Poem for March

The secret of flying The breakthrough is to stop thinking about aerodynamics. Concentrate on the immeasurable pleasures of floating above roofs and the open mouths of chimney pots stems of road budding houses, the rumple of fields and, beyond, the dark spot of a copse or how the river feels up into its tree-lined tributaries. …

Poem for February

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the …

Poem for January

Nest by Char March to snuggle to coorie doon to snoodle. a half-world of care. a gowpen of shoogling eggs roofed by warm breast. a weaving of twigs. eaves studded with river-mud huts. a precariousness in wind. a responsibility of worms, sand eels, gnats. a rock ledge with fifty thousand screams. the heart of a …

Poem for December

So Many Summers by Norman MacCaig Beside one loch, a hind’s neat skeleton, Beside another, a boat pulled high and dry: Two neat geometries drawn in the weather: Two things already dead and still to die. I passed them every summer, rod in hand, Skirting the bright blue or the spitting gray, And, every summer, …

Poem for November

One, Two by Kate Clanchy The camera has caught me in a church doorway, stooping to fasten what must be my old cork-soled sandals, their thick suede straps, that dry, worn grip at heel and instep. I’m smiling downwards, pinkly self-conscious, and above me the arch is an extraordinary blue. New — the whole place …

Poem for October

Rooms I remember rooms that have had their part In the steady slowing down of the heart. The room in Paris, the room at Geneva, The little damp room with the seaweed smell, And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide — Rooms where for good or for ill — things died. But there is …

Poem for September

Nightrunning So much cold even the moon can’t swallow it or the harbour in its fishy dark. You balance your breath like a bowl of dry ice. It’s all a mistake, this body, this job, this love. Somewhere inside where the heart spins hard on its string is an animal watching. It scratches at night, …