Poem of the day

The Open Road

by Simon Barraclough

POETRY LIBRARY BY INDIA ROPER-EVANS143_yellow

Image Credit: 
INDIA ROPER-EVANS
Southbank Centre Poetry Library.Royal Festival Hall.Library, rare books, visitors
7 July

Googling Tusitala

by Selina Tusitala Marsh

6 July

Migration

by Karen Solie

5 July

The National Trust

by Ian Hamilton Finlay

4 July

Sinking Into The Solstice

by Sujata Bhatt

December fourth or fifth,

sinking into the solstice,

I’m finally beginning to enjoy

the darkness, even the Bremen blackness.

damp and rotting. and conquered

by crows whose late afternoon cries

are not hollow but fermenting with persistent ghosts.

Oh they are huge mosquitoes as they clamour,

swarming over the Burgerpark.

When I hear them I think of everything at once:

stale chapatis tossed out to whoever can get them;

pomegranates, Demeter, pine cones,

graveyards, Shakespeare, ten inches of snow,

foghorns, lighthouses, Ted Hughes,

not to mention Edgar Allan Poe and Bombay …

 

It was December fourth or fifth,

about six thirty in the morning

when I sit up thinking someone

is shining a searchlight on us

or could it be a new street lamp

just put up yesterday just outside our window?

No, no, it’s only the moon

I end up staring at, only the plump, full

moon filling up our window.

He, she, it, hermaphrodite moon,

changing its resilient sex

as it crosses over borders

from one country into another,

accomodating every language, every idea—

this chameleon moon

is laughing with white fish stuck in its

triumphant white teeth.

Only the moon laughing at me

who still wants it dark,

who still wants to sleep.

 

outside our window?

 

3 July

'That you cannot see where you tread'

by Paul Peter Piech

2 July

My Beautiful Son Cooks Me an Octopus

by Julian Stannard

by hiring a boat in the fishing village of Camogli and heading off

for the waters of Zoagli. He has his hand firmly on the tiller

and he’s telling me that one day he’s going to be a champion boxer.

 

He’s taking me to Zoagli because he wants me to see the fish.

I don’t tell him that when he was born the fish leapt clean out of the sea

nor do I tell him that when his mother was going crazy

 

the fish of Zoagli flew straight into my head and flapped.

I don’t say, Son if you could open my head and let the fish go free

I might take the day off and pretend that life was sweet.