Charles Bukowski
example:
Poem For My 43rd Birthday
To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers...
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
bootiful
s10cr
shh!!!
the air and water have been here a long time, and they are telling stories.
My favorite poet is probably Tennyson.. favorite poem is below.
--
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
For Love is of the valley, come thou down
And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.
--
I love the sensations of both despair and love that come across in that poem- particularly the "...that like a broken purpose waste in air/ so waste not thou". The fervency of the wish for the beloved not to waste away...
*wanders away ranting and raving*
-K
"Each of us dreams the unknown and the impossible according to his own nature."
-- Victor Hugo
K- I haven't ever heard this poem before and I think its great. I read it out loud - well I'm all alone sitting here and no one but the cat to laff...but even he listened! Reading it aloud helped me concentrate and I love its rhthym and the images of the mountain are so beautiful..;cease to glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine'. The contrast between the cold hard mountain where she dwells alone and the love and lushness of the valley are so stark, you can feel the welcome that awaits her in the valley, if only she will come down. Thanks for sharing it -
Miranda
My favourite poet is someone you haven't heard of (I'd think): his name is Carlo Alberto Salustri (1871-1950), though he'd sign his poems as Trilussa. He didn't even write in Italian, but in "romanesco" (the dialect spoken in Rome).
Next, I like Giuseppe Ungaretti.
Of the English poets, I liked most of the War I authors; my favourite poem is T. Hardy's "The Oxen".
What a difficult question! I think I may have the ability to narrow my favorites to ten, in no special order, of course: Dante Alighieri, D.H. Lawrence, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, Rumi, E.E. Cummings, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and John Keats.
my favorite poet? definately SAPPHO
I really like Billy Collins, who used to be America's Poet Laureate.
I'd recommend, among others, his spoof on Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey.
never had a favorite poet but i do like stephan crane, dont have a smaple, Tennyson (i believe mentioned above) SYlvia plath, Robert Frost and I do read random work hlaf the time, my borther is also up there, not famous jsut really good...
nope dont have any with me, thats strange must be on floopies that i dont have..... hmmmm anyway
"It all comes down to what we make of ourselves, eh?"
-The Fairy Godmother
"Sing on, poor souls! The night is short, and the morning will part you forever!"
- Uncle Tom's Cabin
I used to be a great fan of Coleridge, Shelley and Keats. Then I moved on in time to TS Eliot, Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney. Although I don't have a particular favourite poet, I would say that Heaney's translation of Beowulf, and some of Larkin's poems are especially cherished by me. One of the two most hated poems for me was mentioned earlier on this thread - If by Rudyard Kipling. Boy do I hate that. It reminds me of St. Paul's twaddle about love in Corinthians. Both of which are completely unrealistic nonsense.
Faith is believing what you know ain't so - Mark Twain
The preachers deal with men of straw, as they are men of straw themselves - Henry David Thoreau
The way to see faith is to shut the eye of reason - Benjamin Franklin
The teaching of the church, theoretically astute, is a lie in practice and a compound of vulgar superstitions and sorcery - Leo Tolstoy
phyllis webb ,edgar allen poe are my favs oh and of course myself lol
Edgar allen Poe, and Tessa Musat.
BOW DOWN!
BOW DOWN!
Before the power of Santa, or be Crushed
Be crushed by his jolly boots of Doom!
i'm not that good you know :P
you always make me blush so madly
anyway.... i'm a fan of the ever famous poe and the madhatter, just her psuedo name but she is quite good. from the one poem i read lol, i fell in love with it.
was thinking of carl sandburg the other day.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
i also like John McCrae's In Flander's Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
shh!!!
the air and water have been here a long time, and they are telling stories.
Hay , come on and say Who is your favorit poet??
For me ????...i like reading Donne to the deapth ....
Virtue itslef turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometime's by action dignified.
Romeo And Juliet, W.Shakespeare
When i'll be ;
When my end will be
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