Poetry In The News



Here’s your poetry for this week:

When Did Poetry Speak to Us? When We Were Very Young

First woman to win migrant worker poetry competition

Bangladeshi construction worker’s poetry book translated to Chinese

UK Creative Writing Grad Students’ Poetry Reading to Draw on Special Collections Research

Close readings revisit European poetry

Do Politics Matter In Poetry? New Biography Explores The Case Of Ezra Pound

Carol Rumens’s best poetry books of 2017


Poem of the Week: Sonnet 97, William Shakespeare

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time remov’d was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

Not Strong


I am not a strong woman.
I seek out comfort in dark places,
Shrink back from looks on disdainful faces,
Because someone else wasn’t strong.

I am not a strong woman.
I seek out rejection
In falsified affection,
Doing right by going so very wrong.

Well, fuck you.
For all those who’ve abused my trust
Dismissed my fears, provoked tears of rust,
You heard might right. Fuck you.

Don’t ever test my strength again.


Favourite Poets: Don Paterson – The Dead

Our business is with fruit and leaf and bloom;
though they speak with more than just the season’s tongue—
the colours that they blaze from the dark loam
all have something of the jealous tang
of the dead about them. What do we know of their part
in this, those secret brothers of the harrow,
invigorators of the soil—oiling the dirt
so liberally with their essence, their black marrow?
But here’s the question. Are the flower and fruit
held out to us in love, or merely thrust
up at us, their masters, like a fist?
Or are they the lords, asleep amongst the roots,
granting to us in their great largesse
this hybrid thing—part brute force, part mute kiss?
Another beautiful poem! (When aren’t Paterson’s poems beautiful though, even when they are brutal?) Definitely one you can read through and interpret and reflect on, as well as just appreciate the artistry of these woven words. Love, love, love.



On one hand, I’m dreading the future,
Because who knows what mess I can create Out There,
But on the other, I’m not planning on making it to tomorrow,
So really, what’s the problem. Why would I even care?

On one hand, it’s all about the right decision,
Because this could be the one that’s finally right.
But on the other, it’s just so pointless,
Because I dream of the bliss of eternal sleep tonight.

On one hand, it’s just, it’s all just words.
And they have no meaning, no sense, no rhyme.
But on the other, I’m giving you everything,
And there’s no secret left that is just mine.

On one hand, it’s just, lack of better options,
And that you’re one of the only good ones left,
But on the other, who am I kidding,
I feel I am victim of theft.

Poetry In The News


Hello! Here’s your poetry in the news for this week:

Poetry Soup event raises cash for Ipswich mental health charity Inside Out Community

The Pavement Poet comes to Weymouth town centre

‘Poetry has always been a compulsion through my life’: Bina Sarkar Ellias

B.C. logger Peter Trower found solace in poetry

The 100 best nonfiction books: No 95 – Areopagitica by John Milton (1644)

Nambozo, a public speaker promoting poetry

Still avid for Ovid’s poetry, 2,000 years on