Poetry Library

All your ‘Poems of the Week’ in one collection

w/c 14.05.20

Atlas by U.A Fanthorpe

There is a kind of love called maintenance

Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget

The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way

The money goes; which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,

And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently ricketty elaborate

Structures of living, which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,

Which knows what time and weather are doing

To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;

Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers

My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps

My suspect edifice upright in air,

As Atlas did the sky.

w/c 21.05.20

This week we've chosen a couple of poems written by Dorset HealthCare colleagues.

The first is by Suzie Thomas after undergoing an operation and she'd like to dedicate it to all the frontline staff who are putting themselves in harms way for the rest of us. The second is by Adele Sales, imagining the world on the other side of the pandemic.

Walking Angels (NHS) by Suzie Thomas, E-procurement Co-ordinator

If only there were people who toiled and cared for everyone out there? If only there were people who at our darkest moments of turmoil and fear were there to care? People who would tuck you in bed with love and compassion Even though they’d been dashing to another, even though they themselves are crashing. It’s the Rachel’s, the Vicki’s, the Leah’s and the Jacqui’s, Men and women that make this place smashing You’re scared and you’re frightened and they appear so enlightened, Bringing you back from the brink with a bed tuck and a drink They treat you as though you were family, with that caring hand on me, With unconditional loving, even when we are screaming and a shoving Protect what’s important about this unique institution? Standing beside us looking after our constitutions Even though there is little financial reward for their troubles, they still give their hearts at the double(s) Day in and day out they are there when we have a clout, that rains true we have no doubt. When you pull us from the depths of despair to our final discharge and road to repair My heart and admiration goes out to you guys at the front, as you rush to the next emergency shunt Oh yes they are there the guys and the gals from NHS, God bless

I am imagining by Adele Sales, Trainee Psychological Wellbeing Practitioner, Steps 2 Wellbeing (IAPT)

I am imagining the meetings-again the warm flickers in eyes that say, “it’s good to see you”

I am imagining the soft curve of a familiar face a smile breaking, hugs held for moments longer

I am imagining the vibrant hum of a house stories shared, and glasses brim-full with sweet wine

I am imagining the gatherings-again for shared music and dance stretched out, long into the night

I am imagining the liftings of hearts through strum of guitar not seen through screen but heard instead around warm fire

I am imagining lush grass covered with blankets sun beams on skin the buzz of air drenched in summer

I am imagining the sweet laughter that causes tears to run warm streams down faces

I am imagining the chime of teaspoon against coffee cup in cosy café corners

I am imagining deep sighs taken when small moments find deeper roots of gratitude

I am imagining the remembering of small kindnesses by neighbour or of stranger like beams of light on dark forest floors

I am imagining the reuniting the coming-togethers

the re-realising of what is essential & of great heart value

I am imagining a re-shifting of focus a rebalancing of pace a conscious choice to live more slow and sweet, always

I am imagining a collective heart woven by golden thread spun through the dark grown strong, even when separate

I am imagining a new world built upon a remembering that we, are in great need of one another. that we, in all our smallness are connected by great measure. that we, each day are showered in blessings only to be here.

I am imagining a world breathed anew. I am imagining a world, re-imagined.

w/c 04.06.20

We Are Not Responsible by Harryette Mullen

We are not responsible for your lost or stolen relatives. We cannot guarantee your safety if you disobey our instructions. We do not endorse the causes or claims of people begging for handouts. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.

Your ticket does not guarantee that we will honor your reservations. In order to facilitate our procedures, please limit your carrying on. Before taking off, please extinguish all smoldering resentments.

If you cannot understand English, you will be moved out of the way. In the event of a loss, you’d better look out for yourself. Your insurance was cancelled because we can no longer handle your frightful claims. Our handlers lost your luggage and we are unable to find the key to your legal case.

You were detained for interrogation because you fit the profile. You are not presumed to be innocent if the police have reason to suspect you are carrying a concealed wallet. It’s not our fault you were born wearing a gang color. It is not our obligation to inform you of your rights.

Step aside, please, while our officer inspects your bad attitude. You have no rights we are bound to respect. Please remain calm, or we can’t be held responsible for what happens to you.

w/c 11.06.20

A Small Needful Fact by Rose Gay

Is that Eric Garner worked for some time for the Parks and Rec. Horticultural Department, which means, perhaps, that with his very large hands, perhaps, in all likelihood, he put gently into the earth some plants which, most likely, some of them, in all likelihood, continue to grow, continue to do what such plants do, like house and feed small and necessary creatures, like being pleasant to touch and smell, like converting sunlight into food, like making it easier for us to breathe.

w/c 18.06.20

Jacqueline Stratford, PA to Dorset HealthCare Chair and Chief Executive submitted this short poem by Walt Whitman:

Happiness not in another place, but in this place … Not for another hour, but this hour.

Praise Song for the Day by Elizabeth Alexander

A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each other’s eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere, with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum, with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus. A farmer considers the changing sky. A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin. We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others, who said I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road. We need to find a place where we are safe. We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign, the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself, others by first do no harm or take no more than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national, love that casts a widening pool of light, love with no need to pre-empt grievance. In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun. On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp, praise song for walking forward in that light.

w/c 25.06.20

Barbershop Quartet, East Village Grille by Sebastian Matthews

Inside the standard lunch hour din they rise, four seamless voices fused into one, floating somewhere between a low hum and a vibration, like the sound of a train rumbling beneath noisy traffic. The men are hunched around a booth table, a fire circle of coffee cups and loose fists, leaning in around the thing they are summoning forth from inside this suddenly beating four-chambered heart. I’ve taken Avery out on a whim, ordered quesadillas and onion rings, a kiddy milk with three straws.

We’re already deep in the meal, extra napkins and wipes for the grease coating our faces and hands like mid-summer sweat. And because we’re happy, lost in the small pleasures of father and son, at first their voices seem to come from inside us. Who’s that boy singing? Avery asks, unable to see these men wrapped in their act. I let him keep looking, rapt. And when no one is paying attention, I put down my fork and take my boy’s hand, and together we dive into the song. Or maybe it pours into us, and we’re the ones brimming with it.

w/c 02.07.20

Excerpt from The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river.

Never in his life had he seen a river before--this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver--glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble.

The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.

w/c 09.07.20

Thanks to Hannah Broad for this poem which she wrote in the light the experience of lockdown easing.

We found safety in the shadows

They enveloped us in distance

We exchanged embrace for the clutch of the race

For essentials

We traded carnal connection for zoom and good intentions

But with every day, our hearts pull for more something else

Masked mouths begin to whisper;

“Is this my future, or is it just winter?”

But hear this, beautiful shadow dwellers, distance keepers and key workers

I have seen the dawn, and it’s rising over you

Can you sense the season changing to spring? Can you smell the blooms of your beginning?

Because the shadows are not your forever, and a virus is not your keeper

And I promise, when the garment of locked down darkness falls off your shoulders and you look upwards, your gaze will be met, unflinchingly, with the great light of your future

And when we tell the story to our grandchildren, it will not be called the year of the great darkness,

No.

We will tell the story of the great beginning.

w/c 16.07.20

by Donna

As I sat in my car

I looked out the window

And there she was

Sitting on a wooden bench

On this very sunny day

Eating freshly cooked chippy chips

With her plastic face shield

Pushed to one side

And in the precise moment

Life seemed a little normal once again.

w/c 23.07.20 Sweet Darkness by David Whyte

Listen

When your eyes are tired the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone, no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own.

There you can be sure you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your home tonight.

The night will give you a horizon further than you can see.

You must learn one thing. The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.

w/c 30.07.20

"Mother Teresa" by Sydney Carter

No revolution will come in time to alter this man's life except the one surprise of being loved.

It is too late to talk of Civil Rights, neo-Marxism psychiatry or any kind of sex.

He has only twelve more hours to live. Forget about a cure for cancer, smoking, leprosy or osteo-arthritis.

Over this dead loss to society you pour your precious ointment, wash the feet that will not walk tomorrow.

Mother Teresa, Mary Magdalene, your love is dangerous, your levity would contradict our local gravity.

But if love cannot do it, then I see no future for this dying man or me. So blow the world to glory, crack the clock. Let love be dangerous.

w/c 06.08.20

Homeless and COVID 19

The roads are eerie and silent Everyone safely in their house The hidden on the streets defiant With the only company of a mouse

No handwashing, no wear a mask All packed into hotels feeling lost All services working from home and no one to ask Increasing risk and emotional cost

Irritability, frustration, feeling low Mental health increasing day by day No phones with internet increasing woe One mental health nurse available to their dismay

Urgent phone calls and emails ping up Distressed hotel workers unsure what to do Lots of visits to people to check up But nowhere to take someone for a brew

People bouncing back onto the street Increasing their health need Outreach workers continue to meet and greet The work gets busy and caseloads exceed

Where does the future lie? For those hidden voices that still need care A place to call home but have to apply Many having no choice and more despair

Services still trying to work out a safe plan How to help those in desperate need Rough sleepers have a reduced lifespan More health and social input agreed

Please say hello to someone on the street The last 5 months have been very tough Some are feeling sad and downbeat A smile can just be enough.

w/c 13.08.20

Search for My Tongue by Sujata Bhatt

You ask me what I mean it grows back, a stump of a shoot by saying I have lost my tongue. grows longer, grows moist, grows strong veins I ask you, what would you do it ties the other tongue in knots, if you had two tongues in your mouth, the bud opens, the bud opens in my mouth, and lost the first one, the mother tongue, it pushes the other tongue aside. and could not really know the other, Everytime I think I’ve forgotten, the foreign tongue. I think I’ve lost the mother tongue, You could not use them both together it blossoms out of my mouth. Even if you thought that way. And if you lived in a place you had to speak a foreign tongue, your mother tongue would rot, rot and die in your mouth until you had to spit it out. I thought I spit it out but overnight while I dream,

w/c 20.08.20

Evidence By Wendy Cope (2012)

“A great deal of anecdotal evidence suggests that we respond positively to birdsong.” – scientific researcher, Daily Telegraph, 8 February 2012

Centuries of English verse Suggest the selfsame thing: A negative response is rare When birds are heard to sing.

What’s the use of poetry? You ask. Well, here’s a start: It’s anecdotal evidence About the human heart.

w/c 17.09.2

You Should Know By The Kindness Of A Dog by Don Van Vliet

You should know by the kindness of a dog The way a human should be You should feel the wet wood heart of the tree Wood sap pop like a frog's eye Open to the fly & the blood of the river When it ripples & clicks like a waterbell & the elephant in his beautiful grey leather suit Though he's wrinkled he looks smart as hell & the turtle's eyes carry bags very well & the snake's in shape He rattles like a baby & wears his diamonds Better than a fine ladies finger & his fangs are no more dangerous Than her slow aristocratic poison And he plays his games on a grass bed & a monkey never had a guilty situation & a monkey wouldn't steal another's creation And the fatman cries thru-out the nation 'cause he's got uh cold & the icebear dives thru blue zero for a frozen fish & the eskimo wears his hide & chews his heart & the beautiful grey whale oils some smoker’s lighter Someday I'll have money & I can frame myself What a picture - I'll be choppin' down a tree

w/c 24.09.20

Strange Days – a song by The Struts and Robbie Williams

When you stumble and fall, get yourself off the ground Play your favourite song and sing it out loud Take a deep breath and in time you'll begin to smile Listen to the wind, it's the sweetest of sounds Smilin' at the stranger on the underground Every little thing that you do goes a long, long way

But we don't talk about it But isn't it good to be down here alive? Something money could never buy It's worth more than a million roses

Oh, these are strange days In many strange ways Science fiction, I believe Has become reality Oh, these are strange times Lost in our minds We don't know, it's unclear Where we'll be this time next year

Oh, strange days Strange days

Girls and boys are rushing to be on show What's the hurry children? You're forgetting to grow Make the best of where you begin in this crazy world So let's talk about it I know you sometimes hate the way that you feel Life's rough but that makes you real, oh It's worth more than a million roses

Oh, these are strange days In many strange ways A message to outer space Send help 'cause we lost our way Oh, these are strange times Lost in our minds We're standing by, we can't grow Inside of this TV show

Oh, strange days, oh Strange days

Oh, strange days, oh Strange days Strange days

Source: LyricFind Songwriters: Adam Slack / Gethin Davies / Jed Elliott / Jon Levine / Luke Spiller Strange Days lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

w/c 15.10.20

Praise Song for the Day by Elizabeth Alexander a poem for Barack Obama’s presidential inauguration

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each other’s eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere, with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum, with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus. A farmer considers the changing sky. A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of some one and then others, who said I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road. We need to find a place where we are safe. We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign, the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself, others by first do no harm or take no more than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national, love that casts a widening pool of light, love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, any thing can be made, any sentence begun. On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp, praise song for walking forward in that light.

w/c 22.10.20

And Bob Dylan Too by Mary Oliver

“Anything worth thinking about is worth singing about.”

Which is why we have songs of praise, songs of love, songs of sorrow.

Songs to the gods, who have so many names.

Songs the shepherds sing, on the lonely mountains, while the sheep are honouring the grass, by eating it.

The dance-songs of the bees, to tell where the flowers, suddenly, in the morning light, have opened.

A chorus of many, shouting to Heaven, or at it, or pleading.

Or that greatest of love affairs, a violin and a human body.

And a composer, maybe hundreds of years dead.

I think of Schubert, scribbling on a cafe napkin.

Thank you, thank you.

w/c 29.10.20

When Autumn Came by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

This is the way that autumn came to the trees: it stripped them down to the skin, left their ebony bodies naked. It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves, scattered them over the ground. Anyone could trample them out of shape undisturbed by a single moan of protest.

The birds that herald dreams were exiled from their song, each voice torn out of its throat. They dropped into the dust even before the hunter strung his bow.

Oh, God of May have mercy. Bless these withered bodies with the passion of your resurrection; make their dead veins flow with blood again.

Give some tree the gift of green again. Let one bird sing.

w/c 05.11.20

The Index by Rena Priest

In the beginning there was darkness, then a bunch of other stuff—and lots of people. Some things were said and loosely interpreted, or maybe things were not communicated clearly. Regardless—there has always been an index. That thing about the meek—how we shall inherit the earth; that was a promise made in a treaty at the dawn of time agreed upon in primordial darkness and documented in the spiritual record. The nature of the agreement was thus: The world will seemingly be pushed past capacity.

A new planet will be “discovered” 31 light-years away. Space travel will advance rapidly, making the journey feasible. The ice sheets will melt.

Things will get ugly. The only way to leave will be to buy a ticket. Tickets will be priced at exactly the amount that can be accrued by abandoning basic humanity. The index will show how you came by your fortune: If you murdered, trafficked or exploited the vulnerable, stole, embezzled, poisoned, cheated, swindled, or otherwise subdued nature to come by wealth great enough to afford passage to the new earth; if your ancestors did these things and you’ve done nothing to benefit from their crimes yet do nothing to atone through returning inherited wealth to the greater good you shall be granted passage. It was agreed. The meek shall stay, the powerful shall leave. And it all shall start again.

The meek shall inherit the earth, and what shall we do with it, but set about putting aside our meekness?

w/c 12.11.20

I am by Dave Corbin, Equality and Diversity Manager

I’ve sometimes thought I was an imposter A voice of knowledge with no substance That somehow my life experiences Where nothing but a ride on a roller coaster

Black History Month reminds me that it’s been real Then many faces and places come to mind They move me to a position of thoughtfulness When I understand how and why I feel

My soul and body are laid bare Where people passing can see through me With no place to hide or shelter for cover Many see me and say nothing, but glare

The challenge is to find a way to smile To outwardly display strength and dignity While all the time you’re dying slowly inside Knowing that you have to go that extra mile

I’m thankful for those who want to rally Not denying what’s happening now or in the past Wanting to change the modern narrative And become an anti-racism Ally

w/c 19.11.20

BeheMoth

Mighty Moth Or is it Flighty Moth? I think You think You’re Stirling Moth.

But I will Catch You And Disptach You: Clap hands two And Splat goes You Full Stop.

Dirty stain upon my palm I wouldn’t cause You any harm. Your destination Is reincarnation You’ll re-emerge a TIGER MOTH!

w/c 25.11.20

In the Time of Quiet by Philippa Atkin

No one’s told the daffodils about the pause to Spring And no one’s told the birds to roost and asked them not to sing No one’s asked the lazy bee to cease his bumbling round And no one’s stopped the bright green shoots emerging through the ground

No one’s told the sap to rest, deep within the wood And stop the sleepy trees from waking, wreathed about in bud No one’s told the sky to douse its brightest shades of blue And stop the scudding clouds from puffing headlong into view

No one’s asked the lambs to still the springs beneath their feet, To stop their rapid rush and quell each joyful bleat No one’s told the stream to halt its gurgle or its flow And warned the playful breezes, not to gust and blow No one’s asked the raindrops not to fall upon the earth And fail to quench the soil in the season of rebirth

No one’s locked the sun down, or dimmed the shimmer of the moon And even in the darkest night, the stars are still immune

Remember what you value, remember who is dear Close the doors to danger and keep your family near

In the quiet all around us take the time to sit and stare And wonder at the glory unfurling everywhere

Look towards the future, after the ordeal And keep faith in Mother Nature’s power and will to heal.

w/c 03.12.20

Lost by Sally Deacon

I have many pairs of glasses I’ve reached that awful stage Where reading is too hard without them- it’s my age

Sadly I can’t find them They travel ‘round the flat Like seaweed on the moving swell Or tide of books and tat

Suddenly I’ll find some pairs Snuggled, cosy in a nook Perhaps they’re having story-time From that lost, forgotten book.

I wish I put them somewhere safe When I turn in for bed WHY can’t I find my glasses?! Oh… they’re on my head!

w/c 10.12.20

Words are Birds by Francisco X. Alarcón words are birds that arrive with books and spring they love clouds the wind and trees some words are messengers that come from far away from distant lands for them there are no borders only stars moon and sun some words are familiar like canaries others are exotic like the quetzal bird some can stand the cold others migrate with the sun to the south some words die caged— they're difficult

to translate and others build nests have chicks warm them feed them teach them how to fly and one day they go away in flocks the letters on this page are the prints they leave by the sea

w/c 17.12.20

Isolation by John Lennon

People say we got it made. Don't they know we're so afraid? Isolation.

We're afraid to be alone, everybody got to have a home. Isolation.

Just a boy and a little girl, trying to change the whole wide world. Isolation.

The world is just a little town, everybody trying to put us down. Isolation.

I don't expect you to understand, after you've caused so much pain. But then again, you're not to blame. You're just a human, a victim of the insane.

We're afraid of everyone, Afraid of the sun. Isolation

The sun will never disappear, but the world may not have many years. Isolation.

Safe Sounds by Carol Ann Duffy

You like safe sounds: the dogs lapping at their bowls; the pop of a cork on a bottle of plonk as your mother cooks; the Match of the Day theme tune and Doctor Who-oo-oo.

Safe sounds: your name called, two happy syllables from the bottom to the top of the house; your daft ring tone; the low gargle of hot water in bubbles. Half asleep in the drifting boat of your bed, you like to hear the big trees

w/c 21.12.20

Da Neigt sich die Stunde und ruhrt mich an ‘The hour draws to a close and touches me’ by Rainer Maria Rilke

The hour is striking so close above me, so clear and sharp, that all my senses ring with it. I feel it now: there’s a power in me to grasp and give shape to my world.

I know that nothing has ever been real without my beholding it. All becoming has needed me. My looking ripens things and they come toward me, to meet and be met.

w/c 30.12.20

A House Called Tomorrow by Alberto Ríos - 1952-

You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen— You are a hundred wild centuries

And fifteen, bringing with you In every breath and in every step

Everyone who has come before you, All the yous that you have been,

The mothers of your mother, The fathers of your father.

If someone in your family tree was trouble, A hundred were not:

The bad do not win—not finally, No matter how loud they are.

We simply would not be here If that were so.

You are made, fundamentally, from the good. With this knowledge, you never march alone.

You are the breaking news of the century. You are the good who has come forward

Through it all, even if so many days Feel otherwise. But think:

When you as a child learned to speak, It’s not that you didn’t know words—

It’s that, from the centuries, you knew so many, And it’s hard to choose the words that will be your own.

From those centuries we human beings bring with us The simple solutions and songs, The river bridges and star charts and song harmonies All in service to a simple idea:

That we can make a house called tomorrow. What we bring, finally, into the new day, every day,

Is ourselves. And that’s all we need To start. That’s everything we require to keep going.

Look back only for as long as you must, Then go forward into the history you will make.

Be good, then better. Write books. Cure disease. Make us proud. Make yourself proud.

And those who came before you? When you hear thunder, Hear it as their applause.

w/c 07.01.21

They said the world was closed today by Peter D Hehir

They said the world was closed today So I went to have a look, I found it with the shutters down And the phone was off the hook. So I stood there for a little while But no one was around, Then silence came and startled me With the most alarming sound. I asked him where the others were, And why the streets were bare, He whispered ‘Life had ran away While death was playing there’ ‘Oh no’ I said ‘It can’t be true For life is not afraid’ ‘But no one ever goes’ he said ‘Where death has ever played.’ I understood and walked away As Hope was standing there With Courage in her afterglow And the sunlight in her hair. She said ‘Go home to those you love This is no place to be, For if we walk these streets today Then no one shall be free’. She threw her light to lead the way And showed me where to go, The very road that life had gone Where the future flowers grow. Then death showed me another way But I didn’t want to look, So I stumbled home in time for tea And I read another book. It was called The World is Closed Today And the streets we shouldn’t roam, The first line said ‘Just please be safe’ And the ending - ‘Stay at Home’ stay safe.

w/c 14.01.21

The long bench by Jim Carruth

For the times ahead when we will be as if at either end of the long bench where distance kept is love’s measure and death dances the space between when words alone are not enough and queued memories reach out to touch let longing be a store of nut and seed that grows each day in strange hibernation readying for its end – the sharing of the feast

w/c 21.01.21

Insha’Allah by Danusha Laméris

I don’t know when it slipped into my speech that soft word meaning, “if God wills it.” Insha’Allah I will see you next summer. The baby will come in spring, insha’Allah. Insha’Allah this year we will have enough rain.

So many plans I’ve laid have unraveled easily as braids beneath my mother’s quick fingers.

Every language must have a word for this. A word our grandmothers uttered under their breath as they pinned the whites, soaked in lemon, hung them to dry in the sun, or peeled potatoes, dropping the discarded skins into a bowl.

Our sons will return next month, insha’Allah. Insha’Allah this war will end, soon. Insha’Allah the rice will be enough to last through winter.

How lightly we learn to hold hope, as if it were an animal that could turn around and bite your hand. And still we carry it the way a mother would, carefully, from one day to the next.

w/c 28.01.21

The Way It is by Rosemary Wahtol Trommer

Over and over we break open, we break and we break and we open. For a while, we try to fix the vessel—as if to be broken is bad. As if with glue and tape and a steady hand we might bring things to perfect again. As if they were ever perfect. As if to be broken is not also perfect. As if to be open is not the path toward joy.

The vase that’s been shattered and cracked will never hold water. Eventually it will leak. And at some point, perhaps, we decide that we’re done with picking our flowers anyway, and no longer need a place to contain them We watch them grow just as wildflowers do—unfenced, unmanaged, blossoming only when they’re ready—and my, how beautiful they are amidst the mounting pile of shards.

w/c 04.02.21

February by Margaret Atwood

Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead. If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am He’ll think of something. He settles on my chest, breathing his breath of burped-up meat and musty sofas, purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat, not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door, declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory, which are what will finish us off in the long run. Some cat owners around here should snip a few testicles. If we wise hominids were sensible, we’d do that too, or eat our young, like sharks. But it’s love that does us in. Over and over again, He shoots, he scores! and famine crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits thirty below, and pollution pours out of our chimneys to keep us warm. February, month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre. I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries with a splash of vinegar. Cat, enough of your greedy whining and your small pink bumhole. Off my face! You’re the life principle, more or less, so get going on a little optimism around here. Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring

w/c 11.02.21

If Feeling Isn't In It By John Brehm

Dogs will also lick your face if you let them. Their bodies will shiver with happiness. A simple walk in the park is just about the height of contentment for them, followed by a bowl of food, a bowl of water, a place to curl up and sleep. Someone to scratch them where they can't reach and smooth their foreheads and talk to them. Dogs also have a natural dislike of mailmen and other bringers of bad news and will bite them on your behalf. Dogs can smell fear and also love with perfect accuracy. There is no use pretending with them. Nor do they pretend. If a dog is happy or sad or nervous or bored or ashamed or sunk in contemplation, everybody knows it. They make no secret of themselves. You can even tell what they're dreaming about by the way their legs jerk and try to run on the slippery ground of sleep. Nor are they given to pretentious self-importance. They don't try to impress you with how serious or sensitive they are. They just feel everything full blast. Everything is off the charts with them. More than once I've seen a dog waiting for its owner outside a café practically implode with worry. “Oh, God, what if she doesn't come back this time? What will I do? Who will take care of me? I loved her so much and now she's gone and I'm tied to a post surrounded by people who don't look or smell or sound like her at all.” And when she does come, what a flurry of commotion, what a chorus of yelping and cooing and leaps straight up into the air! It's almost unbearable, this sudden fullness after such total loss, to see the world made whole again by a hand on the shoulder and a voice like no other. w/c 25.02.21

One More Time by Greg Delanty call the Earth female, as of old. She needs to be placed pronto in the recovery position, gently hold her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow, hand above the head, palm facing down – waving goodbye or hello?

Set the right arm straight and in line with her side. Quickly tuck the left foot up against the right knee. Watch for a sign of breathing. Don’t forget to clear out the mouth, airways. She may need the kiss of life. She’ll recover for sure. Only without us maybe. Who then will tell her we miss her? Who then will tell her how dear she is?

w/c 04.03.21

Two poems this week - one from Tony Hollick via Captain Beefheart and one following the sad death of a London peacock called Kevin, caught by the foxes; in its way a tribute to all the actors and entertainers who have kept us ticking over during lockdown.

RIP Kevin by Bruce Bennett “Peacock who became a London lockdown symbol of hope is killed by foxes” —The Washington Post

Let’s hear it for Kevin, a bird who was cool! He made things much better for kids at the school. He preened and he strutted. He knew what to do To keep people happy. Adults loved him too. But think of what happens when someone’s too good. Some predator hates him and creeps from some wood And stalks him and gets him sometime in the night. Poor creatures like Kevin are not born to fight. They’re born to show off and with feathers galore Teach love-stricken gawkers what Beauty is for. Delighting in excess and high on display, Their every small gesture will brighten one’s day, And that’s why they’re hated by those who hate joy; Whose motives are malice; who live to destroy; Who cannot stand actors who help others cope And drive away sorrow by giving folks hope! So, Kevin, please know as you strut in the sky, We love you and miss you. This isn’t Goodbye. You’ll live in our hearts. You will not disappear. Tail-up and triumphant, you’ll always be here!

"The Past Sure Is Tense" by Don van Vliet

The past sure is tense They're heading up for the main event All those people seem to be hell-bent See those people up on top of the fence And the man down there Selling knotholes through the fence The little shoe generation man

I found your print on a dollar bill I found your print on an Indian mound I found your print on the statue at the sound I found your print on the elephant ground I found your print in the beautiful mountains The grass no longer grew around I found your print in my mind

The past sure is tense No you got the wrong idea No you got the wrong intent The carpenter carpenterized my vent The only peephole Where is my dent The past sure is tense The past sure is now I don't see how See those people that used to Throw those tents You can't see them now They're in past tense The past sure is tense

w/c 11.03.21

The Laughter Of Women by Lisel Mueller

The laughter of women sets fire to the Halls of Injustice and the false evidence burns to a beautiful white lightness

It rattles the Chambers of Congress and forces the windows wide open so the fatuous speeches can fly out

The laughter of women wipes the mist from the spectacles of the old; it infects them with a happy flu and they laugh as if they were young again

Prisoners held in underground cells imagine that they see daylight when they remember the laughter of women

It runs across water that divides, and reconciles two unfriendly shores like flares that signal the news to each other

What a language it is, the laughter of women, high-flying and subversive. Long before law and scripture we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.

w/c 18.03.21

‘Overwhelmed’ by Marjorie Pizer

When I feel overwhelmed by destruction, Let me go down to the sea. Let me sit by the immeasurable ocean And watch the surf Beating in and running out all day and all night. Let me sit by the sea And have the bitter sea winds Slap my cheeks with their cold, damp hands Until I am sensible again. Let me look at the sky at night And let the stars tell me Of limitless horizons and unknown universes Until I am grown calm and strong once more.

w/c 25.03.21

After the Winter Rain by Ina Coolbrith

After the winter rain, Sing, robin! Sing, swallow! Grasses are in the lane, Buds and flowers will follow.

Woods shall ring, blithe and gay, With bird-trill and twitter, Though the skies weep to-day, And the winds are bitter.

Though deep call unto deep As calls the thunder, And white the billows leap The tempest under;

Softly the waves shall come Up the long, bright beaches, With dainty, flowers of foam And tenderest speeches…

After the wintry pain, And the long, long sorrow, Sing, heart!—for thee again Joy comes with the morrow.

w/c 01.04.21

Thanks to colleague, Pete Brown, for this poem and his comment below …

What is life?

It is the flash of a firefly in the night.

It is the breath of a buffalo in the winter time.

It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

It’s only a few lines but after reading it I bet the image in your mind is a whole lot more pleasant than face masks, hand sanitiser and grumpy shoppers queuing for toilet rolls!

w/c 08.04.21

Coming by Philip Larkin

On longer evenings, Light, chill and yellow, Bathes the serene Foreheads of houses. A thrush sings, Laurel-surrounded In the deep bare garden, Its fresh-peeled voice Astonishing the brickwork. It will be spring soon, It will be spring soon— And I, whose childhood Is a forgotten boredom, Feel like a child Who comes on a scene Of adult reconciling, And can understand nothing But the unusual laughter, And starts to be happy.

w/c 15.04.21

Yorkshire Pudding Rules by Ian McMillan

The tin must not gleam. Must never be new. If there is dried sweat somewhere in its metal It must be your mother’s. The flour must be strong And white as the face of Uncle Jack When he came back from the desert. The eggs Must come from an allotment. The allotment Must belong to your father-in-law. The eggs have to be broken With one swift movement over the bowl. If there is dried sweat somewhere in its Pyrex It must be your mother’s. The milk Must have been delivered by Colin Leech At 0430. The fork has to be an old one. The wrist Must, simply must, ache after the mixing. The flour must introduce itself to the yolk of the egg. The egg has to be allowed to talk to the flour. The milk must dance with them both: foxtrot, then quickstep. The pepper must be scattered, black on off-white. The oven has to be hotter than ever. The lard has to come in a tight white pack. The lard must almost catch fire in the oven. The oven door must open and you must shout FLIPPIN’ HECK as the heat smacks you in the chops. Follow these rules And the puddings will rise to heaven And far beyond.

This poem was suggested by staff member, Julie Atkin, who says, “… it’s about Yorkshire pudding rules. I think it’s great fun – we all have our unwritten rules for the best possible results in all sorts of aspects of our lives.” (Julie and Mike have changed a phrase in the poem. If you want the original the poem can be found on the web).

w/c 22.04.21

Football at Slack by Ted Hughes (1977)

Between plunging valleys, on a bareback of hill Men in bunting colours Bounced, and their blown ball bounced.

The blown ball jumped, and the merry-coloured men Spouted like water to head it. The ball blew away downwind –

The rubbery men bounced after it. The ball jumped up and out and hung in the wind Over a gulf of treetops. Then they all shouted together, and the blown ball blew back.

Winds from fiery holes in heaven Piled the hills darkening around them To awe them. The glare light Mixed its mad oils and threw glooms. Then the rain lowered a steel press.

Hair plastered, they all just trod water To puddle glitter. And their shouts bobbed up Coming fine and thin, washed and happy

While the humped world sank foundering And the valleys blued unthinkable Under the depth of Atlantic depression –

But the wingers leapt, they bicycled in air And the goalie flew horizontal

And once again a golden holocaust Lifted the cloud’s edge, to watch them.

w/c 29.04.21

Wild Geese by 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 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 mountain 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.

(sent in by Kerry Pocock, Staff Wellbeing Coach)

w/c 06.05.21

Never trouble trouble by David Keppel

Never trouble trouble Until trouble troubles you, For you’ll only make your trouble Double trouble when you do And the trouble – like a bubble That you’re troubling about, May be nothing but a zero With its rim rubbed out.

This poem was submitted by staff member, Caroline Tribe, and was given her when she was 10 by Mr Sheppard, Head Teacher of Pokesdown Infant School.

Soundtrack To My Morning by Heather Emerton (member of staff)

Dawn arises, silence is golden Birds are starting to wake The sky so dark erupts in colour Indigo, violet and pink Boiler rumbles, then gurgles, then bangs Settles to a monotonous hum Hot water and heat…

Phone alarm goes off, want it to stop “Just 5 more minutes” snooze Enough’s enough, time to get up Click the switch, too bright light Groan, the rustle of duvets thrown “What days today?” “School day” I say More groans…

Creak of stairs, cat’s tail unawares “YEEOWW” and hiss and spit The toaster pop, no time to stop Crunch of teeth on toast Microwave ping, Ready Brek ready Cupboard door slam and clink of mugs Fizz as coffee granules evaporate… Shower pours, reflecting out of doors

Umbrellas at the ready Slam of drawers, “Where’s my clean shirt?” Sighs and rolling of eyes “Get dressed” I say for the hundredth time today Gentle hum of toothbrushes polishing teeth And Justin’s on the telly…. Again!

w/c 20.05.21

Words are windows (or they're walls) by Ruth Bebermeyer

I feel so sentenced by your words, I feel so judged and sent away, Before I go I've got to know, Is that what you mean to say?

Before I rise to my defence, Before I speak in hurt or fear, Before I build that wall of words, Tell me, did I really hear?

Words are windows, or they're walls, They sentence us, or set us free. When I speak and when I hear, Let the love light shine through me.

There are things I need to say, Things that mean so much to me, If my words don't make me clear, Will you help me to be free?

If I seemed to put you down, If you felt I didn't care, Try to listen through my words, To the feelings that we share.

This poem was submitted by staff member, Theresa Cochrane, who added, “I've always loved poetry, it seems to be able to evoke awareness of our experiences and emotions in a way that other prose cannot. Here is a poem that reminds me of the importance of our words, judgements and compassion.”

Communication is the Key By Kaz Hammi

Communication is the key The answer to all thoughts which flee, Some try to run and hide away It's much simpler to think and say

If you're sorry then say you care

Explain your thoughts and why they're there If you love them then voice your mind; Communication to be kind

So many words run round our head Spoken wisely they're put to bed, So many thoughts bounce mind to heart Voice them carefully, let them part

Blessed we were with words to say Blessed to make things feel ok

Blessed to have such precious time Blessed to voice our wondrous minds

Time seems short in this fast paced life Waste no time, we've no time for strife Careful wording could help a lot To voice those thoughts your mind can't stop

This poem was submitted by Rachel Ings, Business & Service Improvement Support Manager with the Paediatric Speech and Language Therapy Service – after sharing it with her team, who all loved it.

w/c 27.05.21

WE will be Recognised by Gina Broadbent (member of staff)

WILL YOU RECOGNISE US WHEN THIS IS OVER NO LONGER HID BEHIND A MASK EMOTIONS CLEARLY VISIBLE SHOWING STRAINS OF WHAT HAS PASSED

WILL YOU RECOGNISE US WHEN THIS IS OVER AS THE ONES WHO HELD YOU’RE HAND WE TOO WERE SCARED AND FRIGHTENED AS COVID TOOK COMMAND

WILL YOU RECOGNISE US WHEN THIS IS OVER FOR ALL THE TIMES WEVE FELT UNSURE STRUGGLING TO WORK IN FULL PPE WISHING WE COULD DO MUCH MORE

WILL YOU RECOGNISE US WHEN THIS IS OVER STAFF EACH AND EVERYONE MAINTAINING SUCH HIGH STANDARDS ITS BEEN TOUGH AND NOT MUCH FUN

WILL YOU RECOGNISE US WHEN THIS IS OVER FOR ALL THAT WE HAVE DONE TO HELP SUPPORT THE NHS THIS WAR IS NEARLY WON….

w/c 10.06.21

The British Summer by Linda Plumley

July came And so did the rain We searched for the sun But in vain.

Each day we hoped But it was folly For we ended up Huddled under a brolly.

We didn’t follow the weather forecast Rain, rain, rain, We knew it would last.

August came We woke up surprised At the colour of the sky. It was blue and the sun shone through It took some time to accustomize To what we saw with our eyes.

Out went the brolly and winter clothes In came the shorts as the temperature rose And rose and rose, and rose.

To the beaches we went, to have a swim Cold drinks, ice cream and everything. But we got hot so we needed some shade So a large beach brolley was hailed.

Thus one thing about summer I ‘ve thought You always need brollies of some sort.

My wellbeing day by Jan O’Donovan, Mental Health Support Worker with West Dorset CAMHS (member of staff)

What did I do on my wellbeing day?

I went for walk along Wareham way

Past the Old Granary with its red bricks so proud

Stopping for lunch away from the crowd.

Watching the ducks as they floated on by,

Past the swans swimming with heads held high

The trees rustling their leaves in the gentle breeze

The pollen from the flowers making me sneeze

Then on to Corfe Castle the ruins standing tall

On top of the hill making me feel so small

We set off for home, the day was just fun

The memory now made of our day in the sun.

w/c 17.06.21

Freedom by Olive Runner

Give me the long, straight road before me, __A clear, cold day with a nipping air, Tall, bare trees to run on beside me, __A heart that is light and free from care. Then let me go! – I care not whither __My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be Free as the brook that flows to the river, __Free as the river that flows to the sea.

How to do Absolutely Nothing By Barbara Kingsolver

Rent a house near the beach, or a cabin but: Do not take your walking shoes. Don’t take any clothes you’d wear anyplace anyone would see you. Don’t take your rechargeables. Take Scrabble if you have to, but not a dictionary and no pencils for keeping score. Don’t take a cookbook or anything to cook. A fishing pole, ok but not the line, hook, sinker, leave it all. Find out what’s left.

(both of the above poems were sent in by staff member, Dorothy McConnell)

w/c 24.06.21

Thistles by Ted Hughes

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men Thistles spike the summer air And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst Of resurrection, a grasped fistful Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking. They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects. Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men. Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

w/c 01.07.21

Tennis

I want to write a poem about tennis I have to think in very short spaces Cos the ball keeps coming back at me Just when I thought I’d got rid of it

What words could I use? Court, ball, net Not there yet Bounce, thwack!

Bounce, thwack!

Lob, volley, first serve, second serve, dropped serve, Ace!

Love, love-all, set to love, straights sets, strawberries, Andy Murray.

Bounce, thwack!

What rhymes with ‘Tennis’? Dennis. Where does that take me? Fire Engines . Gnasher. What rhymes with ‘racquet’? Packet. Whacket – oh here’s that ball again. Smash. ‘For mash get smash’.

Tennis begins with a ball and a racquet and ends up With have Dennis the Menace, in a fire engine eating Cadbury’s Smash with Gnasher his dog, all dressed in white.

I wonder what other people think when they are watching Wimbledon?

(this poem was the fruit of a poetry group at St Ann’s Hospital some years back)

w/c 08.07.21

Everything Needs Fixing by Karla Cordero in your thirties everything needs fixing. i bought a toolbox for this. filled it with equipment my father once owned to keep our home from crumbling. i purchased tools with names & functions unknown to me. how they sat there on their shelf in plastic packaging with price tags screaming: hey lady, you need this! like one day i could give my home & everything living inside it the gift of immortality, to be a historical monument the neighbor’s would line up to visit even after i’m gone & shout: damn that’s a nice house! i own a drill now, with hundreds & hundreds of metal pieces i probably won’t use or use in the wrong ways but what i’m certain of, is still, the uncertainty of which tools repair the aging dog, the wilting snake plant, the crow’s feet under my eyes, the stiff knee or bad back. & maybe this is how it is—how parts of our small universe dissolve like sugar cubes in water—a calling to ask us to slow our busy breathing so we can marvel at its magic. because even the best box of nails are capable of rust. because when i was a child i dropped a cookie jar in the shape of noah’s ark, a family heirloom that shattered to pieces. the animals broke free, zebras ran under the kitchen table, the fractured lion roared by the front door & out of the tool cabinet i snagged duck tape & ceramic glue. pieced each beast back to their intended journey. because that afternoon when my father returned from work i confessed & he sat the jar on the counter only to fill it with pastries. how the cracks of imperfection mended by my hands laid jagged. chipped paint sliced across a rhino’s neck. every wild animal lined up against the boat— & a flood of sweet confections waiting inside.

w/c 15.07.21

Instructions For Growing Poetry by Tony Mitton

Shut your eyes. Open your mind. Look inside. What do you find? Something funny? Something sad? Something beautiful, mysterious, mad? Open your ears. Listen well. A word or phrase begins to swell? Catch its rhythm, hold its sound. Gently, slowly roll it round. Does it please you? Does it tease you? Does it ask to grow and spread? Now those little words are sprouting poetry inside your head.

w/c 22.07.21 The Blind Man and the Elephant by John Godfrey Saxe

It was six men of Indostan, to learning much inclined, who went to see the elephant (Though all of them were blind), that each by observation, might satisfy his mind.

The first approached the elephant, and, happening to fall, against his broad and sturdy side, at once began to bawl: "God bless me! but the elephant, is nothing but a wall!"

The second feeling of the tusk, cried: "Ho! what have we here, so very round and smooth and sharp? To me tis mighty clear, this wonder of an elephant, is very like a spear!"

The third approached the animal, and, happening to take, the squirming trunk within his hands, "I see," quoth he, the elephant is very like a snake!"

The fourth reached out his eager hand, and felt about the knee: "What most this wondrous beast is like, is mighty plain," quoth he; "Tis clear enough the elephant is very like a tree."

The fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said; "E'en the blindest man can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an elephant, is very like a fan!"

The sixth no sooner had begun, about the beast to grope, than, seizing on the swinging tail, that fell within his scope, "I see," quothe he, "the elephant is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan, disputed loud and long, each in his own opinion, exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, and all were in the wrong!

So, oft in theologic wars, the disputants, I ween, tread on in utter ignorance, of what each other mean, and prate about the elephant, not one of them has seen!

(Thanks to colleague Andy Clark for this poem. Andy wrote, “‘I recently found this poem/parable which reminds me to see things from other people’s perspectives. I think it has an interpretation for our clinical practice because we all may encounter a certain situation at work and build our own truth and interpretation, and at times we may blind ourselves to the interpretation and truth of others.”)

w/c 22.07.21

The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Thanks to colleague, Tim Hicks, who suggested this poem.

Tim writes:

‘The observation in the poem that the worst are full of encouragement whilst the best lack all conviction really stings - and so it should. We should not naturalise and celebrate the desire traps of power - great or small. We need to be mindful of such traps and the effects that they can have on each other for whom we have responsibility. This poem is a warning.’

w/c 05.08.21

An Obstacle by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

I was climbing up a mountain-path Then I flew into a passion, With many things to do, and I danced and howled and swore. Important business of my own, I pelted and belabored him And other people's too, Till I was stiff and sore; When I ran against a Prejudice He got as mad as I did -- That quite cut off the view. But he sat there as before.

My work was such as could not wait, And then I begged him on my knees; My path quite clearly showed, I might be kneeling still My strength and time were limited, If so I hoped to move that mass I carried quite a load; Of obdurate ill-will -- And there that hulking Prejudice As well invite the monument Sat all across the road. To vacate Bunker Hill!

So I spoke to him politely, So I sat before him helpess, For he was huge and high, In an ecstasy of woe -- And begged that he would move a bit The mountain mists were rising fast, And let me travel by. The sun was sinking slow -- He smiled, but as for moving! -- When a sudden inspiration came, He didn't even try. As sudden winds do blow.

And then I reasoned quietly I took my hat, I took my stick, With that colossal mule: My load I settled fair, My time was short -- no other path -- I approached that awful incubus The mountain winds were cool. With an absent-minded air -- I argued like a Solomon; And I walked directly through him, He sat there like a fool. As if he wasn't there!

Thanks to colleague, Vikki Pavey, who suggested this poem.

Vikki writes:

‘This is a favourite of mine which I keep coming back to when facing challenges in life.’

w/c 12.08.21

Russian Doll by Rachel Rooney

All you see is outside me: my painted smile, the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes. A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me

But inside there’s another me, bored till playtime. The wasting paper, daytime dreamer. A can’t-be-bothered-sort-of me.

And inside there’s another me, full of cheek. The quick, slick joker with a poking tongue. A class-clown-funny-one-of me

And inside there’s another me who’s smaller, scared. The scurrying, worrying, yes miss whisperer. A wouldn’t-say-boo-to-a-goosey me

And inside there’s another me, all cross and bothered. The scowling hot-head, stamping feet. A didn’t-do-it-blameless me.

And inside there’s another me, forever jealous who never gets enough, compared. A grass-is-always-greener me.

And deepest down, kept secretly a tiny, solid skittle doll. The girl that hides inside of me.

w/c 26.08.21

Miracle On St David’s Day by Gillian Clarke

All you need to know about this poem is that it is a true story. It happened in the ’70s, and it took me years to find a way to write the poem.

‘They flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude’ (from ‘The Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth)

An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed with daffodils. The sun treads the path among cedars and enormous oaks. It might be a country house, guests strolling, the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.

I am reading poetry to the insane. An old woman, interrupting, offers as many buckets of coal as I need. A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic on a good day, they tell me later. In a cage of first March sun a woman sits not listening, not feeling. In her neat clothes the woman is absent. A big, mild man is tenderly led to his chair. He has never spoken. His labourer’s hands on his knees, he rocks gently to the rhythms of the poems. I read to their presences, absences, to the big, dumb labouring man as he rocks.

He is suddenly standing, silently, huge and mild, but I feel afraid. Like slow movement of spring water or the first bird of the year in the breaking darkness, the labourer’s voice recites ‘The Daffodils’.

The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect. Outside the daffodils are still as wax,

a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables unspoken, their creams and yellows still.

Forty years ago, in a Valleys school, the class recited poetry by rote. Since the dumbness of misery fell he has remembered there was a music of speech and that once he had something to say.

When he’s done, before the applause, we observe the flowers’ silence. A thrush sings and the daffodils are flame.

Many thanks to colleague, Melanie Wyles, for this lovely poem from Gillian Clarke. The poem uses language describing experiences in mental health care which we wouldn’t use anymore – the poem was written about an event that took place in the 1970’s in a mental health hospital. This link gives you the opportunity to hear the poem read by the writer and she explains some of the context and use of language.

w/c 26.08.21

And if I speak of Paradise, then I’m speaking of my grandmother who told me to carry it always on my person, concealed, so no one else would know but me. That way they can’t steal it, she’d say. And if life puts you under pressure, trace its ridges in your pocket, smell its piney scent on your handkerchief, hum its anthem under your breath. And if your stresses are sustained and daily, get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel, hostel or hovel – find a lamp and empty your paradise onto a desk: your white sands, green hills and fresh fish. Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.

Whatever paradise is, it’s a motivator for sure. Grandmothers, and grandfathers I guess, throughout time have known that and set their families off into a world they won’t see with a quest to bring that vision to life. Most of us would probably temper the term a little and settle, with Maslow, for the baseline of warmth, food and shelter with the occasional peak experience…At the moment we are seeing a world on the move, we have seen Syrian, Sudanese, Albanian and now Afghan people among many others forced to leave their homes and culture, holding in their hearts and minds the words of their grandmothers; the hope that life can , well just be, somewhere, and that somewhere might be our shores, and that somewhere is unknown but dreamt of as a safe place even if it is empty of the people and language and easy inflections of home . This poem holds out hope that the small spaces in the imagination, the memory, the place we live, the moments in each day can be places where we keep the dream of ‘paradise’ alive. I squander such treasures in rushing on to the next thing and so doing belittle the glimpses held by the refuges who hold so tightly to those precious moments in a threatened existence. A question that is being asked of ‘the West’ is have we enough room? Not just in our land but in our imagination: that the paradise dreamt of by the grandmothers of another land might just be a gift we can receive into ours.

Rev Mike Oates, Chaplain

w/c 09.09.21

Isn’t My Name Magical? by James Berry

Nobody can see my name on me. My name is inside and all over me, unseen like other people also keep it. Isn’t my name magical?

My name is mine only. It tells me I am individual, the one special person it shakes when I’m wanted.

Even if someone else answers for me, my message hangs in the air haunting others, till it stops with me, the right name. Isn’t your name and my name magic?

If I’m with hundreds of people and my name gets called, my sound switches me on to answer like it was my human electricity.

My name echoes across the playground, it comes, it demands my attention, I have to find out who calls, who wants me for what. My name gets blurted out in class, it is terror, at a bad time, because somebody is cross.

My name gets called in a whisper, I am happy, because my name may have touched me with a loving voice. Isn’t your name and my name magic?

Our names are the border between our inner and outer worlds. How we think of ourselves is held in our name, how others do too – for most of history they have been totally sufficient and efficient in connecting us, now we rely on numbers and #. Our names are a gift of friendship and an invitation to inclusion, they are given in a risk of mispronunciation or forgetting, they carry our worth and our identity. Some of us have flexible names; I have

been, to myself, for most of my life ‘Mike’, but my best friend calls me ‘Michael’. For two years, in Preston, I was ‘Mick’. I was never sure about that but it’s what they do, in Preston.

This poem, set largely in school years where we gained our name and our identity, hints at the profound richness of offering ourselves through our name and receiving others as they encounter us through it. We don’t know this, the poem suggests, but when we share our name with others for the first time, we are giving them access to the whole of our lives – for most of us, right back to the playground.

Rev Mike Oates, Chaplain

Shibboleths Written by Melanie Ann Vance (member of staff) December 2012

Communication.

Fraught with difficulty.

One speaks the other answers.

Without understanding.

Shibboleths to destiny,

Outmoded and misunderstood.

Words framed,

But each with its own intensity and meaning,

No shared conjunction,

Simply sound.

Reverberating and tonal.

Interpretation laced with experience,

Different for each.

No mutuality, No discussion, just words.

No Communication

w/c 16.09.21

Because by Grace Shulman

Because, in a wounded universe, the tufts of grass still glisten, the first daffodil shoots up through ice-melt, and a red-tailed hawk perches on a cathedral spire; and because children toss a fire-red ball in the yard where a schoolhouse façade was scarred by vandals, and joggers still circle a dry reservoir; because a rainbow flaunts its painted ribbons and slips them somewhere underneath the earth; because in a smoky bar the trombone blares louder than street sirens, because those who can no longer speak of pain are singing; and when on this wide meadow in the park a full moon still outshines the city lights, and on returning home, below the North Star,

I see new bricks-and-glass where the Towers fell; and I remember my lover’s calloused hand soften in my hand while crab apple blossoms showered our laps, and a yellow rose opened with its satellites of orange buds, because I cannot lose the injured world without losing the world, I’ll have to praise it.

The writer of the oldest poem in English, Brother Caedmon of the 7th century, said that the purpose of poetry is to ‘praise the earth’. That’s not very far from appreciation, value and its practical application of conversation, protection and then before long we are into words like ‘sustainability’, the vehicle of our hopes for the future. This poem offers a way of threading through the everyday noises that speak of threat to find and celebrate the value.

Rev Mike Oates, Chaplain

Become! Become! Become! by John Roedel

Me: Hey God.

God: Hello.....

Me: I'm falling apart. Can you put me back together?

God: I would rather not.

Me: Why?

God: Because you aren't a puzzle.

Me: What about all of the pieces of my life that are falling down onto the ground?

God: Let them stay there for a while. They fell off for a reason. Take some time and decide if you need any of those pieces back.

Me: You don't understand! I'm breaking down!

God: No - you don't understand. You are breaking through. What you are feeling are just growing pains. You are shedding the things and the people in your life that are holding you back. You aren't falling apart. You are falling into place. Relax. Take some deep breaths and allow those things you don't need anymore to fall off of you. Quit holding onto the pieces that don't fit you anymore. Let them fall off. Let them go.

Me: Once I start doing that, what will be left of me?

God: Only the very best pieces of you.

Me: I'm scared of changing.

God: I keep telling you - YOU AREN'T CHANGING!! YOU ARE BECOMING!

Me: Becoming who?

God: Becoming who I created you to be! A person of light and love and charity and hope and courage and joy and mercy and grace and compassion. I made you for more than the shallow pieces you have decided to adorn yourself with that you cling to with such greed and fear. Let those things fall off of you. I love you! Don't change! ... Become! Become! Become who I made you to be. I'm going to keep telling you this until you remember it.

Me: There goes another piece.

God: Yep. Let it be.

Me: So ... I'm not broken?

God: Of course Not! - but you are breaking like the dawn. It's a new day. Become!!!

w/c 23.09.21

How to live with my body by John Roedel (johnroedel.com) my brain and heart divorced a decade ago over who was to blame about how big of a mess I have become eventually, they couldn't be in the same room with each other now my head and heart share custody of me

I stay with my brain during the week and my heart gets me on weekends they never speak to one another - instead, they give me the same note to pass to each other every week and their notes they send to one another always says the same thing: "This is all your fault" on Sundays my heart complains about how my head has let me down in the past and on Wednesdays my head lists all of the times my heart has screwed things up for me in the future they blame each other for the state of my life there's been a lot of yelling - and crying so, lately, I've been spending a lot of time with my gut who serves as my unofficial therapist most nights,

I sneak out of the window in my ribcage and slide down my spine and collapse on my gut's plush leather chair that's always open for me ~ and I just sit sit sit sit until the sun comes up last evening, my gut asked me if I was having a hard time being caught between my heart and my head I nodded I said I didn't know if I could live with either of them anymore

"my heart is always sad about something that happened yesterday while my head is always worried about something that may happen tomorrow," I lamented my gut squeezed my hand

"I just can't live with my mistakes of the past or my anxiety about the future," I sighed my gut smiled and said: "in that case, you should go stay with your lungs for a while,"

I was confused - the look on my face gave it away

"if you are exhausted about your heart's obsession with the fixed past and your mind's focus on the uncertain future your lungs are the perfect place for you there is no yesterday in your lungs there is no tomorrow there either there is only now there is only inhale there is only exhale there is only this moment there is only breath and in that breath you can rest while your heart and head work their relationship out." this morning, while my brain was busy reading tea leaves and while my heart was staring at old photographs I packed a little bag and walked to the door of my lungs

before I could even knock she opened the door with a smile and as a gust of air embraced me she said "what took you so long?"

Thanks today to colleague Sarah Sturman for this weeks’ poem. Sarah writes:

‘We often use breathing exercise in the pain service as a strategy which influences both body and mind, (Heart and brain). This anthropomorphising of the bodily organs creates a lovely narrative as to why the breath can be such a lovely place to rest. The accuracy of how the heart and brain operate in different ways is also insightful, I think it provides a gentle way to describe how we often think and behave in different, sometimes unhelpful ways.

Each part of us in this poem is seen through honest but kindly eyes.’

w/c 30.09.21

Its Alright By William Stafford

Someone you trusted has treated you bad. Someone has used you to vent their ill temper. Did you expect anything different? Your work--better than some others'--has languished, neglected. Or a job you tried was too hard, and you failed. Maybe weather or bad luck spoiled what you did. That grudge, held against you for years after you patched up, has flared, and you've lost a friend for a time. Things at home aren't so good; on the job your spirits have sunk. But just when the worst bears down you find a pretty bubble in your soup at noon, and outside at work a bird says, "Hi!" Slowly the sun creeps along the floor; it is coming your way. It touches your shoe.