This Week's 'Poem of the Day' . . .

In honour of National Poetry Day, here are three poems from recent and forthcoming Smith/Doorstop titles, all (loosely) related to this year's NPD theme of 'home'.

WE SPEAK ENGLISH NOW

and gratefully. There's been time to read
and work and break bread together,
to translate ourselves, give ourselves strength
for what comes next. Some of us have disappeared
where we best match. Others remain distinct.
Our minds are peppered with our culture
our children's minds with what they've met.
Can new life be complete without old stories,
are there different ways to live?

— Yvonne Green, The Assay

YES BUT SOMETIMES

Yes. But sometimes I wake in the night
for a long time, it seems.
And everyone in the house is asleep
and I can't get rid of my dreams.

And the curtains are not quite still,
and lights slide across the ceiling,
and I hear the voice of my own heart.
It's a peculiar feeling.

My thoughts get more and more muddled
and I feel as if I'm falling, falling
into the dark. And I suppose I sleep —
because next thing I hear your voice calling.

— Gerard Benson, A Good Time

CAMPING AT WHITBY

Theirs was the best, the grandest tent
with windows and a vestibule, a table
where they dined by candlelight on crab
from down the steps. They made themselves
at home as if the canvas walls were solid
Yorkshire stone, laughed at each other's jokes
and tried to hide the edge of envy when they
compared their offspring's gap year jaunts.
We huddled with our ordinary kids,
shared fish and chips, a sleeping bag
with one who'd peed in his, wished
we were at home in bed where we
could whisper secrets, knowing no-one
heard or cared to hear our goodnight kiss.

— Nina Boyd, Dear Mr Asquith