January Poems | The Best January Poems Everyone Should Read


    January Jumps About Poem by George Barker

    January jumps about
    in the frying pan
    trying to heat
    his frozen feet
    like a Canadian.

    February scuttles under
    any dish’s lid
    and she thinks she’s dry because she’s
    thoroughly well hid
    but it still rains all month long
    and it always did.

    March sits in the bath tub
    with the taps turned on.
    Hot and cold, cold or not,
    Has the Winter gone?
    In like a lion, out like a lamb
    March on, march on, march on.

    April slips about
    sometimes indoors
    and sometimes out
    sometimes sheltering from a little
    shower of bright rain
    in an empty milk bottle
    then dashing out again.

    May, she hides nowhere,
    nowhere at all,
    Proud as a peacock
    walking by a wall.
    The Maytime O the Maytime,
    full of leaf and flower.
    The Maytime O the Maytime
    is the loveliest of all.

    June discards his shirt and
    trousers by the stream
    and takes the first dip of the year
    into a jug of cream.
    June is the gay time
    of every girl and boy
    who run about and sing and shout
    in pardonable joy.

    July by the sea
    sits dabbling with sand
    letting it run out of
    her rather lazy hand,
    and sometimes she sadly
    thinks: “As I sit here
    ah, more than half the year is gone,
    the evanescent year.”

    August by an emperor
    was given his great name.
    It is gold and purple
    like a Hall of Fame.
    (I have known it rather cold
    and wettish, all the same.)

    September lies in shadows
    of the fading summer
    hearing, in the distance,
    the silver horns of winter
    and not very far off
    the coming autumn drummer.

    October, October
    apples on the tree,
    the Partridge in the Wood and
    the big winds at sea,
    the mud beginning in the lane
    the berries bright and red
    and the big tree wildly
    tossing its old head.

    November, when the fires
    love to burn, and leaves
    flit about and fill the air
    where the old tree grieves.
    November, November
    its name is like a star
    glittering on many things that were
    but few things that are.

    Twelfth and last December.
    a few weeks away
    we hear the silver bells
    of the stag and the sleigh
    flying from the tundras
    far far away
    bringing to us all the gift
    of our Christmas Day.



    Indulgence Poem by Dr Dillip K Swain

    I behold a beautiful cascade
    that sings an eternal song,
    ecstatic, tranquil and sublime!

    Do you hear
    what a sweet tale of boundless ecstasy
    of sheer joy of freedom?

    Does it whisper in my ear?

    Is it the cascade
    that fetches a kind of murmur
    only for me to hear?

    Have you heard it?
    have you ever relished
    its beguiling music?


    Come and enjoy
    if you can,
    if not, please have your own choice
    and just walk away

    But please don’t ask me
    why have I been a silent spectator,
    like a motionless statue here?

    Don’t disturb me,
    let me hear its unique rhythm,
    water splashes, nature dances
    producing a wonderful symphony in synchronization with chirping birds
    and the lovely melody is so enchanting to hear.




    A Walk In The Park. Poem by Susan Williams

    Today the trees in the park are greening
    and the geese are returning
    and the sparrows are nesting
    and the park below my fifth floor window is calling to me.
    Today I’m watching the lovers walking in the park
    walking and talking through the park
    and sitting on a bench to watch
    the summer softball teams playing
    Today the leaves to life are clinging
    and the winds of change are crying
    and the grass and twig nests are empty
    and all over the park the leaves are letting go.
    Today the branches are capped with silent spectral snow
    and the sky is a bitter biting blue
    and I watched a little sparrow let go
    and fall from the branch frozen stiff
    Today the rain is etching painful paths down the window pane
    I do not think I will sit by the window today
    I think I will stay instead in bed today
    and remember what it was like to take a walk in the park.



    Fishing For A Friend Poem by omar ibrahim

    when you go to fish
    go fishing for the finest kind
    which good anglers always do.

    if you’re looking for a fine fish
    you must choose the purest lake
    in which good anglers fish.

    if you catch a fine fish
    try not to let it get away
    good anglers real them in.

    you must bring your fish home
    a fine fish will quench your hunger
    after a long day fishing.



    Hunger Poem by Dr Dillip K Swain

    An orphan child
    sitting on a platform
    ignoring the sound of fast crossing trains
    and trains halting late at the station

    The maddened crowds
    in search of their berths and seats,
    rushing into compartments
    and he is eating the thrown biscuits
    and hearing the terrible noise of his belly

    The inward sound of hunger
    echoing louder and louder
    like that of thunder



    January Mist Poem by Sandra Fowler

    Sometimes at night I hear small birds lament.
    Dark notes that seem to second moon’s descent.
    Cold is the color of a deep regret,
    An etude perfected by winterset.

    The world was music and it turned us round.
    Stirred by the subtle atmospheric sound,
    You gently sketched a snowflake on my face
    Which shall be mine till light has left this place.

    Such solace has the power to outlast time,
    To lock a small bird’s elegy in rhyme.
    Somewhere beyond the January mist,
    The magic of our landscape still exists.



    One Third Of The Calendar Poem by Ogden Nash

    In January everything freezes.
    We have two children. Both are she’ses.
    This is our January rule:
    One girl in bed, and one in school.

    In February the blizzard whirls.
    We own a pair of little girls.
    Blessings upon of each the head —-
    The one in school and the one in bed.

    March is the month of cringe and bluster.
    Each of our children has a sister.
    They cling together like Hansel and Gretel,
    With their noses glued to the benzoin kettle.

    April is made of impetuous waters
    And doctors looking down throats of daughters.
    If we had a son too, and a thoroughbred,
    We’d have a horse,
    And a boy,
    And two girls
    In bed.



    Our Christmas Gift Poem by Susan Williams

    Our Christmas gift
    From God’s only Son
    Star-filled nights
    Sun-filled days
    And Love abounding.
    Born to give us Words of comfort
    While walking Beside us
    Showing us the Way
    Healing our hearts
    And giving us Love abounding.
    Now He sends us the Holy Spirit
    And invisible angels carrying messages
    Guarding our ways, watching over our days
    Surrounding our homes
    And reminding us of His Love abounding.
    Our Christmas gift
    From God to us
    A beautiful world under star-filled nights
    Forgiveness and love abounding under the sun
    And His Son giving us Life Everlasting.



    I Have A White Rose To Tend (Verse Xxxix) Poem by Jose Marti

    I have a white rose to tend
    In July as in January;
    I give it to the true friend
    Who offers his frank hand to me.
    And for the cruel one whose blows
    Break the heart by which I live,
    Thistle nor thorn do I give:
    For him, too, I have a white rose.


    Cultivo una rosa blanca,
    En julio como en enero,
    Para el amigo sincero
    Que me da su mano franca.
    Y para el cruel que me arranca
    El corazón con que vivo,
    Cardo ni oruga cultivo:
    Cultivo la rosa blanca.



    Braggart Poem by Dorothy Parker

    The days will rally, wreathing
    Their crazy tarantelle;
    And you must go on breathing,
    But I’ll be safe in hell.

    Like January weather,
    The years will bite and smart,
    And pull your bones together
    To wrap your chattering heart.

    The pretty stuff you’re made of
    Will crack and crease and dry.
    The thing you are afraid of
    Will look from every eye.

    You will go faltering after
    The bright, imperious line,
    And split your throat on laughter,
    And burn your eyes with brine.

    You will be frail and musty
    With peering, furtive head,
    Whilst I am young and lusty
    Among the roaring dead.