spilling from your hand? As dew in Aprylle, That age is best which is the first, tingling with excitement as they lay unawake in their heaps. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man to preserve the poor and assuage my guilt Dominion of stale air and rank moisture. Love said, ‘You shall be he.’ I have never walked on Westminster Bridge Ednyfed, king of Dyfed, and nobody will call me back. One dark night, carved by a camera flash. I say. Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail, the halter tops and the drug-induced personality disorders. swung bare on its black cord over the house. That falls on the spray. Mrs Gubbins’s backyard fence, Food For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. It could not withered be. Echo:No. I found a ball of grass among the hay For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery. Clearing your house, the only thing What part of Africa is Jamaica? What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie That delves the grave duly. we raise our charged glasses over unparasol’d tables ‘I’m sorry, I must have been pissed – and his four-day-old smile dawned on him again, Get off, you terrible inhabiter The heart of standing is we cannot fly. Who with the wanton’s hollow voice an entirely new bird I’ll never make out what’s going on And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain; In search of Eldorado. in a day’s first hours. and their jaws, those that have them, dropped open. Yes; and just now I have seen him, Fair lined slippers for the cold, A mother must – it’s in my hands it opened for and offset had entered it. our sixth or seventh lap of the course; That I adore. He was charged with bringing the living to life. Towered up between me and the stars, and still, Would you believe it? Tell me not here, it needs not saying, I’d like to be the Moon, the bear, even the rain. Hovers within my gates; over and over In vacant or in pensive mood, Through richest purple to the view to the distant shake of a boxful of biscuits, Have you done it (success, that winks aware Twenty stubs in the ashtray. Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert to be: let me bash out praises – pass the tambourine, We met the British in the dead of winter. he’d rather marry. Fallow, pasture, ploughland The sun treads the path I felt His Silver Heel Shadow lags by stump and in hollow All this, behind shuttered and fluttering eyes Telling himself that this was home, and grinned, carried a tray of coffee and sugar. Our footprints leave a track across the snow. smiling and haunted, to a dark morning. O the founder of taste, And I will make thee beds of Roses In Harlem wandering from street to street. Whatever to make of the belly a sack! though has been convincingly turned Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot Stockings and with traditional quiperamas such as: “Look what some beginnings of His creature, but A,a,a Domine Deus, I have no passport, there’s no way back at all At fourteen I married My Lord you. Was shut – so was the mouth, that smiled; Which seemed to laugh, and say with glee. where the land forgets its name the hands that should have broken open its victory The streets were emptying. You can do it quite easy — In the clear muscles of my brain When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky. And Music’s power obey. who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean The heavy weights of grief oppress me sore: and stiffening; and the nights Secure explosion plugs in the ears forcing pale words into the pages below. The army of unalterable law. Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace, He said: I made the Iliad from such No comfort when the strikers all go back a ring-dove is a wood-pigeon. to give you form and breath. Sweetheart, for such a day Receive thy new possessor: one who brings His wife took everything And a five-star general were seen Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, In the gloom of whiteness, Singing of Mount Abora. The day is past, and yet I saw no sun, A just precedence in the grave. Dares now range the wood; It straightway was done. but could not hear it speak. Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion and I saw gripped in his right fist The flower or herb appointed for her food, Where herds of kine were browsing, ening their ratchets. There’s wealth enough; I need no more, Sitting in his big blue chair, At birth I was already buttoned in. until the smile poured through us like a river. Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast, Learn your poems in self-isolation, then share them over tea and cake once this pandemic is over. For her son she chose. Come with the falling of the leaf Marry my body to that dust Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward, I am black! Vexin their upon our huddled And simply pushed. Like Dutch-women — or nearly. is the mark on the forehead of a beast a God-cursed scream and strain of catastrophe, the terrible oxygen Grown beyond nature now, soft food for worms, All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar, But country folks who live beneath Only lines 242-270 should be recited, as shown below, ‘Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,’ of our beeswax’d cars, our crash clothes, free, The countries I resign, Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs, She ripped the envelope. A poet could not but be gay, Where from above the milder sun the dramatic reds and blacks Blood-red, deep: Some thanks—’ my friend, however, waved and said, But the vast shipwreck of my lifes esteems; With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Now, with military honours of a kind, And sure the Eternal Master found Listen. Wanderers coming and going, Who’s tortured by the drought, who by the rains. The clerk phoned down, 6- 8- 8- 3- 1? 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