# Reading > Poems, Poets, and Poetry >  Favorite poem?

## mike401

I saw the massive list of favorite poets and I couldn't choose one, so I went for poems that stuck out in my mind. In no particular order:

-"Tintern Abbey" by Wordsworth. "These beauteous forms, / Through a long absence, have not been to me / As is a landscape to a blind man's eye" Whew.

-"Old Movies" by August Kleinzahler. Live from the Hong Kong Nile club might be one of my favorite books of poems of all time.

-"The Waste Land" by Eliot. Can't get much more canonical, but there's a reason everyone talks about it so much.

-"Odi et amo" by Catullus. Yeah I know, its in Latin, but I just finished a course on him and found him to be as modern as some 20th century poets at times. The translated version is "I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you might ask. / I do not know, but I feel it happen, and I am tortured." Its a lot sharper in Latin, so I'll put that in here too:

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.

-Ok, enough of that Latin stuff. Another two-liner I like is "In the Station of a Metro" by Ezra Pound. The Imagists were kinda gimmicky, but they had the right idea.

I think I'll stop myself now and give someone else a chance.

..

..


PLEASE RESPECT COPYRIGHT LAWS: READ THIS BEFORE POSTING:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=17515

..

..

----------


## Monica

I love poems by Poe, but there's also one by Lermontov I really find amusing
"Gratitude"
For all, for all! I thank you, o my dear:
For passions' deeply hidden pledge,
For poison of a kiss, and stinging of a tear,
Abuse by friends, and enemies' revenge;
For soul's light, extinguished in a prison,
For things by which I was deceived before.
But do not give me any real reason
To give you thanks from now any more.

----------


## simon

I like poems by Shel Silverstein and Mason Williams for example the one of the silly "Them" poems:

Them Lunch Toters 

How about Them Lunch Toters, 
Ain't they a bunch? 
Goin' off to work, 
A-totin' they lunch. 

Totin' them vittles, 
Totin' that chow, 
Eatin' it later, 
But a-totin' it now. 

Look at Them Lunch Toters, 
Ain't they funny? 
Some use a paper sack, 
Some use a gunny. 

Them food-frugal Lunch Toters, 
Ain't they wise? 
Totin' they lunch, 
Made by they wives. 

How to be a Lunch Toter? 
Iffa may emote it, 
Gitchy wife to fix it, 
Go to work and tote it!

----------


## simon

> -"Odi et amo" by Catullus. Yeah I know, its in Latin, but I just finished a course on him and found him to be as modern as some 20th century poets at times. The translated version is "I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you might ask. / I do not know, but I feel it happen, and I am tortured.".


I liked Catullus also Mike, but I read some of his works translated into english, I am planning on taking ancient greek and latin though so I can persue reading classics in thier origional languages.

----------


## Isagel

Donnes "Death be not proud"

William Carlos Williams "The red wheelbarrow"

So much depends
on a red wheelbarrow
glazed with rain
beside the white chickens.

----------


## Miranda

I like Tintern Abbey too: 
'And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, 
whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky, 
And in the mind of man;A motion and a spirit that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.'

I think it's great how Wordsworth here describes the almost indescribable feeling that the place invokes and the spiritual experience it brings to him.

There are loads of poems that I love and it's hard to choose a favourite, one that is above all others. At different times, different moods affect us all and I think our choice of a favourite is probably dominated by how we feel at the time of choosing. But for no reason at all, I chose this today:

A Song of Honour - Ralph Hodgson

I climbed a hill as light fell short, 
And rooks came home in scramble sort, 
And filled the trees and flapped and fought
And sang themselves to sleep. 
An owl from nowhere with no sound
Swung by and soon was nowhere found,
I heard him calling halfway round,
Hallo-ing loud and deep.
A pair of stars, faint pins of light,
Then many a star sailed into sight,
And all the stars, the flowers of night,
Were round me at a leap
To tell how still the valleys lay.
I heard a watch dog miles away, 
And bells of distant sheep.

I heard no more of bird or bell,
The mastiff in a slumber fell, 
I stared into the sky
As wondering men have always done
Since beauty and the stars were one, 
Though none so hard as I. 

It seemed, so still the valleys were, 
As if the whole world knelt at prayer,, 
Save me and me alone;
So pure and wide that silence was
I feared to bend a blade of grass, 
And there I stood, like a stone. 

I know lots of people don't like rhyme, but here it is so natural as if it the sentences were just born that way - none of them forced to match another - except maybe in the last verse..with alone and stone. I like the part where it seems to him the stars are talking and telling him how still the valleys are and how he describes them as 'flowers of the night'. Somehow when you read the poem, he takes you to that hill and the silence and experience the stillness as he did..even sitting in front of a computer. This is the wonder of books and words isn't it..how they can transport you to other places, times and experiences some of which you have never experienced and maybe will never have yourself, but which you can through the writer's art.

----------


## 5Parker

I'm a big Donne fan... Valediction: Forbidding Mourning being my favorite. It's a little hard to grasp at first, but the more you read it the more awesome it becomes. But the best part is the story behind it. It goes that Donne had to leave his very pregnant wife behind when he left for France, so he wrote her this poem. When the time came for her to have the baby, he told his traveling companion that he had had a vision of his wife carrying a dead baby, and soo after he got a message proving his vision true. Believe it if you wish, but either way it shows just how attached these two were. 

AS virtuous men pass mildly away, 
And whisper to their souls to go, 
Whilst some of their sad friends do say, 
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." 

So let us melt, and make no noise, 5 
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 
'Twere profanation of our joys 
To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ; 
Men reckon what it did, and meant ; 10 
But trepidation of the spheres, 
Though greater far, is innocent. 

Dull sublunary lovers' love 
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit 
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove 15 
The thing which elemented it. 

But we by a love so much refined, 
That ourselves know not what it is, 
Inter-assurèd of the mind, 
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. 20 

Our two souls therefore, which are one, 
Though I must go, endure not yet 
A breach, but an expansion, 
Like gold to aery thinness beat. 

If they be two, they are two so 25 
As stiff twin compasses are two ; 
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show 
To move, but doth, if th' other do. 

And though it in the centre sit, 
Yet, when the other far doth roam, 30 
It leans, and hearkens after it, 
And grows erect, as that comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must, 
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; 
Thy firmness makes my circle just, 35 
And makes me end where I begun.

----------


## 5Parker

Okay, so I lied. e e cumming's Since Feeling is First is my fav poem. I'll share: 

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

----------


## verybaddmom

oooh parker, Donne is my FAVE poet of all time. i love the above mentioned one (i wrote quite a spectacular paper on it, if i do say so myself!), but i think my favorite of his would have to be "sonne rising":


BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

----------


## baddad

TWO ROADS DIVERGED IN A YELLOW WOOD,
AND SORRY I COULD NOT TRAVEL BOTH 
AND BE ONE TRAVELER, LONG I STOOD
AND LOOKED DOWN ONE AS FAR AS I COULD
TO WHERE IT BENT IN THE UNDERGROWTH;

THEN TOOK THE OTHER, AS JUST AS FAIR,
AND HAVING PERHAPS THE BETTER CLAIM,
BECAUSE IT WAS GRASSY AND WANTED WEAR;
THOUGH AS FOR THAT THE PASSING THERE
HAD WORN THEM REALLY ABOUT THE SAME,

AND BOTH THAT MORNING EQUALLY LAY
IN LEAVES NO STEP HAD TRODDEN BLACK.
OH, I KEPT THE FIRST FOR ANOTHER!
YET KNOWING HOW WAY LEADS ON TO WAY,
I DOUBTED IF I SHOULD EVER COME BACK.

I SHALL BE TELLING THIS WITH A SIGH
SOMEWHERE AGES AND AGES HENCE;
TWO ROADS DIVERGED IN A WOOD,AND I--
I TOOK THE ONE LESS TRAVELED BY,
AND THAT HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

----------


## verybaddmom

geez, mikey, you dont have to yell....')

----------


## Kahrey

This is one of my favorites:

The lion banner sways and falls
In the horror-haunted gloom
A scarlet dragon rustles by
Borne on winds of doom
In heaps the shining horesemen lie
Where the thrusting lances break
And deep in the haunted mountains
The lost black gods awake
Dead hands grope in the shadows
The stars turn pale with fright
For this is the Dragon's Hour
The triumph of Fear and Night

"The Hour of the Dragon" by Robert E. Howard

----------


## Diceman

The End Of The Weekend by Anthony Hecht:
http://plagiarist.com/poetry/2410/

----------


## Miranda

I turned to speak to God
About the world's despair:
But to make matters worse
I found He wasn't there.

God turned to speak to me
(don't anybody laugh)
God found I wasn't there _ 
At least not over half.

Robert Frost

----------


## Miranda

Love and Friendship

Love is like a wild rose briar
Friendship like the holly tree - 
The holly is dark when the rose briar blooms
But which will bloom more constantly?

The wild rose briar is sweet in spring, 
It's summer blossoms scent the air,
Yet wait till winter come again
And who will call the briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen
And when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green. 

Emily Bronte

----------


## Miranda

The Heart Knoweth its Own Bitterness

When all the work of life
Is finished once, and fast asleep
We swerve no more against the knife
But taste silence cool and deep
Forgetful of the highways rough,
Forgetful of the thorny scurge.
Forgetful of the tossing surge, 
Then shall we find it is enough?

How can we say 'enough' on earth - 
'Enough with such a craving heart?
I have not found it since my birth.
But still have bartered part for part.
I have not held and hugged the whole,
But paid the old to gain the new;
Much have I paid, but much is due,
'till I am beggared sense and soul.

I used to labour, used to strive,
For pleasure with a restless will:
Now if I save my soul alive
All else, what matters, good or ill?
I used to dream alone, to plan
Unspoken hopes and days to come-
Of all this past, this is the sum-
I will not lean on child of man.

To give, to give ,not to recieve!
I long to pour myself, my soul
Not to keep back, or count or leave,
But king with king to give the whole.
I long for one to stir my deep - 
I have had enough of help and gift - 
I long for one to search and sift
Myself, to take myself and keep. 

You scratch my surface with your pin, 
You stroke me smooth with hushing breath - 
Nay pierce, nay probe, nay dig within, 
Probe my quick core and sound my depth.
You call me with your puny call, 
You talk, you smile, you nothing do:
How should I spend my heart on you,
My heart that so outweights you all?

Your vessels are much too strait:
Were I to pour you could not hold:-
Bear with me; I must bear to wait
A fountain sealed through heat and cold. 
Bear with me, day or months or years:
Deep must call unto deep until the end
When friend shall no more envy friend
Nor vex his friend unawares. 

Not in this world of hope deferred, 
This world of perishable stuff: -
Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard
Nor heart concieved that full 'enough' :
Here means a separating sea
Here harvests fail, here breaks the heart;
There God shall join and no more part
I full of Christ and Christ of me. 

Christina Rossetti

----------


## kautilya

hi 
I am new to the forum and by your standards, almost uninitiated to poetry.
But looking at frost-lovers population, I could not resist joining in.
I think "After Apple-picking" is another beauty by Frost, can someone post it and reviews on it.
Prashanth

----------


## mono

Good choice, kautilya! I think I have never read that particular poem, though I consider myself, too, a devoted fan of Frost. His use of imagery seems specifically distinguished in this poem, when, usually, he writes more sporadically with random descriptions. Thanks for the suggestion.

----------


## Jay

I'm another Frost fan, and I like Fire And Ice a lot  :Smile: 
*Fire And Ice*
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost

----------


## nothingman87

A few:

Eloisa and Abelard by Alexander Pope

Ozymandias by Shelley

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen 

Wessex Heights by Thomas Hardy

----------


## Avalive

Apologia

IS it thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?

Is it thy will That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?

Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

Perchance it may be better so I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
While all the forest sang of liberty,

Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where the steep untrodden mountain height
Caught the last tresses of the Sun God¹s hair.

Or how the little flower he trod upon,
The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been
The best belovèd for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed
On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars, 
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

----------


## Scheherazade

This morning I woke up thinking of this poem... God knows why... but I just did and it put a smile on my face (or was it because I had a smile on my face I remembered it?? )

*Get Drunk!* 

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.

On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.

And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:

"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

Charles Baudelaire

I know there many different translations of this poem out there and I really wish I could French to appreciate it fully but this is the next best thing I guess...

----------


## Helga

This is a great poem Scheherazade, by Baudelaire right?

this is my favourite:

Love's Secret
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh. 

By W.Blake

----------


## mono

I just read the following poem for the first time, by Paul Laurence Dunbar, and fell in love with it. Of course, I cannot narrow my favorite poem to one, I thoroughly enjoyed this one.

The Haunted Oak

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?

My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim's pains.

I bent me down to hear his sigh;
I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
And left him here alone.

They'd charged him with the old, old crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail?

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
And the steady tread drew nigh.

Who is it rides by night, by night,
Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
What is the galling goad?

And now they beat at the prison door,
"Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
And we fain would take him away

"From those who ride fast on our heels
With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
And the rope they bear is long."

They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
And the great door open flies.

Now they have taken him from the jail,
And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
As they halt my trunk beside.

Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
Was curiously bedight.

Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
'Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
The mem'ry of your face.

I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.

And never more shall leaves come forth
On the bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.

And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.

And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
On the trunk of a haunted tree.

----------


## lukkiseven

My favorite poet is Edgar Allen Poe. I love his work, but most of the poeple I know think his poems are depressing. Annabel Lee is my favorite poem, ever. 

-------
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love - 
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me - 
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we - 
Of many far wiser than we - 
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea - 
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

----------


## Scheherazade

*If*

If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 
But make allowance for their doubting too; 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, 
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, 
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; 
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; 
If you can meet with triumph and disaster 
And treat those two imposters just the same; 
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken 
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, 
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings 
And never breath a word about your loss; 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 
To serve your turn long after they are gone, 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; 
If all men count with you, but none too much; 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - 
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, 
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son! 


Rudyard Kipling

----------


## Beaumains

I have too many favorite poems (and poets) to name, so I'll just post this one, a poem of Tolkien's:

_Gil-galad was an Elven-king._ 
_Of him the harpers sadly sing:_ 
_the last whose realm was fair and free_ 
_between the Mountains and the Sea._ 

_His sword was long, his lance was keen,_ 
_his shining helm afar was seen;_ 
_the countless stars of heaven's field_ 
_were mirrored in his silver shield._

_But long ago he rode away,_ 
_and where he dwelleth none can say;_ 
_for into darkness fell his star_ 
_in Mordor where the shadows are._

----------


## Beaumains

Tennyson needs some representation on here too, and though I would post _The Lady of Shalott_, it's rather lengthy for a message board, so I'll leave you with this one instead:

*The Charge of the Light Brigade*

_Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!_

----------


## Sally Brown

I love poems by Eugenio Montale, like that:

Maybe one morning walking in air
of dry glass, I'll turn and see the miracle occur -
nothingness at my shoulders, the void
behind me - with a drunkard's terror.
Then, as on a screen, the usual illusion:
hills houses trees will suddenly reassemble,
but too late, and I'll quietly go my way,
with my secret, among men who don't look back.

Bye,
Sally

----------


## Monica

Of course, there are many poems that I love, but I think the most important ones for me are by Pablo Neruda. For example:

If You Forget Me - Pablo Neruda

I want you to know 
one thing. 

You know how this is: 
if I look 
at the crystal moon, at the red branch 
of the slow autumn at my window, 
if I touch 
near the fire 
the impalpable ash 
or the wrinkled body of the log, 
everything carries me to you, 
as if everything that exists, 
aromas, light, metals, 
were little boats 
that sail 
toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 

Well, now, 
if little by little you stop loving me 
I shall stop loving you little by little. 

If suddenly 
you forget me 
do not look for me, 
for I shall already have forgotten you. 

If you think it long and mad, 
the wind of banners 
that passes through my life, 
and you decide 
to leave me at the shore 
of the heart where I have roots, 
remember 
that on that day, 
at that hour, 
I shall lift my arms 
and my roots will set off 
to seek another land. 

But 
if each day, 
each hour, 
you feel that you are destined for me 
with implacable sweetness, 
if each day a flower 
climbs up to your lips to seek me, 
ah my love, ah my own, 
in me all that fire is repeated, 
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 
my love feeds on your love, beloved, 
and as long as you live it will be in your arms 
without leaving mine.

----------


## Sally Brown

Another poem from my country - Italy - by Cesare Pavese.

_DEATH WILL COME WITH YOUR EYES

Death will come with your eyes
this death that accompanies us
from morning till night, sleepless,
deaf, like an old regret
or a stupid vice. Your eyes
will be a useless word,
a muted cry, a silence.
As you see them each morning
when alone you lean over 
the mirror. O cherished hope,
that day we too shall know
that you are life and nothing.

For everyone death has a look.
Death will come with your eyes.
It will be like terminating a vice,
as seen in the mirror
a dead face re-emerging,
like listening to closed lips.
We'll go down the abyss in silence._

Bye,
Sally

----------


## Scheherazade

*The World is Too Much With Us*

The World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

William Wordsworth


I _love_ this poem... The first four lines haunt me... Really wish I knew what Wordsworth was thinking when he wrote them.

----------


## Bix12

My favorite poem? Oh good grief...impossible request. Here's _one_ of my favorites, one of a very, very many. O, btw, Scheherazade, you were wondering what Wordsworth was talking about? I'll venture a guess, and say that he is lamenting the onset of the industrial revolution, remember the age in which Wordsworth was alive. The lines carry a tone of grieving, of loss. He sees a change occurring, one he doesn't care for. He notes the ease in which his fellow man has so cold-heartedly exploited nature in the greedy pursuit of material wealth, and it's breaking his heart. Just an opinion....now, the poem: 


SUDDEN LIGHT


I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door, 
The sweet keen smell, 
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. 

You have been mine before,-- 
How long ago I may not know: 
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turn'd so, 
Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore. 

Has this been thus before? 
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite, 
And day and night yield one delight once more? 

_Dante Gabriel Rossetti_

----------


## Scheherazade

> O, btw, Scheherazade, you were wondering what Wordsworth was talking about? I'll venture a guess, and say that he is lamenting the onset of the industrial revolution, remember the age in which Wordsworth was alive. The lines carry a tone of grieving, of loss. He sees a change occurring, one he doesn't care for. He notes the ease in which his fellow man has so cold-heartedly exploited nature in the greedy pursuit of material wealth, and it's breaking his heart. Just an opinion....now, the poem:


Hello, Bix12! I am familiar with the popular interpretation of Wordworth's poem; i.e., the burdens Industrial revolutions put on the shoulder of humanity. However, as I said, I love the opening lines of this poem and, I believe, when read seperately, they can be interpreted differently, without being as specific as Industrial Revolution... which is why I wonder what was going through Wordsworth's mind exactly. Was he only thinking about the industrialist world or were there other worries on his mind? Just a thought... Or maybe a wish that he did  :Smile: 

Welcome to the Forum, by the way!  :Smile:

----------


## Bix12

Thank you, Scheherazade!  :Wave:  I really like it here...too bad it's not more lively, though...but not everyone has as much freetime as I do, either...anyway...I didn't mean to sound presumptuous in my comments regarding Mr. Wordsworth, it definitely wasn't my intent.  :Blush:  


Here's another one of my favorites:

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream. 

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream? 

_Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)_

I've felt exactly like that before....<sigh>

----------


## Bix12

Sarah Teasdale is another one of my favorites poets, and this is one of my favorite poems by her:

"Did You Never Know?"


Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me --
That your love would never lessen and never go?
You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,
You were too young to know.

Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it
Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year --
Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,
I know your secret, my dear, my dear.


_Sarah Teasdale_

----------


## Bix12

Good day all!  :Wave:  

Love Song

How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws *one* voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song

_Rainer Maria Rilke_

----------


## mono

> Love Song
> . . .
> _Rainer Maria Rilke_


Oh, I love Rilke!
Two of my favorites:

Childhood

It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely -and why?

We're still reminded-: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on

as back then, when nothing happened to us
except what happens to things and creatures:
we lived their world as something human,
and became filled to the brim with figures.

And became as lonely as a sheperd
and as overburdened by vast distances,
and summoned and stirred as from far away,
and slowly, like a long new thread,
introduced into that picture-sequence
where now having to go on bewilders us.

(Translated by Edward Snow)

-----

Autumn

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning "no."

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We're all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It's in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling. 

(Translated by Robert Bly)

----------


## Scheherazade

Although only recently I discovered this poem, it is one of my favorites. I am almost jealous that Donne is the one who wrote it instead of me.

*The Will*

BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, 
Great Love, some legacies ; I here bequeath 
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see ; 
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee ;
My tongue to Fame ; to ambassadors mine ears ;
To women, or the sea, my tears ;
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
That I should give to none, but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give ;
My truth to them who at the court do live ;
My ingenuity and openness,
To Jesuits ; to buffoons my pensiveness ;
My silence to any, who abroad hath been ;
My money to a Capuchin :
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me
To love there, where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have an incapacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics ;
All my good works unto the Schismatics
Of Amsterdam ; my best civility
And courtship to an University ;
My modesty I give to soldiers bare ;
My patience let gamesters share :
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me
Love her that holds my love disparity,
Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those
Which were my friends ; mine industry to foes ;
To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness ;
My sickness to physicians, or excess ;
To nature all that I in rhyme have writ ; 
And to my company my wit :
Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her, who begot this love in me before,
Taught'st me to make, as though I gave, when I do but restore.

To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls,
I give my physic books ; my written rolls
Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give ;
My brazen medals unto them which live
In want of bread ; to them which pass among
All foreigners, mine English tongue :
Though, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo
The world by dying, because love dies too.
Then all your beauties will be no more worth
Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth ;
And all your graces no more use shall have,
Than a sun-dial in a grave :
Thou, Love, taught'st me by making me
Love her who doth neglect both me and thee,
To invent, and practise this one way, to annihilate all three.

John Donne

----------


## Bix12

Ah yes, John Donne...not only was he a brilliant poet, but a fiery & spellbinding sermonizer. It could be argued that, in his day, he was more well known for his work from the pulpit, than any fame his poetry brought...of course, he's remember'd now almost exclusively for his wonderful poetry. 

Here's a particular favorite of mine by Donne, and certainly one of his best known, if not one of his best, poems:

Aire And Angles


Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught;
Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere;
Then, as an angel, face, and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear,
So thy love may be my love's sphere;
Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be. 

_John Donne_

----------


## Bix12

Here's the poem I came here to post, before I was sidetrack'd by Donne, (pleasantly so). This poem, by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, is one of my all-time ever favourites...to me, this is the very definition of happiness. This poem illustrates the genius of Ferlinghetti through it's brevity, and clean, concise lines.To look at it, one would think that there isn't much there, but it conveys (to me, at least), a scene almost real enough to touch, and I feel as if I'm actually there.

 
Recipe For Happiness Khaborovsk Or Anyplace


One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups.

One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you.

One fine day.


_Lawrence Ferlinghetti_

----------


## mono

> [FONT=Comic Sans MS]Here's the poem I came here to post, before I was sidetrack'd by Donne, (pleasantly so). This poem, by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, is one of my all-time ever favourites...to me, this is the very definition of happiness . . .


Very nice, Bix12. How pleasant to have another big poetry fan on the forum!  :Nod: 
Unfortunately, I have not encountered a lot of Ferlinghetti's poetry until months ago, and, ever since, he has become one of my favorites. I posted a few of his poems that I thought especially high of here:
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ead.php?t=4254

----------


## Bix12

Not to brag, or anything...hee hee....but I happen to know Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I've been to his bookstore several times (City Lights, San Francisco), and I've also attended a few parties where he happened to be in attendance...he is a sweetheart of a man.


_That's Lawrence on the left, in front of his book store...the other guy is a Cuban poet, whose name escapes me just now_ 



Driving a cardboard automobile without a license


Driving a cardboard automobile without a license
at the turn of the century
my father ran into my mother
on a fun-ride at Coney Island
having spied each other eating
in a French boardinghouse nearby
And having decided right there and then
that she was right for him entirely
he followed her into
the playland of that evening
where the headlong meeting 
of their ephemeral flesh on wheels
hurtled them forever together


And I now in the back seat
of their eternity
reaching out to embrace them 

_Lawrence Ferlinghetti_

----------


## amuse

i like his "Recipe For Happiness Khaborovsk Or Anyplace" poem. very crisp and strong.  :Smile: 

come to think of it, he reminds me of Brautigan, without the extreme oddities.

----------


## Bix12

Hi amuse!  :Wave:  yessssss...I love that poem. I just posted it up above...I wanna go there.  :Nod:

----------


## amuse

um, your posting's how i heard about it  :Wink:  (never heard of him before  :Blush: ). is L.F. from Russia? btw, as a northern californian, your acquaintance with him is one of the first things to really impress me. how fortunate you are.  :Smile:

----------


## Bix12

Noooo...he's an American, but he's obvioulsy been around the world once, or twice...as far as being fortunate that I know him, indeed, I consider it a priviledge...that's not to say we're great buds, or anything...I've just met him once or twice...

I love Northern California. Just now, I'm wayyyyy out in New England...about 45 miles N.E. of N.Y.C.

I love New York City...it's my favorite city in the world!  :Nod:

----------


## amuse

where are you from?

----------


## Bix12

I'm from Boston, my parents, however, are English. I'm a first generation American. I can trace my fathers side of the family back 800 years, and my mothers side a bit further than that. My family is from an area of Britain that is about 40 miles west of Manchester...an area known as Salford.  :Smile:

----------


## Scheherazade

*She Walks In Beauty Like The Night*

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent! 

Lord Byron

----------


## Gozeta

A personal favorate. Is this poem by Jon Donne. You just got to love it.

(Death Be Not Proud)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; 
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, 
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be, 
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow, 
And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well, 
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.

----------


## chispa

To paint a bird's portrait (Jacques Prévert)

First of all, paint a cage 
with an opened little door 
then paint something attractive 
something simple 
something beautiful 
something of benefit for the bird 
Put the picture on a tree 
in a garden 
in a wood 
or in a forest
hide yourself behind the tree 
silent 
immovable...

Sometimes the bird arrives quickly 
but sometimes it takes years 
Don't be discouraged 
wait 
wait for years if necessary
the rapidity or the slowness of the arrival 
doesn't have any relationship 
with the result of the picture 

When the bird comes 
if it comes 
keep the deepest silence 
wait until the bird enters the cage 
and when entered in
Close the door softly with the brush 
then remove one by the one all the bars 
care not to touch any feather of the bird 

Then draw the portrait of the tree 
choosing the most beautiful branch 
for the bird 
paint also the green foliage and the coolness 
of the beasts of the grass in the summer's heat
and then, wait that the bird starts singing 

If the bird doesn't sing 
it's a bad sign 
it means that the picture is wrong 
but if it sings it's a good sign 
it means that you can sign 

so you tear with sweetness 
a feather from the bird 
and write your name in a corner of the painting

----------


## Scheherazade

*Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening*

Whose woods these are I think I know. 
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 

Robert Frost

----------


## mono

> *Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening*
> 
> Robert Frost


A classic that never grows old! I have always had an immense respect for Robert Frost, but would have to call the following my favorite by him:

*Mending Wall*

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."

----------


## Dyrwen

More prose than anything, but its meant to be poetic. It's always made me smile to read, so I can only call it my favorite because it's one of the few I remember all the time.

*I Know You* by Henry Rollins

I know you
You were too short
You had bad skin
You couldn't talk to them very well
Words didn't seem to work
They lied when they came out of your mouth

You tried so hard to understand them
You wanted to be part of what was happening
You saw them having fun
And it seemed like such a mystery
Almost magic

Made you think that there was something wrong with you
You'd look in the mirror and try to find it
You thought that you were ugly
And that everyone was looking at you

So you learned to be invisible
To look down
To avoid conversation

The hours, days, weekends
Ah, the weekend nights alone
Where were you?
In the basement?
In the attic?
In your room?
Working some job - just to have something to do.
Just to have a place to put yourself
Just to have a way to get away from them
A chance to get away from the ones that made you feel
so strange and ill at ease inside yourself

Did you ever get invited to one of their parties?
You sat and wondered if you would go or not
For hours you imagined the scenarios that might transpire
They would laugh at you
If you would know what to do
If you'd have the right things on
If they would notice that you came from a different planet

Did you get all brave in your thoughts?
Like you going to be able to go in there and deal with it
and have a great time.
Did you think that you might be the life of the party?
That all these people were gonna talk to you and you
would find out that you were wrong?
That you had a lot of friends and you weren't so
strange after all?

Did you end up going?
Did they mess with you?
Did they single you out?
Did you find out that you were invited because they
thought you were so weird?

Yeah, I think I know you
You spent a lot of time full of hate
A hate that was pure sunshine
A hate that saw for miles
A hate that kept you up at night
A hate that filled your every waking moment
A hate that carried you for a long time

Yes, I think I know you
You couldn't figure out what they saw in the way they lived

Home was not home
Your room was home
A corner was home
The place they weren't, that was home

I know you

You're sensitive and you hide it because you fear
getting stepped on one more time
It seems that when you show a part of yourself that is
the least bit vulnerable someone takes advantage of you
One of them steps on you

They mistake kindliness for weakness
But you know the difference
You've been the brunt of their weakness for years
And strength is something you know a bit about because
you had to be strong to keep yourself alive

You know yourself very well now
And you don't trust people
You know them too well

You try to find that special person
Someone you can be with
Someone you can touch
Someone you can talk to
Someone you don't feel so strange around
And you find that they don't really exist
You feel closer to people on movie screens

Yeah, I think I know you
You spend a lot of time daydreaming
And people have made comment to that effect
Telling you that you're self involved, and self centred

But they don't know, do they?
About the long night shifts alone
About the years of keeping yourself company
All the nights you wrapped your arms around yourself
so you could imagine someone holding you
The hours of indecision, self doubt
The intense depression
The blinding hate
The rage that made you stagger
The devastation of rejection

Well, maybe they do know
But if they do, they sure do a good job of hiding it
It astounds you how they can be so smooth
How they seem to pass through life as if life itself
was some divine gift
And it infuriates you to watch yourself with your
apparent skill at finding every way possible to screw it up

For you life is a long trip
Terrifying and wonderful
Birds sing to you at night
The rain and the sun the changing seasons are true friends
Solitude is a hard won ally, faithful and patient

Yeah, I think I know you

----------


## blp

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE J. A. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS

He was spoilt from childhood by the future, which he mastered rather early and apparently without great difficulty. Boris Pasternak

I 

Darkness falls like a wet sponge
And Dick gives Genevieve a swift punch
In the pajamas. Aroint thee, witch.
Her tongue from previous ecstasy
Releases thoughts like little hats.

He clapd me first during the eclipse.
Afterwards I noted his manner
Much altered. But he sending
At that time certain handsome jewels
I durst not seem to take offense.

In a far recess of summer
Monks are playing soccer.

II

So far is goodness a mere memory
Or naming of recent scenes of badness
That even these lives, children,
You may pass through to be blessed,
So fair does each invent his virtue.

And coming from a white world, music
Will sparkle at the lips of many who are
Beloved. Then these, as dirty handmaidens
To some transparent witch, will dream

Of a white heros subtle wooing,
And time shall force a gift on each.

That beggar to whom you gave no cent
Striped the night with his strange descant.

III

Yet I cannot escape the picture
Of my small self in that bank of flowers:
My head among the blazing phlox
Seemed a pale and gigantic fungus.
I had a hard stare, accepting

Everything, taking nothing,
As though the rolled-up future might stink
As loud as stood the sick moment
The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong,
Still, as the loveliest feelings

Must soon find words, and these, yes,
Displace them, so I am not wrong
In calling this comic version of myself
The true one. For as change is horror,
Virtue is really stubbornness

And only in the light of lost words
Can we imagine our rewards.

- John Ashbery

----------


## Scheherazade

*ROAD LESS TRAVELED*

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference


Robert Frost

----------


## Jay

In Good Hands by Roger McGough

Wherever night falls
The earth is always there to catch it

----------


## Scheherazade

*Leisure*

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

W.H. Davies

----------


## lavendar1

What Are Years?

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe. And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt, -
dumbly calling, deftly listening - that
in misfortune, even death,
encourages others
and in its defeat, stirs

the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who 
accedes to mortality
and in his imprisonment, rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

_Marianne Moore_

----------


## mono

I read this one today, and could only express the greatest admiration:

Oh Yet We Trust (from _In Memoriam_)

Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroyed,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
that not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last - far off - at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

Lord Alfred Tennyson

----------


## mono

This morning, I read "The Triumph Of Life" by Percy Bysshe Shelley, which I have read a few times before, and it gets better and better with each read. For anyone with the determination to read the long terza-rima poem (500+ lines), though unfinished (Shelley never managed to finish the poem before his untimely death), I happened to find a copy online:
http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/d.../poem1912.html

----------


## Themis

My favourite poem is in german, so, I guess, I´ll have to settle for something else. (But the first one is called "The moon" by Kathinka Zitz)
Some of my other favourites are -
" To the moon" by Percy B. Shelley and "Hope is the thing ..." by Emily Dickinson

----------


## Sarah's_Chanson

A tie between Plena Timoris by Thomas Hardy, Pibroch by Ted Hughes and Nothing's Changed by Tatumkhulu Afrika.

----------


## Lady19thC

One of my favourite poems is

To My Books

Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,--
Let me return to you; this turmoil ending
Which wordly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought:
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime
My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings, told so well.

Caroline Norton-1840

----------


## alteredtome

I just discovered this forum today, hallelujah! I've been reading all of your favorites, sighing with delight, and googling like a crazy chicken (see? even reading these poems has made me poetic).  :Blush:  I wanted to share my favorite poem, by Mary Oliver:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

I remember the first time that I read the first line, it hit me square in the gut. Then the next two lines washed over me with the most relieving forgiveness. I felt blessed and clean after reading this poem. Such an amazing power, huh? The power of well put together words.

Kristina

----------


## sir

I love R.M. Rilke...there's a poem's translation...although,german language has more nuances in matter of poetry and filosofy (my opinion)..

-----Love Song------

How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two seperate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.

http://www.geocities.com/Paris/LeftBank/4027/

----------


## hellodolly

My new favorite poem is by the gay poet James Schwartz. The poem is called "On Death" and is from his e-book RESH REMIXED (http://reshremixed.tripod.com):

On Death

Have you ever smelled Death?

I have

it ate my mother who was an angel

and it's breath was cancer sweet

Have you ever seen Death?

I have

it's eyes are scarlet and it hides under beds

Have you ever heard Death?

I have

it's the rustle of wet leaves on an autumn day

Have you ever tasted Death?

I have

it tastes like cheap champagne

and is equally intoxicating

although the mornings after may be quite vile.

----------


## Scatterbrain

I have countless and countless of favourite poems
But *the* favourite is Rimbaud's _Season In Hell_

----------


## Xander

Hey, how are you? My favourite poem is The Raven by E.A. Poe, but it is too long, so I'll type a very beautiful poem, also by E.A. Poe. It is A Dream Within A Dream:

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow - 
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand - 
How few! Yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep - while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
them with a tighter clasp?
O God! Can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

----------


## the_imp

I don't have the book in front of me, so I'll just type in what I have memorized.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.
I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
'Tis some visitor I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow, from my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost lenore. 
For the rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 'Lenore' nameless here for evermore.
...........
I am getting very tired now, can't remember much more, I have to study and get some shut eye. I suggest you read the rest of the poem, it's wonderful. All of Poe's writings are brilliant works of art.

----------


## Satine

"To A Stranger" Walt Whitman

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you, 
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,) 
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, 
All is recalld as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, 
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me, 5 
I ate with you, and slept with youyour body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only, 
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we passyou take of my beard, breast, hands, in return, 
I am not to speak to youI am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone, 
I am to waitI do not doubt I am to meet you again, 
I am to see to it that I do not lose you 


All-time favorite (so far...)

----------


## Nocturnal

If I had to choose a single poem as my favourite, I would say John Milton's "Paradise Lost", which for obvious reasons I cannot quite quote here. 
However, I have a second fave that is as dear as Milton's masterpiece, albeit less monumental:

To-
by Percy Bsysshe Shelly

One word is too often profaned 
For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 
For thee to disdain it; 
One hope is too like despair 
For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 
Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love, 
But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 
And the heavens reject not,-- 
The desire of the moth for the star, 
Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow?

----------


## Pensive

> *She Walks In Beauty Like The Night*
> 
> She walks in beauty, like the night
> Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
> And all that's best of dark and bright
> Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
> Thus mellowed to that tender light
> Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
> 
> ...


Nice poem Scher... I love this poem.  :Smile:

----------


## Insomnia

Well, I don't have anything in mind right now... Maybe something fo Robert frost. 

I'm more into Arabic poetry  :Smile:  No poetry in the world can compete with it. but you have to be an Arabic speaker to appreciate it, translation dosn't work

----------


## chatnoir1311

I really love (like some other members) The Raven by E.A.Poe, "Ode to Joy" by Schiller and "The Prophet" by Alexandr Puschkin :

Parched with the spirit's thirst, I crossed 
An endless desert sunk in gloom, 
And a six-winged seraph came 
Where the tracks met and I stood lost. 
Fingers light as dream he laid 
Upon my lids; I opened wide 
My eagle eyes, and gazed around. 
He laid his fingers on my ears 
And they were filled with roaring sound: 
I heard the music of the spheres, 
The flight of angels through the skies, 
The beasts that crept beneath the sea, 
The heady uprush of the vine; 
And, like a lover kissing me, 
He rooted out this tongue of mine 
Fluent in lies and vanity; 
He tore my fainting lips apart 
And, with his right hand steeped in blood, 
He armed me with a serpent's dart; 
With his bright sword he split my breast; 
My heart leapt to him with a bound; 
A glowing livid coal he pressed 
Into the hollow of the wound. 
There in the desert I lay dead, 
And God called out to me and said: 
'Rise, prophet, rise, and hear, and see, 
And let my works be seen and heard 
By all who turn aside from me, 
And burn them with my fiery word.' 

1827

----------


## Satirical

Got to be the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Coleridge, beautiful.

----------


## YellowCrayola

I withdraw my entry from 09-21-2005. Sorry. My favorite poem is actually Annabel Lee, by EAP.  :Cool:

----------


## blp

If You, by Robert Creeley, is my current favourite:

If you were going to get a pet
What kind of animal would you get?

A soft-bodied dog, a hen
Feathers and fur to begin it again

when the sun goes down and it gets dark
I saw an animal in a park

Bring it home to give it to you
I have seen animals break in two

You were looking for something soft
And loyal and clean and wondrously careful

a form of otherwise vicious habit
could have long ears and be called a rabbit

Dead died will die want
Morning midnight I asked you

If you were going to get a pet 
What kind of animal would you get?

----------


## volvoreta

It's not my favourite poems, but it's by one of my favourite poets, Rosalia de Castro
Once upon a time I had
a nail nailed unto my heart,
and no longer remember if gold,
iron, or love the nail was. 
I only know it so deeply hurt me,
so much it tormented me,
that night and day, with no pause I cried
like Magdalene at the Passion cried,
Oh Lord, You who everything can do,
-I prayed to God once-
give me courage to, such a nail
with a single pull take out.
And God did, I took it out,
But  Who would have thought?
Then I did not feel tormented,
did not know what suffering was;
knew only something was missing
where that nail missing was,
and it seems, it seems I longed
for that sorrow  Oh, Good Lord!
This mortal clay wrapping the spirit
Who will understand it, Lord !

----------


## veronic

Adore this one:

_Shall Earth no more inspire thee, 
Thou lonely dreamer now ? 
Since passion may not fire thee 
Shall nature cease to bow ? 

Thy mind is ever moving 
In regions dark to thee; 
Recall its useless roving - 
Come back and dwell with me - 

I know my mountain breezes 
Enchant annd soothe thee still - 
I know my sunshine pleases 
Despite thy wayward will - 

When day with evening blending 
Sinks from the summer sky, 
I've seen thy spirit bending 
In fond idolotry - 

I've watched thee every hour - 
I know my mighty sway - 
I know my magic power 
To drive thy griefs away - 

Few hearts to mortal given 
On earth so wildly pine 
Yet none would ask a Heaven 
More like this Earth than thine - 

Then let my winds caress thee - 
Thy comrade let me be - 
Since nought beside can bless thee 
Return and dwell with me -_  

Emily Bronte

----------


## Psycheinaboat

I have loved poetry since childhood, and it is too difficult to narrow it down to one favorite.

I am not a huge fan of Emily Dickinson, but here is my fav. by her.

Because I could not stop for Death (712) 
by Emily Dickinson 


Because I could not stop for Death  
He kindly stopped for me  
The Carriage held but just Ourselves  
And Immortality.

We slowly drove  He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility  

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess  in the Ring  
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain  
We passed the Setting Sun  

Or rather  He passed us  
The Dews drew quivering and chill  
For only Gossamer, my Gown  
My Tippet  only Tulle  

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground  
The Roof was scarcely visible  
The Cornice  in the Ground  

Since then  'tis Centuries  and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads 
Were toward Eternity  


Get more Emily (and other poetry) here...

http://www.poets.org/

----------


## kev73107

because of her masterful use of language...

Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with it's yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.
-- Sylvia Plath

----------


## yellowfeverlime

Sadly, my favorite poem is my own:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=13666

----------


## geetanjali

A Man's requirements - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The Old Stoic - Emily Bronte
How Do I Love Thee- Elizabeth Barret Browning
Kubla Khan- S.T.Coleridge

----------


## Monkey Queen

This is my first proper post, I'm afraid although I love poetry I can tell you guys are way ahead of me in a literary sense! But I'm really glad I've found this site to improve my knowledge.  :Smile:  

My favourite poem is 

How Do I Love Thee? 
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

----------


## subterranean

This one recently becomes one of my favs:

* i like my body when it is with your*  by e.e. cummings


i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

----------


## yellowfeverlime

My favorite's are in the links on my signiature, but this one is OKAY:

The Perfect Day
I feel the wind
as it makes its way
i feel the sun
because it's a really hot day
i feel the rain
as it pounds the hard ground
i try to look up
but it forces me back down
i feel the rough ground
under my bare feet
i looked down
and see the raging waves
the blue and gray clashing together
the sharp rocks
creating mini tidal waves
i see a seagull
swiftly move above the water
as it picks up it's dinner in one quick move
i watch the lightning
making it's way to the ground
i hear the thunder
i suddenly turn around
i see my parents,
and their tear streaked faces,
running to wards me with incredible speed
i close my eyes
and start to fall back wards
as i reopen my eyes
i see my mom
on her knees
praying to me or the sun
i hit the rocks
with such great force
the last thing i heard
was my mother's scream
oh... what a perfect day...
for a suicide

Thanks for reading!!! Please Comment Thanks!!!
~Stevie~

----------


## Darlin

Monkey Queen, that's an excellent poem, one of my favorites. I like both the Brownings.

Another of my favorites is Edgar Allen Poe's the Bells which is so rhythmic I used to love to recite it. I like a lot of his poems, the Raven, Annabel Lee, really good stuff.

And welcome to the group!  :Wave:

----------


## Darlin

> This one recently becomes one of my favs:
> 
> * i like my body when it is with your*  by e.e. cummings
> 
> 
> i like my body when it is with your
> body. It is so quite a new thing.
> Muscles better and nerves more.
> i like your body. i like what it does,
> ...


Good choice, subterranean! I love e e cummings especially 'if ups the word' though I'm not sure on that title - it's one of my very favorites. I'll have to find it and post it. Also, 'in just spring', not sure of that title either but it's so light and fun.

----------


## subterranean

Darlin, I can find In Just, but no luck for the first one you mentioned.

* In Just*

In Just- 
spring when the world is mud- 
luscious the little 
lame baloonman 

whistles far and wee 

and eddieandbill come 
running from marbles and 
piracies and it's 
spring 

when the world is puddle-wonderful 

the queer 
old baloonman whistles 
far and wee 
and bettyandisbel come dancing 

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and 

it's 
spring 
and 
the 

goat-footed 

baloonMan whistles 
far 
and 
wee

----------


## Darlin

Subterranean, that is so nice of you! Thank you! I had no luck digging up my favorite poems by him - I'm awful and pulled them from the book I found them in - an old English Lit book that I bought ages ago. I never could find the other poem anywhere else either. Thanks again!

----------


## subterranean

No probs Darl  :Biggrin: 
I'm new to Cumming's and feel really excited with them. Am digging his works to get to know them and the poet himself as well..  :Nod:

----------


## Darlin

When I find it, though it might take a while I'll post it here. Will look for it over the weekend.

----------


## Scheherazade

This poem is part of my course work and its nostalgia has really touched my heart:

*If Life's a Lousy Picture, Why Not Leave Before the End*

Don't worry
One night we'll find that deserted kinema
The torches extinguished
The cornish ripples locked away in the safe
The tornoff tickets chucked
In the tornoff shotbin
the projectionist gone home to his nightmare

Don't worry
that film will still be running
(the one about the sunset)
& we'll find two horses
tethered in the front stalls
& we'll mount
& we'll ride off
_____into

___________our

___________________happy

__________________________ending


-Roger McGough

----------


## miss tenderness

i like many but most is IMMemoriam by Tennyson
 :Smile: i am so old an out of fashion

----------


## vidyanjali

Well I like Donne too. Like his 'The Flea'. In fact I wrote a poem in reaction to the flea in my blog called 'The Flea's Last Words'. Do read it. Click link below:


http://vidyanjali.blogspot.com/2005/...ast-words.html

----------


## Shira

_Oh my, I could fill a whole thread with nothing but my favorite poems! Here's one...randomly chosen..._

*CREATIVE WORK*  (Bryusov)

The shadow of uncreated creatures 
Flickers in sleep,
Like palm fronds
On an enamel wall.

Violet hands
On the enamel wall
Drowsily sketch sounds
In the ringing-resonant silence.

And transparent kiosks,
In the ringing-resonant silence,
Grow like spangles
In the azure moonlight.

A naked moon rises
In the azure moonlight...
Sounds hover drowsily,
Sounds caress me.

The secrets of created creatures
Caress me caressingly
And palm shadows gutter
On an enamel wall.

----------


## aceness2005

I found this on the internet but it didnt state who the poet was, just who posted it. Its sad but strikes a chord...
TOO LATE
I didn't know I loved you
Until you went away.
I didn't much think of you
Up to that final day.
The music that was you
I only noticed when it stopped.
I didn't take the time to
Tell you that I cared a lot.
My love of life went with you
Too late for me to say
I didn't know how much I loved you
Until the day you went away.
 :Frown:  
xxx

----------


## BigDaddy_GFS

I've always liked Alfred Lord Tennyson's 'Ulysses'

"....Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

----------


## Eva Marina

I don't know if anyone's already posted this one yet, but I love Emily Dickinson's poem "Because I Could Not Stop for Death". My dad, the poetry love he is, always used to say the first couple of lines to me when I was growing up so it kind of has a personal connection. 

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

----------


## LadyLeigh

I have to say that my favourite poem would be The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. Other than that Sylvia Plath's Daddy has a profound effect on me  :Nod:

----------


## Sandrine

I know that there has been some discussion about e.e. cummings. This is one of my all time favorite poems:

*in the rain-
darkness, the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul. rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered, and i

think
of you*

http://www.users.qwest.net/~mbenjami...es/poetry.html

----------


## Mortis Anarchy

Oh way too many for me. I love Poe, William Blake, Lord Byron, Neruda and Keats. BUT, lately W.B Yeats has become my addiction. This is my favorite poem in the world.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under you feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

----------


## Andriy

Hello, Monica

Just a couple of more words about the Lermontov poem. In Russian it is not clear who it is addressed to. Some say that it is addressed to God. The translation adds "my dear", which is absent in the original text. If you read it like this, it changes the meaning a lot. By the way, he wrote the poem in 1840 saying (again in the original) in the last two lines that "he hopes to thank you (God) not for long". Again an inaccurate translation. In 1841 at the age of 27 Lermontov is shot to death during a duel. His poem's request was granted. 





> I love poems by Poe, but there's also one by Lermontov I really find amusing
> "Gratitude"
> For all, for all! I thank you, o my dear:
> For passions' deeply hidden pledge,
> For poison of a kiss, and stinging of a tear,
> Abuse by friends, and enemies' revenge;
> For soul's light, extinguished in a prison,
> For things by which I was deceived before.
> But do not give me any real reason
> To give you thanks from now any more.

----------


## blp

Dear Thrasher, from McSweeney's Sestina page is amazing.

----------


## letsgooilers

The Creamation of Sam McGee By Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun 
By the men who moil for gold; 
The Arctic trails have their secret tales 
That would make your blood run cold; 
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, 
But the queerest they ever did see 
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge 
I cremated Sam McGee. 

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead--it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm— 
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.” 



There are strange things done in the midnight sun 
By the men who moil for gold; 
The Arctic trails have their secret tales 
That would make your blood run cold; 
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, 
But the queerest they ever did see 
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge 
I cremated Sam McGee.

----------


## jilliedub123

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory - 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
-----P.B. Shelley


As of right now this is my favorite poem. I have recently lost a good friend of mine, and this poem has helped me greatly. It's beautiful.

----------


## Virgil

So many great poems how could one have a favorite. Here's one that perhaps not everyone has come across.

"In A Dark Time" by Theodore Roethke


In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing woos--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or a winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon, 
And in a broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.


To all those who quoted In Memoriam, I too find that to be a magnificent work.

----------


## laura_c

_once on a yellow piece of paper, 
he wrote a poem 
and he called it "chops" 
because that was the name of his dog. 
and that's what it was about 
and his teacher gave him an A 
and a gold star 
and his mother hung it on he door 
and read it to his aunts 
that was the year father tracy 
took all the kids to the zoo 
and let them sing on the bus 
that was the year his little sister was born 
with tiny toenails and no hair 
and his mother and father kissed a lot 
and the girl around the corner sent him a 
valentine signed with a row of x's 
and he had to ask his father what the x's meant 
and his father always tucked him in at night 
and was always there to do it 
once on a piece of white paper with blue lines 
he wrote a poem called "autumn" 
because that was the name of the season 
snd that's what it was all about 
and his teacher gave him an A 
and asked him to write more clearly 
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door 
because of its new paint 
and the kids told him 
that father tracy smoked cigars 
and left butts on the pews 
and sometimes they would burn holes 
that was the year his sister got glasses 
with thick lenses and black frames 
and the girl around the corner laughed 
when he asked her to go see santa claus 
and the kids told him why 
his mother and father kissed a lot 
and his father never tucked him in at night 
and got mad 
when he cried for him to do it 
once on a piece of paper torn from his notebook 
he wrote a poem 
called "innocence; a question" 
because that was the question about his girl 
and that's what is was all about 
and his professor gave him an A 
and a strange steady look 
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door 
becaue he never showed her 
that was the year that father tracy died 
and he forgot how the end 
of apostle's creed went 
and he caught his sister 
making out on the back porch 
and his mother and father never kissed 
or even talked 
and the girl around the corner 
wore too much makeup 
that made him cough when he kissed her 
but he kissed her anyway 
because that was the thing to do 
and at three a.m he tucked himself into bed 
his father snoring soundly 
that's why on the back of a brown paper bag 
he tried another poem 
and he called it "absolutely nothing" 
becaue that's what it was really about 
and he gave himself an A 
and a slash on each damned wrist 
and he hung it on that bathroom door 
because he didn't think 
he could reach the kitchen_


I'm not sure of the author, but this is my favorite poem. It was featured in "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" (one of my all-time favorite books). Many people find the poem morbid, but I like it.

----------


## I like Blink182

I'm not sure if this would really be considered a poem or whatever but i like it. it's a poem inside a book. It's from the Perks of Being a Wallflower. Charlie, the main character finds this poem, and gives it as a christmas gift. So here it is:

once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
and he called it "chops"
because thet was the name of his dog
and that's what it was all about
and his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
and his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts

that was the year that father tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
and he let them sing on the bus
and his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
and his mother and father kissed a lot
and the girl around the corner sent him a
valentine signed with a row of x's
and he had to ask his father what the x's meant
and his father always tucked him in bed a night
and was always there to do it

once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
and he called it "autumn"
because that was the name of the seaon
and that's what it's all about
and his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
and the kids told him
that father tracy smoked cigars
and left butts on the pews
and sometimes they would burn holes
that was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
and the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see santa claus
and the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
and his father never tucked him in bed at night
and his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it

once on a piece of paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
and he called it "innocence:a question"
because that was the question about his girl
and that's what it was all about
and his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
that was the year that father tracy died
and he forgot how the end
of the apostle's creed went
and he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
and his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
and the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
that made him caugh when he kissed her
but he kissed hre anyway
because that was the thing to do
and at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

that's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
and he called it "absolutely nothing"
because that's what it was really all about
and he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned writs
and he hung it on the bathroom door
because he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.

Pages 70-73

----------


## I like Blink182

oh yeah well i didn't notice but laura posted the same thing as me haha... we both have good taste ; )

----------


## DaniS

Dream to Make Believe

If I were the sand
And you were the ocean
The moon would be
Why you're pulled to me.

I wake up and think dreams are real
I sleep so I don't have to feel
The truth that you can never be
The one person that won't ever forget me.

Love it.

----------


## Nevermore

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, of course!

----------


## XoxangelFuryxoX

love poe... "Tamerlane" is one of my favorites...

 TAMERLANE

by Edgar Allan Poe 
(1827)     


Kind solace in a dying hour! 
Such, father, is not (now) my theme- 
I will not madly deem that power 
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin 
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in- 
I have no time to dote or dream: 
You call it hope- that fire of fire! 
It is but agony of desire: 
If I can hope- Oh God! I can- 
Its fount is holier- more divine- 
I would not call thee fool, old man, 
But such is not a gift of thine. 

Know thou the secret of a spirit 
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. 
O yearning heart! I did inherit 
Thy withering portion with the fame, 
The searing glory which hath shone 
Amid the jewels of my throne, 
Halo of Hell! and with a pain 
Not Hell shall make me fear again- 
O craving heart, for the lost flowers 
And sunshine of my summer hours! 
The undying voice of that dead time, 
With its interminable chime, 
Rings, in the spirit of a spell, 
Upon thy emptiness- a knell. 

I have not always been as now: 
The fever'd diadem on my brow 
I claim'd and won usurpingly- 
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
Rome to the Caesar- this to me? 
The heritage of a kingly mind, 
And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 

On mountain soil I first drew life: 
The mists of the Taglay have shed 
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife 
And tumult of the headlong air 
Have nestled in my very hair. 

So late from Heaven- that dew- it fell 
(Mid dreams of an unholy night) 
Upon me with the touch of Hell, 
While the red flashing of the light 
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, 
Appeared to my half-closing eye 
The pageantry of monarchy, 
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar 
Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
Of human battle, where my voice, 
My own voice, silly child!- was swelling 
(O! how my spirit would rejoice, 
And leap within me at the cry) 
The battle-cry of Victory! 

The rain came down upon my head 
Unshelter'd- and the heavy wind 
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. 
It was but man, I thought, who shed 
Laurels upon me: and the rush- 
The torrent of the chilly air 
Gurgled within my ear the crush 
Of empires- with the captive's prayer- 
The hum of suitors- and the tone 
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. 

My passions, from that hapless hour, 
Usurp'd a tyranny which men 
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, 
My innate nature- be it so: 
But father, there liv'd one who, then, 
Then- in my boyhood- when their fire 
Burn'd with a still intenser glow, 
(For passion must, with youth, expire) 
E'en then who knew this iron heart 
In woman's weakness had a part. 

I have no words- alas!- to tell 
The loveliness of loving well! 
Nor would I now attempt to trace 
The more than beauty of a face 
Whose lineaments, upon my mind, 
Are- shadows on th' unstable wind: 
Thus I remember having dwelt 
Some page of early lore upon, 
With loitering eye, till I have felt 
The letters- with their meaning- melt 
To fantasies- with none. 

O, she was worthy of all love! 
Love- as in infancy was mine- 
'Twas such as angel minds above 
Might envy; her young heart the shrine 
On which my every hope and thought 
Were incense- then a goodly gift, 
For they were childish and upright- 
Pure- as her young example taught: 
Why did I leave it, and, adrift, 
Trust to the fire within, for light? 

We grew in age- and love- together, 
Roaming the forest, and the wild; 
My breast her shield in wintry weather- 
And when the friendly sunshine smil'd, 
And she would mark the opening skies, 
I saw no Heaven- but in her eyes. 

Young Love's first lesson is- the heart: 
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles, 
When, from our little cares apart, 
And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, 
And pour my spirit out in tears- 
There was no need to speak the rest- 
No need to quiet any fears 
Of her- who ask'd no reason why, 
But turn'd on me her quiet eye! 

Yet more than worthy of the love 
My spirit struggled with, and strove, 
When, on the mountain peak, alone, 
Ambition lent it a new tone- 
I had no being- but in thee: 
The world, and all it did contain 
In the earth- the air- the sea- 
Its joy- its little lot of pain 
That was new pleasure- the ideal, 
Dim vanities of dreams by night- 
And dimmer nothings which were real- 
(Shadows- and a more shadowy light!) 
Parted upon their misty wings, 
And, so, confusedly, became 
Thine image, and- a name- a name! 
Two separate- yet most intimate things. 

I was ambitious- have you known 
The passion, father? You have not: 
A cottager, I mark'd a throne 
Of half the world as all my own, 
And murmur'd at such lowly lot- 
But, just like any other dream, 
Upon the vapour of the dew 
My own had past, did not the beam 
Of beauty which did while it thro' 
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress 
My mind with double loveliness. 

We walk'd together on the crown 
Of a high mountain which look'd down 
Afar from its proud natural towers 
Of rock and forest, on the hills- 
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers, 
And shouting with a thousand rills. 

I spoke to her of power and pride, 
But mystically- in such guise 
That she might deem it nought beside 
The moment's converse; in her eyes 
I read, perhaps too carelessly- 
A mingled feeling with my own- 
The flush on her bright cheek, to me 
Seem'd to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should let it be 
Light in the wilderness alone. 

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then, 
And donn'd a visionary crown- 
Yet it was not that Fantasy 
Had thrown her mantle over me- 
But that, among the rabble- men, 
Lion ambition is chained down- 
And crouches to a keeper's hand- 
Not so in deserts where the grand- 
The wild- the terrible conspire 
With their own breath to fan his fire. 

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand! 
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride 
Above all cities? in her hand 
Their destinies? in all beside 
Of glory which the world hath known 
Stands she not nobly and alone? 
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone 
Shall form the pedestal of a throne- 
And who her sovereign? Timour- he 
Whom the astonished people saw 
Striding o'er empires haughtily 
A diadem'd outlaw! 

O, human love! thou spirit given 
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! 
Which fall'st into the soul like rain 
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain, 
And, failing in thy power to bless, 
But leav'st the heart a wilderness! 
Idea! which bindest life around 
With music of so strange a sound, 
And beauty of so wild a birth- 
Farewell! for I have won the Earth. 

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see 
No cliff beyond him in the sky, 
His pinions were bent droopingly- 
And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye. 
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part 
There comes a sullenness of heart 
To him who still would look upon 
The glory of the summer sun. 
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist, 
So often lovely, and will list 
To the sound of the coming darkness (known 
To those whose spirits hearken) as one 
Who, in a dream of night, would fly 
But cannot from a danger nigh. 

What tho' the moon- the white moon 
Shed all the splendour of her noon, 
Her smile is chilly, and her beam, 
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath) 
A portrait taken after death. 
And boyhood is a summer sun 
Whose waning is the dreariest one- 
For all we live to know is known, 
And all we seek to keep hath flown- 
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
With the noon-day beauty- which is all. 

I reach'd my home- my home no more 
For all had flown who made it so. 
I pass'd from out its mossy door, 
And, tho' my tread was soft and low, 
A voice came from the threshold stone 
Of one whom I had earlier known- 
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show 
On beds of fire that burn below, 
A humbler heart- a deeper woe. 

Father, I firmly do believe- 
I know- for Death, who comes for me 
From regions of the blest afar, 
Where there is nothing to deceive, 
Hath left his iron gate ajar, 
And rays of truth you cannot see 
Are flashing thro' Eternity- 
I do believe that Eblis hath 
A snare in every human path- 
Else how, when in the holy grove 
I wandered of the idol, Love, 
Who daily scents his snowy wings 
With incense of burnt offerings 
From the most unpolluted things, 
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven, 
No mote may shun- no tiniest fly- 
The lightning of his eagle eye- 
How was it that Ambition crept, 
Unseen, amid the revels there, 
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt 
In the tangles of Love's very hair?

----------


## DannyCreep

Robert Frost, a little out there, and still not as great as Poe, but good all the same.



The rose is a rose,

And was always a rose.

But now the theory goes

That the apple's a rose,

And the pear is, and so's

The plum, I suppose.

The dear only knows

What will next prove a rose.

You, of course, are a rose--

But were always a rose.

----------


## Weeping Willow

Emily dickinson Hope is the Thing with Feathers. I don't know why but i'm not the most
optimistic person and this song just makes my smile for some reason.


Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

----------


## MikeK

"Come In" by Robert Frost:

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.

Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.

----------


## Matilda

So many of my favourite poems are in swedish, and I don't think they're translated, or I would love sharing them with you.
Otherwise one of my favourite egnlish poems is one by Emily Dickinson, called something like A Country Burial.
It's not so much the text I like, more the rythm of the words and the expression "sunrise' yellow noise", I would never have thought of describing sunrise as a noise!

----------


## prasanthja

The best poem is " The Ballad of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde.

My favourite portion is 


"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"

----------


## Virgil

Since this is Christmas day, how about a religious poem by Gerard Manly Hopkins, who also happened to be a Catholic priest.

*Pied Beauty*  by Gerard Manly Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things--
For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-fire coal chestnut falls; finches wings;
Lanscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

----------


## alexanderpope

My favorite poem is a metaphysical one by John Donne:

THE APPARITION.
by John Donne


WHEN by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead,
And that thou thinkst thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see :
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call'st for more,
And, in false sleep, will from thee shrink :
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie,
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee ; and since my love is spent,
I'd rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threatenings rest still innocent.

----------


## Virgil

Nice poem. I don't recall reading that one before. Why your favorite? Do you have some wish to get revenge on an old girl friend?

----------


## socratica

While we are on the subject of John Donne, let me share a poem of his that I like. It is one of my favorite carpe diem poems not only because of its subject, which is fairly obvious, but the metaphors and allusions that he uses to illustrate his point. Phrases like "O my America! my new-found-land..." (27) and "To enter in these bonds is to be free" (31) are worth making part of one's repertoire. Also, the allusion to the Greek myth of Atlanta and Hippomenes (36) and Mahomet's Paradise (21) are quite catchy. Well, here is the poem:

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labor, I in labor lie.
The foe oft-times, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heavens zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear
That the eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that it is bed-time.
Off with that happy busk (bodice) which I envy,
That still can be and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals
As when from flowery meads thhills shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow;
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this loves hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heavens angels used to be
Received by men; thou, angel, bringst with thee
A heaven like Mahomets paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! My new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery (empire),
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds is to be free;
There where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee.
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlantas balls , cast in mens views, 
That when a fools eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books gay coverings, made
For laymen, are all women thus arrayed;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see revealed. Then since that I may know,
As liberally as to a midwife show
Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hencde
Here is no penance, much less innocence. 
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man?

----------


## Xamonas Chegwe

This may well have been posted before but I haven't got time to go back through all of the pages to see. It's one of my favourites anyway and should be required reading for anyone in the world thinking of joining the army.

*Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est*

_Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori._

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori = It is sweet and right to die for your country

----------


## Schokokeks

My favourite would be _I will make you brooches_ by Robert Louis Stevenson:

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

----------


## jinshui-yue

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud


For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils.

My Heart Leaps Up My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

----------


## jinshui-yue

My Heart Leaps Up My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
 :Thumbs Up:

----------


## Weeping Willow

Just run into an nice poem.. can't say why exactly i like it .. but i do! and that's what matters most!

Jenny Joseph - Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

----------


## rachel

er um,
I think one should grow even more noble as we age. I for one won't be inviting that little lady over to dinner any time soon. I hate the thought that we do honorable things only because it is a duty and not a passion from the heart.
I think that woman lives four doors down. I am ducking my head low as I speak for fear she will see me and come running over for yet another cup of coffee and vulgar gossip.

----------


## Weeping Willow

Sorry you didn't like it Rach' ...  :Frown: ... but she isn't that bad is she???  :Blush: 
It's just the spirit of nonsense...

----------


## rachel

Actually because I have worked in a senior's residence I met my share of these 'little women.' They are meaner than a pit bull, brattier than Dennis the Menace and grosser than any scruffy ugly pirate you could ever meet. But I still thought it funny.
I miss you, did you get my thingy about your msn thingy?

----------


## rachel

Everyone
please take care of my Willow when I am gone. See to it he eats well, gets his rest and please all of you help him with his homework. And of course hugs and lots of yummy treats.
thank you

butterfly 
butterfly
whose the soul thou didst bear
butterfly 
butterfly
yesterday to heaven.

an ancient Celtic poem/prayer

----------


## Weeping Willow

Dearest Rachel! i promise to be here Safe and sound until you'll return!..  :Smile: ...

----------


## Aurora Ariel

My favourite poem- I wouldn't know exactly where to begin!There are so many!I have such a vast list of poets, that I have read, from nearly every era.There are the shorter poems, and then there are very long works which I could not possibly post in this thread.I try to make these lists of my favourite works by each poet all the time, and recently I was reading quite a few favourites by W.B Yeats.The poem right below is one of the first poems I ever read by him, and remains one of my favourites from this particular poet.



W.B. Yeats (18651939). The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919. 

1. The Wild Swans at Coole 


THE TREES are in their autumn beauty, 
The woodland paths are dry, 
Under the October twilight the water 
Mirrors a still sky; 
Upon the brimming water among the stones 
Are nine and fifty swans. 

The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me 
Since I first made my count; 
I saw, before I had well finished, 
All suddenly mount 
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings 
Upon their clamorous wings. 

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, 
And now my heart is sore. 
Alls changed since I, hearing at twilight, 
The first time on this shore, 
The bell-beat of their wings above my head, 
Trod with a lighter tread. 

Unwearied still, lover by lover, 
They paddle in the cold, 
Companionable streams or climb the air; 
Their hearts have not grown old; 
Passion or conquest, wander where they will, 
Attend upon them still. 

But now they drift on the still water 
Mysterious, beautiful; 
Among what rushes will they build, 
By what lakes edge or pool 
Delight mens eyes, when I awake some day 
To find they have flown away? 


*These were included on my W.B Yeats list :but there are still many more!


THE FALLING OF THE LEAVES

AUTUMN is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.
The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

WHO dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usnas children died.
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid mens souls, that waver and give place
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.

A POET TO HIS BELOVED

I BRING you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.

----------


## carina_gino20

hi. I'm new to this forum and would like to share a poem by Filipino poet Jose Garcia Villa

First, A Poem Must Be Magical
By Jose Garcia Villa

First, a poem must be magical,
Then musical as a seagull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a birds flowering
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must hold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear 
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poems cover.

----------


## Virgil

> I try to make these lists of my favourite works by each poet all the time, and recently I was reading quite a few favourites by W.B Yeats.The poem right below is one of the first poems I ever read by him, and remains one of my favourites from this particular poet.


Always a good reason to read W.B. Yeats. Nice choices, Aurora.

----------


## Virgil

Time for me to post a new "favorite":

*Shadows* by D.H. Lawrence

And if tonight my soul may find her peace
in sleep, and sink in good oblivion,
and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower
then I have been dipped again in God, and new created.

And if, as weeks go round, in the dark of the moon
my spirit darkens and goes out, and soft, strange gloom
pervades my movements and my thoughts and words
then I shall know that I am walking still 
with God, we are close together now the moon's in shadow.

And if, as autumn deepens and darkens,
I feel the pain of falling leaves, and stems that break in storms
and trouble and dissolution and distress
and then the softness of deep shadows folding, folding
around my soul and spirit, around my lips
so sweet, like a swoon, or more like the drowse of a low, sad song
and the silence of short days the silence of the year, the shadow,
then I shall know that my life is moving still
with the dark earth, and drenched 
with the deep oblivion of earth's lapse and renewal.

And if, in the charming phases of man's life,
I fall in sickness and in misery
my wrists seem broken and my heart seems dead
and strength is gone, and my life
is only the leavings of a life:

and still, among it all, snatches of lovely oblivion, and snatches of renewal
odd wintry flowers upon the withered stem, yet new, strange flowers
such as my life has not brought forth before, new blossoms of me--

then I must know that still
I am in the hands of the unkown God,
he is breaking me down to his own oblivion
to send me forth on a new morning, a new man.

----------


## Fontainhas

Aw man, this sucks. I have the best portuguese poems by Fernando Pessoa! *makes a wave with the wand and everyone understands the language* 
It's a beautiful poem....  :Nod:

----------


## kmwmn

Paul Laurence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes -
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, 
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world by over-wise
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise, 
We wear the mask.

----------


## Virgil

> Aw man, this sucks. I have the best portuguese poems by Fernando Pessoa! *makes a wave with the wand and everyone understands the language* 
> It's a beautiful poem....


If you pick a short one, why not post it in Portuguese and then try to translate it for us?

----------


## Fontainhas

> If you pick a short one, why not post it in Portuguese and then try to translate it for us?


Okay.... here it goes:

Onda que enrolada tornas, pequena
Ao mar que te trouxe.
E ao recuar te transtornas
Como se o mar nada fosse.

Porque é que levas contigo
só a tua cessação?
E ao voltar ao mar antigo
não levas meu coração?

Á tanto tempo que o tenho 
que me pesa de o sentir
Leva-o no som sem tamanho
Com que te oiço fugir!

You're going to have to wait awhile until I get this translated though.

----------


## malwethien

This is one of my favorite poems. It's by Emily Dickinson.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes 
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Toombs 
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, 
And Yesterday, or Centuries before? 

The Feet, mechanical, go round 
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought 
A Wooden way 
Regardless grown, 
A Quartz contentment, like a stone 

This is the Hour of Lead 
Remembered, if outlived, 
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow 
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go

----------


## Virgil

> This is one of my favorite poems. It's by Emily Dickinson.
> 
> After great pain, a formal feeling comes 
> The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Toombs 
> The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, 
> And Yesterday, or Centuries before? 
> 
> The Feet, mechanical, go round 
> Of Ground, or Air, or Ought 
> ...


Yeah, that's one of the great ones. I love it too. "This is the hour of lead." You can't find a better line than that.

----------


## belle ringer

_ XVII: Cien sonetos de amor_
Pablo Neruda

_No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de chaveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de si, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que acendio de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber como, ni cuando, ni de donde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asi te amo porque no se amar de otra manera,

sino asi de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mia,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueno._

----------


## jptaylorsg

W.C. Williams
Spring and All


By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast  a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the rood the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines 
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches 

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind 

Now the grass, to-morrow
the stiff curl of wild-carrot leaf

One by one objects are defined 
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance  Still, the profound change
has come upon them; rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken

----------


## Virgil

That's a really nice poem, jp. One of my favorites too. I was just thinking of it the other day when we got a touch of spring weather and I noticed my crocuses poping up.

----------


## Geochelonian

I don't know if this has already been done, but I'd like to post my translations of some of Catullus' love poetry. Here's # 5 to start out:

VIVAMUS mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus invidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Let us live and let us love, my Lesbia,
And let us value all the gossip of cruel old men at a single as.*
Suns can die and be born again, 
But for us, when the brief light dies,
The night is a perpetual sleep.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
Then anothe thousand, and a second hundred,
Then even another thousand, and a hundred more.
Then, when we have had many thousands, 
We will mix them together, lest we know,
Or lest some evil person will curse us
When he knows how many kisses there are.

* as - a coin of a very low denomination

----------


## bluevictim

Thanks for posting your translation, Geochelonian. I'd definitely enjoy reading more of your translations of Catullus.

For those who don't already know, there are a couple of other translations at www.perseus.tufts.edu

----------


## Geochelonian

It's very interesting to read the Lesbia poems in order, and see how Catullus' feelings for her change over time. Compare #5 with #85, possibly the best 2 line poem ever written:

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio. Sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do it.
I don't know. But I feel it happens (to me), and I am tortured.


The parenthetical 'to me' is my own interpolation, which I feel is strongly implied by the content of many of the earlier Lesbia poems. I once got into a disagreement with a professor at the University of South Carolina regarding that. I couln't convince him, but he couldn't convince me either.  :Tongue:

----------


## Virgil

Time to post a new "favorite" poem. I'm not a huge Tennyson fan, but when he hits the right note he is excellent. Here's one I'm sure everyone has read at some point, but I just felt like re-reading it, and so i'll post it.





> *Ullyses* by Lord Alfred Tennyson
> 
> It little profits that an idle king,
> By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
> Matched with and aged wife, I mete and dole
> Unequal laws unto a savage race,
> That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
> I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
> Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
> ...

----------


## rachel

I on the other hand am a die hard Tennyson fan and this that you have chosen is the one I love best.It speaks to me on so many levels and is absolutely spilling over with noble and bejewelled thoughts that stand on their own.
My favorite lines are:
some work of noble note may yet be done-

tis not too late to seek a new world

and: though much is taken much abides and though
we are not now that strength which in old days
moved earth and heaven; that which we are we are.
those words speak to me of each of us that will to, living out our very own "once upon a time" with all the strength and courage we possess until we have done all we knew to do, could do, would do and hearing voices upon a far off shore go there full of length of days if maybe and memories we alone and corporately have carved with tools of blood sweat and tears.

----------


## Virgil

> I on the other hand am a die hard Tennyson fan and this that you have chosen is the one I love best.It speaks to me on so many levels and is absolutely spilling over with noble and bejewelled thoughts that stand on their own.
> My favorite lines are:
> some work of noble note may yet be done-
> 
> tis not too late to seek a new world
> 
> and: though much is taken much abides and though
> we are not now that strength which in old days
> moved earth and heaven; that which we are we are.
> those words speak to me of each of us that will to, living out our very own "once upon a time" with all the strength and courage we possess until we have done all we knew to do, could do, would do and hearing voices upon a far off shore go there full of length of days if maybe and memories we alone and corporately have carved with tools of blood sweat and tears.


Yes those are great lines. I do like a bit of tennyson, but then there are poems I don't find in the least interesting. I will say that In Memoriam is a great, great poem and worthy of comparison with the great epics. On the other hand, everyone loves his King Arthur poems, but I don't find them that interesting. And I love Arthurian legends.

----------


## Honey_Ryder62

I've loved it since I was little, probally; like true things we charish what we know.

*The Romany Girl*
_by: Ralph Waldo Emerson_

The sun goes down, and with him takes 
The coarseness of my por attire; 
The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame 
Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher.

Pale Northern girls! you scorn our race; 
You captives of your air-tight halls, 
Wear out in-doors your sickly days, 
But leave us the horizon walls.

And if I take you, dames, to task, 
And say it frankly without guile, 
Then you are Gypsies in a mask, 
And I the lady all the while.

If, on the heath, below the moon, 
I court and play with paler blood, 
Me false to mine dare whisper none,-- 
One sallow horseman knows me good.

Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain, 
For teeth and hair with shopmen deal; 
My swarthy tint is in the grain, 
The rocks and forest know it real.

The wild air bloweth in out lungs, 
The keen stars twinkle in our eyes, 
The birds gave us our wily tongues, 
The panther in our dances flies.

You doubt we read the stars on high, 
Nathless we read your fortunes true; 
The stars may hide in the upper sky, 
But without glass we fathom you.

----------


## lavendar1

Funny how 'stuff' -- mood, time of day...even the weather can bring a favorite poem to mind:

_The night is darkening round me,_ 
_The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighted with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go._

"Spellbound" -- Emily Bronte

----------


## bluevictim

Here's a classic. In keeping with the spirit of the poem, I made a couple of "emendations" (source).


FRAGMENT OF A GREEK TRAGEDY
by A.E. Housman

CHORUS: O suitably-attired-in-leather-boots
Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what way how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?
My object in inquiring is to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb
And do not understand a word I say,
Then wave your hand, to signify as much.

ALCMAEON: I journeyed hither a Boetian road.
CHORUS: Sailing on horseback, or with feet for oars? 
ALCMAEON: Plying with speed my partnership of legs.
CHORUS: Beneath a shining or a rainy Zeus?
ALCMAEON: Mud's sister, not himself, adorns my shoes.
CHORUS: To learn your name would not displease me much.
ALCMAEON: Not all that men desire do they obtain.
CHORUS: Might I then hear at what thy presence shoots.
ALCMAEON: A shepherd's questioned mouth informed me that--
CHORUS: What? for I know not yet what you will say.
ALCMAEON: Nor will you ever, if you interrupt.
CHORUS: Proceed, and I will hold my speechless tongue.
ALCMAEON: This house was Eriphyle's, no one else's.
CHORUS: Nor did he shame his throat with shameful lies.
ALCMAEON: May I then enter, passing through the door?
CHORUS: Go chase into the house a lucky foot.
And, O my son, be, on the one hand, good,
And do not, on the other hand, be bad;
For that is much the safest plan.
ALCMAEON: I go into the house with heels and speed.

CHORUS

Strophe

In speculation
I would not willingly acquire a name
For ill-digested thought;
But after pondering much
To this conclusion I at last have come:
LIFE IS UNCERTAIN.
This truth I have written deep
In my reflective midriff
On tablets not of wax,
Nor with a pen did I inscribe it there,
For many reasons: LIFE, I say, IS NOT
A STRANGER TO UNCERTAINTY.
Not from the flight of omen-yelling fowls
This fact did I discover,
Nor did the Delphine tripod bark it out,
Nor yet Dodona.
Its native ingenuity sufficed
My self-taught diaphragm.

Antistrophe

Why should I mention
The Inachean daughter, loved of Zeus?
Her whom of old the gods,
More provident than kind,
Provided with four hoofs, two horns, one tail,
A gift not asked for,
And sent her forth to learn
The unfamiliar science
Of how to chew the cud.
She therefore, all about the Argive fields,
Went cropping pale green grass and nettle-tops,
Nor did they disagree with her.
But yet, howe'er nutritious, such repasts
I do not hanker after:
Never may Cypris for her seat select
My dappled liver!
Why should I mention Io? Why indeed?
I have no notion why.

Epode

But now does my boding heart,
Unhired, unaccompanied, sing
A strain not meet for the dance.
Yes even the palace appears
To my yoke of circular eyes
(The right, nor omit I the left)
Like a slaughterhouse, so to speak,
Garnished with woolly deaths
And many shipwrecks of cows.
I therefore in a Cissian strain lament:
And to the rapid
Loud, linen-tattering thumps upon my chest
Resounds in concert
The battering of my unlucky head.

ERIPHYLE (within): O, I am smitten with a hatchet's jaw;
And that in deed and not in word alone.
CHORUS: I thought I heard a sound within the house
Unlike the voice of one that jumps for joy.
ERIPHYLE: He splits my skull, not in a friendly way,
Once more: he purposes to kill me dead.
CHORUS: I would not be reputed rash, but yet
I doubt if all be gay within the house.
ERIPHYLE: O! O! another stroke! that makes the third.
He stabs me to the heart against my wish.
CHORUS: If that be so, thy state of health is poor;
But thine arithmetic is quite correct.

-------------------------

45 ingenuity] ingunuity
73 shipwrecks] sphipwrecks

----------


## chook

> Yes those are great lines. I do like a bit of tennyson, but then there are poems I don't find in the least interesting. I will say that In Memoriam is a great, great poem and worthy of comparison with the great epics. On the other hand, everyone loves his King Arthur poems, but I don't find them that interesting. And I love Arthurian legends.


About 15 years ago I was watching Rumpole of the Bailey on the ABC when Rumpole entered Pomeroy"s wine bar and looked at Erskin Brown. He repeated these words. 
"What doth ail thee Knight at arms. 
Alone and palely loitering"

I had no more idea of poetry than my dog at that time. If I thought of it at all then I thought that it was at best a waste of space. But then the words of the poem cpatured me. I do not know why but I could not get them out of my head. Fortunately I found a librariian who new where the words came from and I was away. La Belle Dame San Merci was the first poem to ever capture my mind. Ullyssess was the second. Others in the forum have quoted parts that they enjoy. I want some of it read at my funeral (at some far distant date!). I am a recent newcomer to these forums. You may understand how wonderful it is to me to find that I am not alone in my love of these things. My friends and family are kind to me but I know that they (try as they might) cannot share the wonder at the sounds of the words or the images that they create. There is no one in my current environment to whom I can say "Isn't that amazing" and get sympathetic response. 

I have a cassette called Epic poems and they are a set of old poems read by an english actor called Robert Powell. On it is the poem "The Death of Arthur" I think it is properly spelled Mort De Arthur. I you can get the cassette it is great. There are also such things as Gray's A Elegy written in a Country Church Yard and other wonders.

----------


## woeful painter

*Sonnets From the Portugese*
_Elizabeth Barret Browning_

*XIV. If thou must love me, let it be for nought*

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, -
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.

----------


## ElizabethSewall

This one is beautiful Woeful! It could go in the thread "What is love" as well.

----------


## chook

> Yes those are great lines. I do like a bit of tennyson, but then there are poems I don't find in the least interesting. I will say that In Memoriam is a great, great poem and worthy of comparison with the great epics. On the other hand, everyone loves his King Arthur poems, but I don't find them that interesting. And I love Arthurian legends.


It is interesting the way we see bits in a poem differently. 

The part that goes 
and: though much is taken much abides and though
we are not now that strength which in old days
moved earth and heaven; that which we are we are.

made me think about the processes of aging. Much is taken as we get older but the really important parts of us remain. The inner strength (or weakness) of character that we have built up over the years is not necessarily taken as we age. But as we lose our ability to hide what we really are the essential part of us can be more clearly seen. We are exposed in old age, when in youth mere stength and activity could have hidden us. What remains is the true core of us. "What we are , we are."

But be sure. I do not claim that this is what those verses in the poem mean. That is only the effect that the words had on me. Others apparently have been rightly effected in other and perhaps better ways. But that is what a good poem does. It comes to life in the mind of the reader.

----------


## fatsaint

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be, 
Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean.


Without either sign or sound of their shock 
The waves flowd over the Inchcape Rock; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.


The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung.


When the Rock was hid by the surges swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell; 
And then they knew the perilous Rock, 
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.


The Sun in heaven was shining gay, 
All things were joyful on that day; 
The sea-birds screamd as they wheeld round, 
And there was joyaunce in their sound.


The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walkd his deck, 
And he fixd his eye on the darker speck.


He felt the cheering power of spring, 
It made his whistle, it made him sing; 
His heart was mirthful to excess, 
But the Rovers mirth was wickedness.


His eye was on the Inchcape float; 
Quoth he, My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And Ill plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.


The boat is lowerd, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.


Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound, 
The bubbles rose and burst around; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, The next who comes to the Rock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'


Sir Ralph the Rover saild away, 
He scourd the seas for many a day; 
And now grown rich with plunderd store, 
He steers his course for Scotlands shore.


So thick a haze oerspreads the sky 
They cannot see the Sun on high; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day, 
At evening it hath died away.


On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.


Canst hear, said one, the breakers roar? 
For methinks we should be near the shore. 
Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.


They hear no sound, the swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,― 
Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!


Sit Ralph the Rover tore his hair; 
He curst himself in his despair; 
The waves rush in on every side, 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.


But even in his dying fear 
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, 
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell, 
The Devil below was ringing his knell. 
-Robert Southey

I just cant get it out of my head!

----------


## fatsaint

If
by Rudyard Kipling



If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 
But make allowance for their doubting too; 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 
Or being lied about, dont deal in lies, 
Or being hated, dont give way to hating, 
And yet dont look too good, nor talk too wise:


If you can dream―and not make dreams your master; 
If you can think―and not make thoughts your aim; 
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 
And treat those two impostors just the same; 
If you can bear to hear the truth youve spoken 
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 
And stoop and build em up with worn-out tools:


If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings 
And never breathe a word about your loss; 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 
To serve your turn long after they are gone, 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 
Except the Will which says to them: Hold on!


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with Kings―nor lose the common touch, 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 
If all men count with you, but none too much; 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds worth of distance run, 
Yours is the Earth and everything thats in it, 
And―which is more―youll be a Man, my son! 

Another one of my favorites! I also like "The Female Of The Species" By Rudyard Kipling. But i cannot post it!

----------


## Virgil

> What Are Years?
> 
> What is our innocence,
> what is our guilt? All are
> naked, none is safe. And whence
> is courage: the unanswered question,
> the resolute doubt, -
> dumbly calling, deftly listening - that
> in misfortune, even death,
> ...


Lavender, that truely is a fine poem, that doesn't look like much poetry at first until you start breaking down the poetics and finding it's beauty. Plus it's a fine sermon as well.


edit: You can find the entire poem in this thread on page 4, post #60.

----------


## Virgil

Here's a good one by Raymond Carver. He actually died of lung cancer, so I imagine this came out of his experience.




> *What The Doctor Said*  by Raymond carver
> He said it doesn't look good
> he said it looks bad in fact real bad
> he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
> I quit counting them
> I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
> about any more being there than that
> he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
> in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
> ...

----------


## _JadeRain_

Gunga Din
By Rudyard Kipling

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery ~hitherao~!
Water, get it! ~Panee lao~! [Bring water swiftly.]
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!" [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for "O brother."]
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some ~juldee~ in it [Be quick.]
Or I'll ~marrow~ you this minute [Hit you.]
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is ~mussick~ on 'is back, [Water-skin.]
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!  :Thumbs Up:

----------


## Jay

Not sure if it wasn't already submitted...

*Percy Bysshe Shelley: The Cloud*

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

----------


## Gozeta

First time I ever read this poem. Not bad....

----------


## Jay

What I like most about the poem is the... can't remember what it's called, lol. The way the words make you as if hear what's described in the poem. You can almost hear and see the cloud on its journey.

----------


## Jarndyce

Here's one of all-time favorites:

Eyes Fastened With Pins 
by Charles Simic 


How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors... 
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.

----------


## Jarndyce

Another:

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock 
by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

----------


## Bandini

I haven't got a real favourite - this ones OK

trapped

don't undress my love
you might find a mannequin;
don't undress the mannequin
you might find
my love.

she's long ago
forgotten me.

she's trying on a new
hat
and looks more the
coquette
than ever.

she is a
child
and a mannequin
and
death.

I can't hate
that.

she didn't do
anything
unusual.

I only wanted her
to. 

Bukowski

----------


## rachel

I love it. it is just so unusual and real and surreal at the same time.

----------


## Ron Price

BEGINNING IN 59 OR WAS IT 69?*

* In 1869 Baudelaire, arguably the founder of modern prose-poetry, published his Petits Poems en Prose. In 1959 Charles Simic published his first poem and I became a Bahá'í.

American poet Charles Simic's first works were published in 1959 when he was twenty-one. Between that year and 1961, when he entered military service, he churned out a number of poems, most of which he has since destroyed. My first poems came from these years as well. They were never published and they were thrown away soon after they were written. I was 15 in 1959 and had just joined the midget baseball league and the Bahá'í Faith, in that order.

Simic and I earned our BA degrees in 1966. I was 22; he was 28. Simic went on to publish poetry and I went on to the teaching profession. His first full-length collection of poems, What the Grass Says, was published in 1967. Simic's quite original poetry in English and translations of important Yugoslavian poets began to attract critical attention by the time I had moved to Australia in 1971. In The American Moment: American Poetry in the Mid-Century Geoffrey Thurley notes that the substance of Simic's earliest work was European and rural rather than American and urban. The world his poetry created was that of central Europe and its woods, ponds and peasant furniture." 

Simic's work defies easy categorization. Some poems reflect a surreal, metaphysical bent and others offer grimly realistic portraits of violence and despair. Hudson Review contributor Vernon Young maintains that memory with its taproot deep into European folklore is the common source of all of Simic's poetry. Simic is a graduate of NYU; he is married and a father living in pragmatic America. When he composes poems, Simic turns to his unconscious and to earlier pools of memory. I am a graduate of McMaster in Hamilton. I, too, married and became a father in pragmatic Australia. When I compose poems I turn to memory and to my experience in the Bahá'í community.-Ron Price, Pioneering Over Four Epochs, May 5th 2006.

We both wrote a type of prose-poetry
whose rules are never clearly defined,
no resolution of its issues of meaning,
of its short expressions of feeling,
its stylistic, imagistic density,
its ornamental variation of prose,
its passionate promptings, undulations
and intimately inward contours.

Some say prose-poetry is not poetry;
it fights against the mainstream, flaunts
and flies in the face of poetic purists.
Evolving and elusive and valid, Id say.
Theres a sort of formal speech here,
not metered but a natural rhythm,
identifying with the lyrical impulses
of the soul, reverys ebbs and flows.

Some say it started with Bertrand
and Baudelaire in the 1840s-1850s 
or the 1890s and others say you can
go all the way back to the Old Testament.

Our work is motivated by many
things: to turn the gaze inward
and trace the movement mind
and the gaze of readers, to turn 
thought to the ills of society 
and graphically describe in order 
to analyse with a personal voice, 
intimate matters, autobiographical 
detail, a certain psychic weight,
something imponderable---yet 
I want to ponder..

.and I ponder using this
inherently ambivalent, hybrid,
generic instability, duality, traces
from two worlds, cross-discursive 
discourse, with contradictions,
paradoxes and complications,
the sentence and the line with
loose borders between journals,
diaries and a lot of other stuff
right back to the birth of this
new Revelation when things
were separated and put together
again in new forms, ways, styles.

Ron Price
May 6th 2006

----------


## Ron Price

I saw a Charles Simic poem here on this thread and attracted like bees to a honey-pot I posted two pieces. Here is one:
_____________________________
SIMIC

Now, everybody writes prose poems. Some critics claim the prose poem fits our media-driven sensibilities. It certainly fits my sensibility. I put a quick block of type on the page, then I move on. Is there a union between my short, lyrical stanzas and the prose poems I have written? Yes, say yeh verily. The prose poem has been around since Baudelaire maybe even early in the first millennium BC. There are many different species in the history of modern poetry, just about as many as there are prose-poets, but at its very best it is capable of greatness.-Ron Price with thanks to Charles Simic, Sleepless Nights of Poetry: An Interview With Charles Simic, Bloomsbury Review.com, March/April 2002.

----------


## hippolyta5

I simply adore Shakespeare's sonnets...so here's 116. for you all:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

----------


## Loqurent

Ode on a Grecian Urn- Keats
Isabella- Keats
St. Agnes' Eve- Keats
He wishes for the cloths of Heaven- Yeats
Some personal favorites
O captain, my captain- Whitman is nice too.

----------


## Nightmare9870

I would just like to say that this thread is not complete without this poem:

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

-Robert Frost

Ok, thread complete. Carry on, everyone.  :Biggrin:

----------


## Hillcrest

I had not read Emily Brontë's "Love and friendship" nor Robert Frost's "The road not taken" before but I read them on this forum and they really touched me.. I think both of them are among my favourites now..  :Smile:

----------


## Hillcrest

There are simply way to many touching, brilliant poems out there for me to choose my favourite..  :Smile:

----------


## Earnshaw

When You Are Old
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep 
And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 

How many loved your moments of glad grace, 
And loved your beauty with love false or true; 
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, 
And loved the sorrows of your changing face. 

And bending down beside the glowing bars, 
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled 
And paced upon the mountains overhead, 
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

----------


## superunknown

> If
> by Rudyard Kipling
> ...


I have to say it, but I've never liked this poem. Sure, it's got a nice (though completely unrealistic and humanly impossible) message, but poetry is more about the beauty of language than anything else, and I've never found the use of language in this poem to be particularly noteworthy. Without a doubt my favorite poem is:

*The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock* 

_Sio credesse che mia risposta fosse 
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo 
Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse. 
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo 
Non torno vivo alcun, siodo il vero 
Sensa tema dinfamia ti rispondo._ 


 Let us go then, you and I, 
When the evening is spread out against the sky 
Like a patient etherized upon a table; 
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 
The muttering retreats 
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 
Streets that follow like a tedious argument 
Of insidious intent 
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . . 
Oh, do not ask, What is it? 
Let us go and make our visit. 

In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo. 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, 
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, 
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, 
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, 
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 
And seeing that it was a soft October night, 
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. 

 And indeed there will be time 
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, 
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 
There will be time, there will be time 
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; 
There will be time to murder and create, 
And time for all the works and days of hands 
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 
Time for you and time for me, 
And time yet for a hundred indecisions, 
And for a hundred visions and revisions, 
Before the taking of a toast and tea. 

In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo. 

And indeed there will be time 
To wonder, Do I dare? and, Do I dare? 
Time to turn back and descend the stair, 
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair 
[They will say: How his hair is growing thin!] 
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, 
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin 
[They will say: But how his arms and legs are thin!] 
Do I dare 
Disturb the universe? 
In a minute there is time 
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. 

For I have known them all already, known them all 
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; 
I know the voices dying with a dying fall 
Beneath the music from a farther room. 
So how should I presume? 

And I have known the eyes already, known them all 
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, 
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, 
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, 
Then how should I begin 
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 
And how should I presume? 

And I have known the arms already, known them all 
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare 
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] 
Is it perfume from a dress 
That makes me so digress? 
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. 
And should I then presume? 
And how should I begin? 

. . . . . 


Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes 
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . 

I should have been a pair of ragged claws 
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. 

. . . . . 


And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 
Smoothed by long fingers, 
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers 
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. 
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, 
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, 
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter 
I am no prophetand heres no great matter; 
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, 
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 
And in short, I was afraid. 

And would it have been worth it, after all, 
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, 
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, 
Would it have been worth while 
To have bitten off the matter with a smile, 
To have squeezed the universe into a ball 
To roll it toward some overwhelming question, 
To say: I am Lazarus, come from the dead, 
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all 
If one, settling a pillow by her head, 
Should say: That is not what I meant at all. 
That is not it, at all. 

And would it have been worth it, after all, 
Would it have been worth while, 
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, 
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor 
And this, and so much more? 
It is impossible to say just what I mean! 
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 
Would it have been worth while 
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, 
And turning toward the window, should say: 
That is not it at all, 
That is not what I meant at all. 

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; 
Am an attendant lord, one that will do 
To swell a progress, start a scene or two 
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, 
Deferential, glad to be of use, 
Politic, cautious, and meticulous; 
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; 
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous 
Almost, at times, the Fool. 

I grow old . . . I grow old . . . 
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. 

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? 
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. 
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. 

I do not think that they will sing to me. 

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves 
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back 
When the wind blows the water white and black. 

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea 
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


Nothing I've ever read captures the abject human fear of loneliness as well as this poem. No poem I've ever read speaks to me (being quite the loner) more than this one. Simply amazing.

----------


## superunknown

I also love E.E. Cummings, in particular these two:

*she being Brand*

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)


*ygUDuh*

ygUDuh 

ydoan 
yunnuhstan 


ydoan o 
yunnuhstand dem 
yguduh ged 


yunnuhstan dem doidee 
yguduh ged riduh 
ydoan o nudn 


LISN bud LISN 


dem 
gud 
am 


lidl yelluh bas 
tuds weer goin 


duhSIVILEYEzum

----------


## superunknown

And how could I have forgotten this gem?

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

----------


## Woland

I love this one. The folly of those in power always amuses/horrifies me.

Epitaph on a Tyrant


Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.


- Wystan Hugh Auden

----------


## Asa Adams

Only one cervantes

it's no use, Iv'e got to admit,
I am into my first real
writers block
over five decades
of typing.
I have some excuses:
Ive had a long illness
and im nearing the age of 70.
and when you are near 
70 you always consider the
possibility of
slippage.
but i am bucked up
by the fact that
Cervantes wrote his
greatest work at
the age of 80.
but how many cervantes are
there?

i have been spoiled by 
the easy way
i have created things,
and now theres
this miserable stoppage.
and now
spiritually constipated, 
i have grown testy,
have screemed at my wife 
twice this week,
once smashing a glass into the sink.
bad form, sick nerves, bad style.
I should accept this writers block.
hell, im lucky im alive,
im lucky i dont have cancer.
im lucky in 100 different ways.
sometimes at night, in bed,
at 1 or 2 a.m. i will think of how lucky i am
and it keeps me awake.
now ive always written in a selfish way, that is
to please myself.
by writing things down i have 
been better to live with them.
now, thats stopped.

I see other old men with canes
sitting at bus stop benches,
staring straight into the sun and seeing 
nothing.
and i know there are other old men
in hospitals and nursing homes
sitting upright in their beds,
grunting over bedpans.
death is nothing, brother,
its life thats 
hard.

Writing has been my fountain of youth
my whore,
my love, 
my gamble.

the gods have spoiled me.

yet look, i am still lucky,
for writing about writers block is 
better than not writing at all.

Charles Bukowski

Anyone else like this poem?

----------


## Asa Adams

Yes, SuperUnknown, that is the question. _How could you have forgotten that gem_  :FRlol:  

agreed. tis one of the best!

----------


## Anna G. Appel

I will just state the fact that my favorite poem is "Broken Dreams" by William Butler Yeats.

----------


## Cormeister37

William Blake's "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"; Robert Creeley's "Oh No"; Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" and "The Raven"

----------


## Cormeister37

and Cervantes died at age 68

----------


## rabid reader

> William Blake's "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"; Robert Creeley's "Oh No"; Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" and "The Raven"


Wasn't _The Raven_  done by Edgar Allen Poe

For me, I have always loved the _Lady of Shallot_ by Lord Byron

----------


## Asa Adams

> and Cervantes died at age 68


I dont think i wrote the poem...wait...yeah, i didnt write it  :FRlol:  Perhaps it was Sarcasim...  :Brow:

----------


## bazarov

Pushkin - The poor knight; Yesenin - Who am i? and one you probably never heard of; August Shenoa( a Croat) - Be yours

----------


## Asa Adams

wow Baz, You sure do love your Russian Lit!  :Biggrin:  

I am assuming it is Russian, but correct me if its not.

----------


## cuppajoe_9

Bukowski is always good for...well, something. I'm not quite sure what it is, but he's good at it.

I've always like _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_, myself.

----------


## Asa Adams

Never read it...going to read it now!

----------


## bazarov

Who is Russian??  :Confused:

----------


## Asa Adams

Pushkin-maybe not. just thought, since you seem to enjoy alot of that. My mistake perhaps  :Biggrin:

----------


## bazarov

You to, my son Asa???  :FRlol:   :FRlol:  It's very famous poet, Alexandar Sergevich Pushkin,his famous plays are *Boris Godunov* and *Evgeny Onegin*  :Biggrin:   :Biggrin:

----------


## earthboar

Two verses of _Flowers_, from The Courtship of Miles Standish and Minor Poems:

"Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowers under us
Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Written all over this great world of ours;
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth, these golden flowers."

----------


## Asa Adams

Ah yes the full name brings memories and thoughts back into this barren attic!  :FRlol:  thanks Baz!

----------


## bazarov

Pushkin, The poor knight

_
"Once there came a vision glorious,
Mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair;
Burned itself into his spirit,
And abode for ever there!

"Never more--from that sweet moment--
Gazed he on womankind;
He was dumb to love and wooing
And to all their graces blind.

"Full of love for that sweet vision,
Brave and pure he took the field;
With his blood he stained the letters
A. M. D. upon his shield.

"'Lumen caeli, sancta Rosa!'
Shouting on the foe he fell,
And like thunder rang his war-cry
O'er the cowering infidel.

"Then within his distant castle,
Home returned, he dreamed his days-
Silent, sad,--and when death took him
He was mad, the legend says."_

It's a beautiful poem about man and his love for ideal, not only for some nice lady like all knights; his is more like Don Quixote, but there's no Sancho and it's not so comical.
Buddy, if you'll ever read The Idiot  :Mad:  , you'll find it there. READ IT  :Biggrin:

----------


## Asa Adams

Oh i plan on reading the idiot...For the july forum. lol  :FRlol:  kidding

I really like the poem. where could i find more Baz?

cheers

----------


## bazarov

Look at http://www.poemhunter.com/ and http://www.jollyroger.com/classicalpoetry/. 
Lads from forum told me for it, it's quite good.

----------


## Schokokeks

Here's a poem by Blake that I came across recently:

_A Poison Tree_ 

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Sadly, I know so little about poetry that it could nearly be called a shame... When I got interested in literature, I enthusiatically launched into books, but deliberaly excluded poetry completely, thinking that it just wasn't my thing.  :Frown:  Now having realised how much I have missed, I'm taking care to catch up. I'm quite curious for the poetry introductions at uni.

----------


## unknown_lady

i have many poems which i like 

i like death be not proud by donne , we are seven by william and alot of poems i will tell you about it later 
in the second page i found some one was asking Scheherazade, he was wondering what Wordsworth was talking about in his poem the world is too much with us 

i will tell you 


in the first line he chose a perfect word and perfect contradictory title because he was talking about the the pleasure and the problem of the world what is the too much is the pleasure too much or is the problem is too much
and he thinks that we have waste our powers and we do not care about the nature and appreciate it we only care about materialistic thing he asked and wish if we could look to the nature and enjoy on it and this what we see in forst he done this when he wrote his poem stopping by woods on a snowy evening and also ', he said as if we gave our hearts away from our body we give it to some one else and live in alive which we donot enjoy our selves on it and follow our material things 


i wish if i helped you on this i mean this is only a lil but realiy i have forgot the rest if you are intrested to learn more in what he was thinking tell me i will told you more

----------


## thevintagepiper

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
The Lady of Shalott by Lord Alfred Tennyson
The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

I also love a short poem by Edwin Markham:

He drew a circle that shut me out;
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But love and I had the wit to win; 
We drew a circle that took him in.

----------


## dalton

In Rudyard's vein I would submit this inspiration from a sufferer of bodily ills:

Invictus by William Ernest Henley


Out of the night that covers me, 
Black as the Pit from pole to pole, 
I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud. 
Under the bludgeonings of chance 
My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 
And yet the menace of the years 
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 
How charged with punishments the scroll, 
I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul.

----------


## Reason is a cow

At the moment my favorite poem is "Romance sonambulo" by Federico Garcia Lorca. He's absolutely awesome. Especially to a little Russian girl with hippie dreams. Another one of my favorite poems in English heh I can post here by ee cummings who is quite intriguing. My favorites change by the hour, so I can never stick to any, but these are definetely up there. --alina


since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you; 

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world 

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says 

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph 

And death i think is no parenthesis

----------


## _JadeRain_

Seeker Of Truth by ee cummings

seeker of truth

follow no path
all paths lead where

truth is here

----------


## ani

This poem was written by a terminally ill young girl in a New York Hospital. 


SLOW DANCE 



Have you ever watched kids 


On a merry-go-round? 


Or listened to the rain 


Slapping on the ground? 


Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight? 


Or gazed at the sun into the fading night? 


You better slow down. 


Don't dance so fast. 


Time is short. 


The music won't last. 



Do you run through each day 


On the fly? 


When you ask How are you? 


Do you hear the reply? 


When the day is done 


Do you lie in your bed 


With the next hundred chores 


Running through your head? 


You'd better slow down 


Don't dance so fast. 


Time is short. 


The music won't last. 



Ever told your child, 


We'll do it tomorrow? 


And in your haste, 


Not see his sorrow? 


Ever lost touch, 


Let a good friendship die 


Cause you never had time 


To call and say,"Hi" 


You'd better slow down. 


Don't dance so fast. 


Time is short. 


The music won't last. 


When you run so fast to get somewhere 


You miss half the fun of getting there. 


When you worry and hurry through your day, 


It is like an unopened gift.... 


Thrown away. 


Life is not a race. 


Do take it slower 


Hear the music 


Before the song is over.

----------


## Passenger

My favourite Poem is (i think ) called somebody i don't actualy know who wrote it, anyhow it goes..:
Somebody always on my mind, 
Like a beautiful thought all silver lined. 
When I walk in the streets, or ride in the cars 
Or stroll in the light of the silvery stars.

Somebody`s always on my mind.
Like an old sweet song, the lasting kind.
And it`s easy to see why I can`t forget,
for heaven began when we first met.

----------


## stlukesguild

I would have to go with Dante's "Divine Comedy" as my absolute single favorite poem, although I suspect that what you are after is shorter, lyrical poetry. Nevertheless, among poetic works I would have to place Dante's masterwork (along with Milton's "Paradise Lost", T.S. Eliot's "Wasteland", the Bible's "Song of Songs" Coleridge's "Christabel", Shelley's "Adonais" and Tennyson's "In Memoriam") as my favorite of the great longer works of poetry. Milton's "Paradise Lost" seems clearly to be the greatest of such achievements in English... his sensuous language maintaining a poetic height that rival's even Shakespeare, and is even more moving when one considers that his many gorgeous descriptive passages of sheer delight are the product of a poor, discredited, blind man dictating to his daughters after his wife has died. Dante, however, I must give the advantage to. The poem is a formal masterwork that pushes the abilities of all attempts at translation. The work has such a range as to surpass any other single work of literature: it is by turns audacious, heretical, proud, humble, erotic, angry, spiritual, earthy, visionary, etc... There are passages of endless visionary beauty... as well as of the most extreme horror (Ugolino!) and there are countless memorable scenes and characters. 
Beyond the large-scale poem, it is almost impossible, to my mind, to select a single favorite poetic work. There are certainly poetic cycles or collections that I find endlessly fascinating: Blake's "Song's of Innocence and Experience", Baudelaire's "Fleurs du Mal", Verlaine's "Fetes Galantes", Rimbaud's "Illuminations", Whitman's "Leaves of Grass", Boris Pasternak's "My Sister- Life", and Rilke's "New Poems" and "Duino Elegies". Such works, to my mind, achieve a certain grandure experienced as a unified whole (rather like a song cycle or a suite in music) although they may also be enjoyed as individual pieces. To chose a single short poetic work however? Impossible! I can only offer a few choices that popped into my mind at this time. Asked on any other day and my selections undoubtedly would have been entirely different: 

Robert Herrick 1591-1674

"To His Mistresses"

Put on your silks; and piece by piece 
Give them the scent of Amber-Greece: 
And for your breaths too, let them smell 
Ambrosia-like, or Nectarell: 
While other Gums their sweets perspire, 
By your owne jewels set on fire. 

"Delight in Disorder"

A sweet disorder in the dresse 
Kindles in clothes a wantonesse: 
A Lawne about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction: 
An erring lace which here and there 
Enthralls the Crimson stomacher: 
A Cuffe, neglectfull, and thereby 
Ribbands to flow confusedly: 
A winning wave (desrving Note) 
In the tempestuous Petticote: 
A carelesse shooes-string, in whose tye 
I see a wilde civility: 
Doe more bewitch me, than when Art 
Is too precise in every part. 

"The Shooe Tying"

Anthea bade me tye her shooe; 
I did, and kist the Instep too: 
And would have kist unto her knee, 
Had not her blush rebuked me. 
"The Vine" 
I dreamed this mortal part of mine 
Was Metamorphoz'd to a Vine; 
Which crawling one and every way, 
Enthralled my dainty Lucia. 
Me thought, her long small legs and thighs 
I with my Tendrills did surprize: 
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waiste 
By my soft Nerv'lits were embraced: 
About her head I writhing hung 
And with rich clusters (hid among 
the leaves) her Temples I behung: 
So that my Lucia seemed to me 
Young Bacchus ravisht by his tree. 
My curles about her necke did craule, 
And armes and hands they did enthraull: 
So that she could not freely stir, 
(All parts there made one prisoner.) 
But when I crept with leaves to hide 
those parts, which maides keep unespy'd 
Such fleeting pleasure there I took 
That with the fancie, I awook; 
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine 
More like a Stock than like a Vine.

I've always loved Herrick's work. He's a master of the miniature... rather like those Elizabethan cameos. (Its only fitting that my collection of his poems is itself a miniature volume.) He's all flowers, perfume and other sweet scents, gems, and beautiful women. His touch is exquisitely light... "precious" in the finest sense of the world. "The Vine" has ever made me smile... if not burst out into laughter. 


Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) 

"Innocents We" 

Their long skirts and high heels battled away: 
Depending on the ground's and breezes whim, 
At times some stocking shone, low on the limb- 
Too soon concealed!- tickling our naivte. 

At times, as well, an envious bug would bite 
Our lovlies' necks beneath the boughs, and we 
Would glimpse a flash- white flesh, ah! ecstasy!- 
And glut our mad young eyes on sheer delight. 

Evening would fall, the autum day would draw 
To its uncertain close: our belles would cling 
Dreamingly to us, cooing, whispering 
Lies that still set our souls trembling with awe. 

I might have chosen almost any work from Verlaine's great collection, Fete's Gallantes (and avoided the most famous, "Claire de Lune") which always remind me a bit of Herrick and such older poets, as well as of paintings by Watteau. Still, Verlaine's work's have a melancholy... a sense that such a world of gallant lovers is now lost, that it also reminds me of Ravel's "La Valse," the great musical expression of a lost world of romance. 

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) 

THE CAT 

Come here kitty- sheathe your claws! 
Lie on my loving heart 
And let me sink into your eyes 
Of agate fused with steel. 

When my fingers freely caress 
Your head and supple spine, 
And my hand thrills to the touch 
Of your electric fur, 

My mistress comes to mind. Her gaze- 
Cold and deep as yours, 
My pet- is like a stab of pain, 

And from head to heels 
A subtle scent- a dangerous perfume, 
Rises from her brown flesh. 


"A PHANTOM (The Perfume)" 

Reader, you know how a church can reek 
from one grain of incence you inhale 
with careful greed- remember the smell? 
Or the stubborn musk of an old sachet? 

The spell is cast, the magic works, 
and the present is the past- restored! 
So a lover from beloved flesh 
plucks subtle flowers of memory... 

In bed her heavy resilient hair 
- a living censer, like a sachet- 
released its animal perfume, 

and from discarded underclothes 
still fervent with her sacred body's 
form, there rose a scent of fur. 


"Metamorphoses of the Vampire" 

The woman, meanwhile, writhing like a snake 
across hot coals and hiking up her breasts 
over her corset stays, began to speak 
as if her mouth had steeped each word in musk: 
'My lips are smooth and with them I know how 
to smother conscience somewhere in these sheets. 
I make the old men laugh like little boys, 
and on my triumphant bosom all tears dry. 
Look at me naked and I will replace 
sun and moon and every star in the sky. 
So apt am I, dear scholar, in my lore 
that once I fold a man in these fatal arms 
or forfeit to his teeth my breasts which are 
timid and teasing, tender and tyrannous, 
upon these cushions, swooning with delight 
the impotent angels would be damned for me!' 

When she had sucked the marrow from my bones, 
and I leaned toward her listlessly 
to return her loving kisses, all I saw 
was a kind of slimy wineskin brimming with pus! 
I closed my eyes in a spasm of cold fear, 
and when I opened them to the light of day, 
beside me, instead of that potent mannequin, 
who seemed to have drunk so deeply of my blood, 
there trembled the wreckage of a skeleton 
which grated with the cry of a weathervane 
or a rusty signboard hanging from a pole, 
battered by the wind on winter nights.



"There are odors succulent as young flesh, 
sweet as flutes, and green as any grass, 
while others- rich, corrupt and masterful- 

possess the power of such infinite things 
as incense, amber, benjamin, and musk, 
to praise the sense's raptures- and the mind's." 

Don't you just love the weaving of the senses... the description of scent in terms musical, visual, moral (corrupt)? Baudelaire's "Fleur du Mal" has long been one of my favorite collections of poems. He often has the death obsession of many Anglo-American poets of the period (Poe, etc...) but has a darker, smoldering eroticism. 

(all selections from Baudelaire's "Les Fleurs du Mal" in translations by Richard Howard)

----------


## stlukesguild

William Blake (1757-1827) 

"The Tyger" 

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 
And what shoulder and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? and what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain, 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? What dread grasp, 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears 
And water'd heaven with their tears; 
Did he smile his work to see? 
Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger Tyger burning bright 
In the forests of the night: 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

This most famous of Blake's "Songs of Experience" (deservedly so) is illustrative of the cycle as a whole, utilizing a deceptive simplicity to express rather profound concepts. I have long held this lyric in my memory, like many nursery rhymes and poems learned in my youth. Like a nursery rhyme, it's hynotic and chant-like... seeming oh so simple at first... but soon revealing greater depths of thought. I'm always struck with chills as the poet finally confronts us with the ultimate question, "Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?", before returning once again to the begining, "Tyger Tyger..." 

My next two selected "favorites" illustrate a favorite conceit of poets everwhere and for all time: the expression of the idea that the lover will be sorry if she doesn't give in to the poet now... essentially, the use of the poem in an attempt to seduce the disdainful object of the poet's affections. Examples are endless throughout poetry, from the works of the great troubadors and Provencal poets, through Petrarch, Sidney, Spencer, Shakespeare, on through the famous, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may..." to the present. Two of my favorites, however, are Pierre Ronsard's "When You Are Old" and W.B. Yeat's poem of the same name. I have been told by those who should know (those who can easily read the French original) that Ronsard's is the greater poem, but I must say that I prefer Yeats': 

Pierre Ronsard (1524-1585) 

"When You Are Old" (Quand vous serez bienne vielle...) 

When you are old, at eve, by candlelight, 
Sitting by the fire, to unwind you skein and spin, 
You'll sing my verses and in wonderment will say: 
"Ronsard so honored me when I was young and fair." 

Then every servent girl of yours, on hearing this, 
Thenceforth, though she be half asleep at humdrum toil, 
Will rouse herself to listen when she hears my name, 
And lines that sanctify your name with deathless praise. 

I'll be beneath the earth, and just a boneless ghost' 
In the myrtle's shade, I'll be taking my repose; 
And you beside the hearth will be a huddled crone 

Regretting my lost love and your own proud disdain. 
So heed my words, and live, 'wait not tomorrow's dawn, 
But pick life's roses now, today, before they're gone.' 


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) 

"When You Are Old" 

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, 
And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 

How many loved your moments of glad grace, 
And loved your beauty with love false or true, 
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, 
And loved the sorrows of your changing face; 

And bending down beside the glowing bars, 
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled, 
And paced upon the mountains overhead 
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. 


I also recently returned to a few poems by Goethe. I still have enough German (I can read it as long as I have a good dictionary along side) to appreciate a few in the original:

Meine Ruh ist hin
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer 
Und nimmermehr

Wo ich ihn nicht hab,
Ist mir das Grab,
Die ganze Welt
Ist mir vergallt.

Mein armer Kopf
Ist mir verruckt,
Mein armer Sinn
Ist mir zerstuckt.

Meine Ruh ist hin
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr.

Nach ihm nur schau ich
Zum Fenster hinaus,
Nach ihm nur geh ich
Aus dem Haus.

Sein hoher Gang
Sein edle Gestalt,
Seines Mundes Lacheln,
Seiner Augen Gewalt.

Und seiner Rede
Zauberfluss,
Sein Handedrucke,
Und, ach, sein Kuss!

Meine Ruh ist hin,
Meine Herz ist schwer
Iche finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr

Meine Busen drangt
Sich nach ihm hin,
Ach durch ich fassen
Und halten ihn.

Und kussen ihn,
So wie ich wollt,
An seinen Kussen
Vergehen sollt!

The German original throbs and lurches just like the spinning wheel of the song (to my mind) although it may seem to do so even more due to my having experienced it often in Schubert's great song-setting. The English translation (by the way) goes like this:

No peace of mind
Heartache and pain,
No peace I find
Ever again

Wher he is not
For me to have
Is a bitter spot
For me the grave

Poor head of mine
Turned upside-down
Poor heart of mine
To shreds is torn

No peace.....

Go to the window
Only to see,
Or out of doors
If there he be.

His gracious figure
Lofty walk,
His mouth, the smile!
That piercing look,

And speech that flows
With sorceries
His hand, his touch,
And, ah!, his kiss!
 
No peace....

For him I long
with al my might,
Could I but touch
And hold him tight.

And kiss him, kiss him,
Just as I may,
Under his kisses, 
Melt away.

As strong as Christopher Middleton's translation is (he is one of the greatest modern translators from German) his poem is but a pale echo of the magic in the original. One wonders how seemingly simple poems like Blake's "Tyger, Tyger" or Yeat's "When You are Old" translate into another language. Unlike a great narrative epic (The Divine Comedy or Paradise Lost) such lyrics seem to rely on the most subtle influections and suggestions of the language and the music they make. How must Emily Dickenson lose out in French or Spanish... all the suggestions of Milton, Puritan church hymns, old English children's songs are thus lost.
Other favorite poems by Goethe include his "Erlkonig" (also familiar through a Schubert setting) in which a father races against time on a stormy night to rush his sick child to medical care, while the boy hallucinates (?) the "Erlkonig" (death) seeking to seduce him, which the father suggests are merely the shadows of the trees or the howls of the wind... and yet... the boy ends up dead. Another beloved Goethe poem is the very short, "Another Night Song":

Uber allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh
In allen Wipfeln
Spurest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vogelein schweigen im Wald
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Which is beautifully rendered by R.W. Longfellow:

O'er all the hill-tops
Is quiet now
In all the tree-tops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait, soon like these
Thou, too, shalt rest.

----------


## stlukesguild

Although these are perhaps not all that familiar to the English reader, I wouldn't think to call them esoteric in any way. They are probably as familiar to the German reader as "Ozymandias" is to the English. I guess that I am saying that although I have done more than my share of reading along esoteric lines... I, too, return to the well-worn familiar classics as my most favored poems. I still can't get away from:

Ulysses, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 
Matchd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyd 
Greatly, have sufferd greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 
Thro scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known; cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
Myself not least, but honourd of them all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 


I am a part of all that I have met; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro 
Gleams that untravelld world, whose margin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnishd, not to shine in use! 
As tho to breathe were life. Life piled on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains: but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 


This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 


There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toild, and wrought, and thought with me 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheadsyou and I are old; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho much is taken, much abides; and tho 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

or Shakespeare's:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimmed, 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed: 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, 
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, 
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

And what the hell, I can't avoid Shelley's "Ozymandias":

I met a traveller from an antique land 
Who said:Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, 
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown 
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, 
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed. 
And on the pedestal these words appear: 
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" 
Nothing beside remains: round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night:

Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Auden's Funeral Blues: 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, 
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, 
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

Dickinson's:

THERES a certain slant of light, 
On winter afternoons, 
That oppresses, like the weight 
Of cathedral tunes. 

Heavenly hurt it gives us; 
We can find no scar, 
But internal difference 
Where the meanings are. 

None may teach it anything, 
T is the seal, despair, 
An imperial affliction 
Sent us of the air. 

When it comes, the landscape listens, 
Shadows hold their breath; 
When it goes, t is like the distance 
On the look of death. 

And just recently I came across this one by Robert Browning and I was immediately floored:

Porphyria's Lover:

The rain set early in to-night, 
The sullen wind was soon awake, 
It tore the elm-tops down for spite, 
And did its worst to vex the lake: 
I listened with heart fit to break. 
When glided in Porphyria; straight 
She shut the cold out and the storm, 
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate 
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; 
Which done, she rose, and from her form 
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, 
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied 
Her hat and let the damp hair fall, 
And, last, she sat down by my side 
And called me. When no voice replied, 
She put my arm about her waist, 
And made her smooth white shoulder bare, 
And all her yellow hair displaced, 
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, 
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 
Murmuring how she loved me--she 
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, 
To set its struggling passion free 
From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 
And give herself to me for ever. 
But passion sometimes would prevail, 
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain 
A sudden thought of one so pale 
For love of her, and all in vain: 
So, she was come through wind and rain. 
Be sure I looked up at her eyes 
Happy and proud; at last I knew 
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise 
Made my heart swell, and still it grew 
While I debated what to do. 
That moment she was mine, mine, fair, 
Perfectly pure and good: I found 
A thing to do, and all her hair 
In one long yellow string I wound 
Three times her little throat around, 
And strangled her. No pain felt she; 
I am quite sure she felt no pain. 
As a shut bud that holds a bee, 
I warily oped her lids: again 
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. 
And I untightened next the tress 
About her neck; her cheek once more 
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: 
I propped her head up as before, 
Only, this time my shoulder bore 
Her head, which droops upon it still: 
The smiling rosy little head, 
So glad it has its utmost will, 
That all it scorned at once is fled, 
And I, its love, am gained instead! 
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how 
Her darling one wish would be heard. 
And thus we sit together now, 
And all night long we have not stirred, 
And yet God has not said a word!

----------


## stlukesguild

As for more recent works, what of this devastating poem by Anthony Hecht, from his volume, "The Hard Years"?:

"More Light! More Light!": 

Composed in the tower before his execution 
These moving verses, and being brought at that time 
Painfully to the stake, submitting, declaring thus: 
"I emplore my God to witness that I have made no crime." 

Nor was he forsaken of courage, but the death was horrible, 
The sack of gunpowder failing to ignite. 
His legs were blistered sticks on which the black sap 
Bubbled and burst as he howled for the kindly light. 

And that was but one, and by no means the worst; 
Permitted, at least, his painful dignity; 
As such were by made prayers in the name of Christ, 
That shall judge all men, for his soul's tranquility. 

We move now to outside a German wood.
Three men are there commanded to dig a hole
In which the two Jews are ordered to lie down
And be buried alive by the third, who is a Pole.

Not light from the shrine at Weimar, beyond the hill
Nor light from heaven appeared. But he did refuse.
A Luger settled back deeply in its glove.
He was ordered to change places with the Jews.

Much casual death had drained away their souls.
The thick dirt mounted toward the quivering chin.
When only the head was exposed the order came
To dig him out again and get back in.

No light, no light in the blue Polish eye.
When he finished a riding boot packed down the earth.
The Luger hovered lightly in its glove.
He was shot in the belly and in three hours bled to death.

No prayer or incense rose up in those hours
Which grew to be years, and every day came mute
Ghosts from the oven, sifting through crisp air
And settled upon his eyes in a black soot.

I find this to be an unbearably heartbreaking poem... and yet... it is a poem in which heroism is unrewarded... in which their is no light from heaven... nor from art/culture (Weimar of Goethe). Every figure within is dehumanized. The Jews have already become soulless beings. The Pole's heroic actions are rewarded with a death as violent and slowly painful as that afforded to the Jews... only after his humanity is stripped from him... and even the German guard is reduced to nothing more than his unhuman attributes: his Luger and his boot. 

On a similar theme... and equally devastating... there's Paul Celan:

"Death Fugue"

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink it
we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair
Margarete
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are flashing he whistles his pack out
he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a grave
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the morning at noon we drink you at 
sundown
we drink and we drink you
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair
Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith we dig a grave in the breezes there
one lies unconfined

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and play
he grabs at the iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue
jab deeper you lot with your spades you others play for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon in the morning we drink you at sundown
we drink and we drink you
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents
He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master from Germany
he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke you will rise into air
then a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany
we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink and we drink you
death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he sets his pack on us he grants us a grave in the air
he plays with the serpents and daydreams death is a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith

This fugue immediately calls to my mind the most tragic works of Bach the Passions and cantatas such as no. 80 (Ich habe genug) in the manner in which Celan almost echoes the contrapunctal structures of a fugue... the repetition theme that keeps reappearing... horribly... yet changes each time. I assume a similar intention by Celan (especially with the Death Fugue. title). The poem may also undoubtedly owe much to the tradition of German lyric love poetry by authors such as Heine and Goethe rooted in folk songs. Who cannot recognize Margarite as aluding to Goethe's "Faust". Like Faust... yet in a horrific, crude manner, Celan's "man who lives in the house"... the Nazi officer... also spars with the devil... with evil (Mephistopholes... the snakes with which he plays...). The image of the Shulamith's "ashen hair" is an almost unbearable perversion of how the dark Hebrew woman was portrayed in the Song of Solomon... or of the image of tribulations of the Hebrew people prophesized in various of the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible. The conflict of high art with the crude... and the horrific remind me of some of the images from Spielberg's "Schindler's List". I am especially reminded of the scene in which a young German officer has discovered an abandonned piano in one of the homes they are searching in the ghetto, and he begins to play (is it Bach...? Mozart...? I forget) a very staccatto piece which is accented by the flashing and the burst of machine gun fire as the Jews are hunted down. The conflict of what the German people have achieved... the sublime heights of art contrasted with such absolute evil, reminds us that education and culture do not insure us against such. Again... like Hecht's poem... I find that the controlled artifice of the structure makes the horror seem even more unbearable... which it was, as Celan's ghosts continued to haunt him until he committed suicide.

----------


## Virgil

St. Lukes Guild

Welcome to lit net. You seem like someone who will really enjoyed this place. I hope you check out the Poem of the Week thread where we discuss and debate a poem for an entire week. The "More Light! More Light!" poem drew a heated debate. I hope ypu'll join us. This week is a Wallace Stevens poem. Actually today (friday) is the start of a new poem for the week, and I don't believe anyone has selected any. Perhaps you can select one.

----------


## WilliamBlake

The Garden of Love

I laid me down upon a bank, 
Where Love lay sleeping; 
I heard among the rushes dank 
Weeping, weeping. 

Then I went to the heath and the wild, 
To the thistles and thorns of the waste; 
And they told me how they were beguiled, 
Driven out, and compelled to the chaste. 

I went to the Garden of Love, 
And saw what I never had seen; 
A Chapel was built in the midst, 
Where I used to play on the green. 

And the gates of this Chapel were shut 
And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door; 
So I turned to the Garden of Love 
That so many sweet flowers bore. 

And I saw it was filled with graves, 
And tombstones where flowers should be; 
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, 
And binding with briars my joys and desires. 

(I went to a Catholic school for 12 years so the last line "and priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, and binding with briars my joys and desires" amuses me and William Blake in general is just so great).

----------


## Jean-Baptiste

I've maintained for many years that Ezra Pound was a hack. But things change, and now I love him and can allow him the room to talk to his own poetry as to something that he loved dearly. "Half cracked," indeed. 

"FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS

Come, my songs, let us express our baser pas-
sions,
Let us express our envy of the man with a 
steady job and no worry about the future.
You are very idle, my songs.
I fear you will come to a bad end.
You stand about in the streets,
You loiter at the corners and bus-stops,
You do next to nothing at all.

You do not even express our inner nobilities,
You will come to a very bad end.

And I?
I have gone half cracked,
I have talked to you so much that 
I almost see you about me,
Insolent little beasts, shameless, devoid of clothing!

But you, newest song of the lot,
You are not old enough to have done much mischief,
I will get you a green coat out of China
With dragons worked upon it,
I will get you the scarlet silk trousers
From the statue of the infant Christ in Santa Maria
Novella,
Lest they say we are lacking in taste,
Or that there is no caste in this family."

I love the humor of this poem, and the countless others like it in his writings; though, admittedly, Pound was a much better poet when dealing with reality.

----------


## collinsc

What are peoples opinion on the best poem ever !?!

----------


## mono

Hello, collinsc, welcome to the forum.  :Biggrin: 
Despite its length, you may find this thread helpful regarding your question. Personally, I could never possibly narrow down one poem as my absolute favorite, but it ranges somewhere between Emily Dickinson, Dante Alighieri, William Shakespeare, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, D.H. Lawrence, Robert Frost, Sylvia Plath, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and an uncountable number of others.

----------


## collinsc

Thanks Mono.

I am a Literature Forum virgin!  :Wink:  
I will check out the link

----------


## Monica

I've been reading recently poems by William Butler Yeats. I really enjoyed some of them. Here are a couple:

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.


Down by the Sally Gardens

Down by the Sally Gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. 

In a field by the river my love and I did stand, 
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; 
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

----------


## Nossa

My fav. poem is Shakespeare's 55th sonnet 
"Not Marble nor the glided momuments"

----------


## Nossa

> I've been reading recently poems by William Butler Yeats. I really enjoyed some of them. Here are a couple:
> 
> He wishes for the cloths of heaven
> 
> Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
> Enwrought with golden and silver light,
> The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
> Of night and light and the half-light,
> I would spread the cloths under your feet:
> ...


I LOVE W.B Yeats poems...GREAT choice :Biggrin:

----------


## Pendragon

I'll just say Poe's *The Raven*, and let it go at that. I'm sure almost everyone knows the poem, so no need to post it.  :Smile:

----------


## THX-1138

the road not taken by Robert frost and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

----------


## breaddough

I tend to appreciate the poems that leave me with a kind of sense of a quiet mind, like everything becomes more still.
Here's one of my favorites by the fabulous Ms. Dickenson

Ample make this bed
Make this bed with awe
In it wait til judgment break
Excellent and fair

Be its mattress straight
Be its pillow round
Let no sunrise's yellow noise
Interrupt this ground

----------


## BibliophileTRJ

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

Perhaps it's my favorite simply because I have salt in my veins..... 3rd generation fisherman.

----------


## lime123

I love poems by Emily Dickinson!
aren't her books the best???

My favorite poem begins:
Because I could not stop for death-
he stopped for me-
there was only me and him inside the Carriage-
and Immortality.

I know it's not exactly the same.
but i blanked for right now.

Charles Dickens is a plus too.  :Yawnb:

----------


## thefemalemind

Hello everyone,
I am new to this forum and thought that I might try it out. My fav's are:

*Where the Sidewalk Ends By Shel Silverstein*

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends. 


And

*The Little Boy and the Old Man by Shel Silverstein*

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man. 


And 

*How do I love thee? Let me count the ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning*
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death. 


And


*Again--His voice at the doorby Emily Dickison*

Again -- his voice is at the door--
I feel the old Degree --
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one -- as me --

I take a flower -- as I go --
My face to justify --
He never saw me -- in this life --
I might surprise his eye!

I cross the Hall with mingled steps --
I -- silent -- pass the door --
I look on all this world contains --
Just his face -- nothing more!

We talk in careless -- and it toss --
A kind of plummet strain --
Each -- sounding -- shyly --
Just -- how -- deep --
The other's one -- had been --

We walk -- I leave my Dog -- at home --
A tender -- thoughtful Moon --
Goes with us -- just a little way --
And -- then -- we are alone --

Alone -- if Angels are "alone" --
First time they try the sky!
Alone -- if those "veiled faces" -- be --
We cannot count -- on High!

I'd give -- to live that hour -- again --
The purple -- in my Vein --
But He must count the drops -- himself --
My price for every stain!


And

*I could suffice for Him,I knew by Emily Dickinson*

I could suffice for Him, I knew --
He -- could suffice for Me --
Yet Hesitating Fractions -- Both
Surveyed Infinity --

"Would I be Whole" He sudden broached --
My syllable rebelled --
'Twas face to face with Nature -- forced --
'Twas face to face with God --

Withdrew the Sun -- to Other Wests --
Withdrew the furthest Star
Before Decision -- stooped to speech --
And then -- be audibler

The Answer of the Sea unto
The Motion of the Moon --
Herself adjust Her Tides -- unto --
Could I -- do else -- with Mine?


So, basically I like Emily Dickinson and Shel Silverstein.

----------


## overmydeadbody

Bronte, Donne, any american writer. These poems are all so average!
And eliot...even a mention of eliot!

'-"The Waste Land" by Eliot. Can't get much more canonical, but there's a reason everyone talks about it so much'

Eliot was best when writing about cats (my favourite being mccavity!!) The waste land is dreadful - all reference and no content. Contrived and deliberate intellectualised bollocks. 

The best writer in the english language in the 20th century was easily yeats. My facvourite by him (so HARD to choose) Easter 1916, on the 1916 irish uprising. However here is one with less historical context, on the pilgrimage of an aging man. 

Sailing to Byzantium
I

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
--- Those dying generations --- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shalll never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

----------


## Behemoth

I love Eliot's "Rhapsody on a Windy Night," personally. I used to hate "The Waste Land" but I have a sort of respect for it now; enjoyment is probably too strong a word but it's fascinating to examine all the allusions and literary traditions that went into it.

----------


## Niamh

It's very hard to select just one favourite poem so heres a bit of a list;

At the round earths imagined corners- John Donne

Sonnet 116- William Shakespeare

The stolen Child- William Butler Yeats

Is it a month- John Millington Synge

Thoughts in a garden- Andrew Marvell


just to name a few!

----------


## rashikwa

any poem by Keats or Emily Dickinson is my favourite :Smile:   :Thumbs Up:

----------


## rashikwa

> *How do I love thee? Let me count the ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning*
> How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
> I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
> My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
> For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
> I love thee to the level of everyday's
> Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
> I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
> I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
> ...


I like this one, so heart touching

----------


## rashikwa

this was the last I read by ED and I like it so much

The Heart Asks Pleasure First by Emily Dickinson.

The heart asks pleasure first
And then, excuse from pain-
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

----------


## TEND

Hmm, 
Anything by T.S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and The Hollowmen
Most anything by Blake
oh....for my Scottish roots, my favorite Robbie Burns poem/song, Scots Wha Hae.

Lots more, but these are a few.

----------


## Riesa

at the moment this is my favorite:

*The Moon and the Yew Tree*
by Sylvia Plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary 
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. 
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God 
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility 
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place. 
Separated from my house by a row of headstones. 
I simply cannot see where there is to get to. 

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, 
White as a knuckle and terribly upset. 
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet 
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. 
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -- 
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection 
At the end, they soberly bong out their names. 

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. 
The eyes lift after it and find the moon. 
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. 
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. 
How I would like to believe in tenderness - 
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, 
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. 

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering 
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars 
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, 
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, 
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. 
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. 
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

----------


## toni

I see nobody's mentioned of Thomas Hardy yet.. :Bawling: 
It is hard to choose a specific favorite poem but here is one: 

*The Convergence of The Twain* 
(lines on the loss of titanic)

In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls-grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?"...

VI
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her - so gaily great -
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

IX
Alien they seemed to be:
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,

X
Or sign that they were bent
by paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,

XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres

Actually, any poem from Hardy is okay by me..
But this poem's vivid imagery just struck me. :FRlol:

----------


## Whifflingpin

Not necessarily my favourite, but one I have been haunted by for over thirty years. It is 

Jan Palach, by Jane Mapstone.

Now
I am only a thought in your mind
A headline on the paper of your thoughts
By tomorrow I will be relegated to a side column
And then I will disappear.
And maybe, in a year from today
Some line in the 'In Memoriam' will commemorate my death
But that's all
And in five years you will hear my name and think
'Now who the hell was he?"
And your kids will learn my name for one of their history tests.

But in spite of the fact
That today you are moved by the staring capitals, inch high,
You don't understand the enormity,
The reality
That made me
Twenty one
Burn
Myself
To
Death
You can't understand
You don't think about
The feelings that went through my body
As I poured the petrol over me
As I felt its stickiness running like blood down my arms
Down my legs
And you can't know
That with all my body 
All my mind
Crying 'NO! NO!'
I found somewhere the necessity
To strike that match
To see it licking away at my clothes
To feel it biting away at my flesh
Consuming me
A person
Me
Watching it as though I was sat at
the back of a cinema, watching a film,
Completely detached
Watching me dying
And you'll never know
That before the clouds of laughing smoke, and whirling pain
Merged into darkness
I thought that
Maybe I was wrong.
Now
I am only a thought in your mind
A line in some volume of memory
I don't exist
I have no substance, flesh or feeling
Only decaying bones and decaying dreams
I died
You don't understand that
But think of this
I could have thrown stones and cracked your windows
I could have fought your policemen, burnt your cars
And made a public nuisance of myself
To gain attention

But what I did I can't do more than once
If you ignore it now then it is finished
If you just relegate me to your history books
Then there can be no point in what I did
No point. No reason
In burning myself to death
And I was wrong.

.

----------


## Riesa

wow. . . . . .

----------


## Riesa

this is one I found recently and I keep returning to. like your's, Whifflingpin, it's haunting me. I don't know if I'd consider it a favorite though.

*The Blackboard of His Eyelid* 
by Michael Bassett 


If he had Becky Wilson here, 
he'd make her confess that she had lied 
about how his parents make him drink 
from the toilet and sleep 
in a rabbit cage. A pale and skinny 
clump of literature, always out past 
the curfew of acceptance, behind 
enemy lines of imagination, he plays 
torturer of the inquisition, 
brandishing the garden shears. 

On the playground, while he practices 
impossible contortions 
of introspection, they bloody his nose, 
hating the secrets hidden 
in the scriptorium of his oddness. 
They crack his sharp ribs, desperate 
for the futures he reads 
on the blackboard of his eyelid. 
They shake from his green satchel 
two dung beetles, most of a Mabel 
Garden Spider, a scab from his skinned 
knee, a sliver of bailing wire, 
a cat's eye marble, and a quart 
of Quick Start lighter fluid. 

He's a Chihuahua-eyed chicken boy 
with hundreds of freckles 
his mother swears are seeds 
from the pumpkin they carved 
him out of. But he knows where 
babies come from. He knows the darkness 
of the closet, where he listens 
to his mother's crying. He learns, under 
the henhouse, the weasel's way. 

He can't stop thinking about apricots 
shriveling, paint belching, tiny frogs 
dripping above matches. Outside 
his secret fort, yellowing 
sycamore leaves crackle.


http://www.uidaho.edu/fugue/The_Blac...His_Eyelid.htm

----------


## MissJaneEyre19

i read this when i was 16, and was convinced that i was in love with yeats after reading it.  :Biggrin:  

when you are old
by william butler yeats

when you are old and grey and full of sleep,
and nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
and slowly read, and dream of the soft look
your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
how many loved your moments of glad grace,
and loved your beauty with love false or true,
but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, 
and loved the sorrows of your changing face;
and bending down beside the glowing bars,
murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
and paced upon the mountains overhead
and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

----------


## sanctus

So many poets inspire and illuminate me. Shakespeare, Yoko Ono, Dylan Thomas, Marty Gervais..and the list goes on. I find I like the work sometimes over the author. I go for the words, more so than who wrote the words. And on an honest level, my favourites would include me:-)

----------


## mvr_moorthy

I love all of Shakespeare's Sonnets.

And most of all :
"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought...." for a marvellous fusion
of language,thought, rhythm and mood. I like the lines
"Then can I drown an eye,unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night "

----------


## Darl

"The Wasteland," "...Prufrock," by Eliot, "The Cantos" and others by Pound aside, some of the most moving and accessible poetry I have ever had the pleasure of reading has been Charles Bukowski's. Visceral, blue-collar and nochalant in exposing itself to readers, he focuses on work, debauchery and suffering--pertinent to most of us, I think.

----------


## mockingbird

Two favourites, one modern and one Shakespeare.

*Before You Were Mine*

Im ten years away from the corner you laugh on
with your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff.
The three of you bend from the waist, holding
each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement.
Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs. Marilyn.

Im not here yet. The thought of me doesnt occur
in the ballroom with the thousand eyes, the fizzy, movie tomorrows
the right walk home could bring. I knew you would dance
like that. Before you were mine, your Ma stands at the close
with a hiding for the late one. You reckon its worth it.

The decade ahead of my loud, possessive yell was the best one eh?
I remember my hands in those high-heeled red shoes, relics,
And now your ghost clatters toward me over George Square
till I see you, clear as scent, under the tree,
with its lights, and whose small bites on your neck, sweetheart?

_Cha Cha Cha!_ Youd teach me the steps on the way home from mass,
stamping stars from the wrong pavement. Even then
I wanted the bold girl winking in Portobello, somewhere
in Scotland, before I was born. That glamorous love lasts
where you sparkle and waltz and laugh before you were mine.


I love this poem by Carol Ann Duffy because it's a stunningly unusual way of describing a mother-daughter relationship... it's not often the child describes itself as having a "loud, possessive yell". It's also got breathtaking imagery and metaphors; the "ballroom with the thousand eyes", the "fizzy, movie tomorrows", "clear as scent" and "stamping stars on the wrong pavement". I love the warmth within this poem.


*Sonnet 130*

MY mistress eyes are nothing like the sun; 
Coral is far more red than her lips red. 
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 
I have seen roses damaskd, red and white, 
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight 
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know 
That music hath a far more pleasing sound. 
I grant I never saw a goddess go: 
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. 
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 
As any she belied with false compare. 

I love this because it's so unpretentious, even for Shakespeare, and evokes an image of genuine love.

----------


## ennison

I don't really have a favourite poem. There's too many. Here's one called 'First Fight'. I like the energetic movement and the mimicry of the boxers rhythm.
I

Tonight, then, is the night;
Stretched on the massage table,
Wrapped in his robe, he breathes
Liniment and sweat
And tries to close his ears
To the roaring of the crowd,
A mirky sea of noise
That bears upon its tide
The frail sound of the bell
And brings the cunning fear
That he might not do well,
Not fear of bodily pain
But that his tight-lipped pride
Might be sent crashing down,
His white ambition slain,
Knocked spinning the glittering crown.
How could his spirit bear
That ignominious fall?
Not hero but a clown
Spurned or scorned by all.
The thought appals, and he
Feels sudden envy for
The roaring crowd outside
And wishes he were there
Anonymous and safe,
Calm in the tolerant air,
Would almost choose to be
Anywhere but here.


II

The door blares open suddenly,
The room is sluiced with row;
His second says, Were on the next fight,
Wed better get going now.
You got your gumshield, havent you?
Just loosen up  thats right 
Dont worry, Boy, youll be okay
Once you start to fight.
Out of the dressing-room, along,
The neutral passage to
The yelling cavern where the ring
Through the haze of blue
Tobacco smoke is whitewashed by
The aching glare of light:
Geometric ropes are stretched as taut
As this boys nerves are tight.


And now hes in his corner where
He tries to look at ease;
He feels the crowds sharp eyes as they
Prick and pry and tease;
He hears them murmur like the sea
Or some great dynamo:
They are not hostile yet they wish
To see his lifeblood flow.


His adversary enters now;
The Boy risks one quick glance;
He does not see an enemy
But something there by chance,
Not human even, but a cold
Abstraction to defeat,
A problem to be solved by guile,
Quick hands and knowing feet.
The fighters names are shouted out;
They leave their corners for
The touch of gloves and brief commands;
The disciplines of war.
Back in their corners, stripped of robes,
They hear the bell clang one
Brazen syllable which says
The battle has begun.


III

Bite on gumshield,
Guard held high,
The crowd are silenced,
All sounds die.
Lead with the left,
Again, again;
Watch for the opening,
Feint and then
Hook to the body
But hes blocked it and
Slammed you back
With a fierce right hand.
Hang on grimly,
The fog will clear,
Sweat in your nostrils,
Grease and fear.
Youre hurt and staggering,
Shocked to know
That the storys altered:
Hes the hero!

But the mist is clearing,
The referee snaps
A rapid warning
And he smartly taps
Your hugging elbow
And then you step back
Ready to counter
The next attack,
But the first round finishes
Without mishap.
You suck in the air
From the towels skilled flap.
A voice speaks urgently
Close to your ear:
Keep your left going, Boy,
Stop him getting near.
He wants to get close to you,
So jab him off hard;
When he tries to slip below,
Never mind your guard,
Crack him with a solid right,
Hit him on the chin,
A couple downstairs 
And then hell pack it in.


Slip in the gumshield
Bite on it hard,
Keep him off with your left,
Never drop your guard.
Try a left hook,
But he crosses with a right
Smack on your jaw
And Guy Fawkes Night
Flashes and dazzles
Inside your skull,
Your knees go bandy
And you almost fall.
Keep the left jabbing,
Move around the ring,
Dont let him catch you with
Another hook or swing.
Keep your left working,
Keep it up high,
Stab it out straight and hard,
Again  above the eye.
Sweat in the nostrils,
But nothing now of fear,
Youre moving smooth and confident
In comfortable gear.
Jab with the left again,
Quickly move away;
Feint and stab another in,
See him duck and sway.
Now for the pay-off punch,
Smash it hard inside;
It thuds against his jaw, he falls,
Limbs spread wide.
And suddenly you hear the roar,
Hoarse music of the crowd,
Voicing your hot ecstasy,
Triumphant, male and proud.


IV

Now, in the sleepless darkness of his room
The Boy, in bed, remembers. Suddenly
The victory tastes sour. The man he fought
Was not a thing, as lifeless as a broom,
He was a man who hoped and trembled too;
What of him now? What was he going through?
And then the Boy bites hard on resolution:
Fighters cant pack pity with their gear,
And yet a bitter taste stays with the notion;
Hes forced to swallow down one treacherous tear.
But thats the last. He is a boy no longer;
He is a man, a fighter, such as jeer
At those who make salt beads with melting eyes,
Whatever might cry out, is hurt, or dies.


Vernon Scannell

----------


## ennison

And although it's long there is so much in this that I reckon it repays the effort. The poet spent a long time on it.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 

By Thomas Gray (1716-1721) 
1. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
2. The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea , 
3. The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
4. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
. 
5. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 
6. And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
7. Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
8. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds . 

9. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r 
10. The moping owl does to the moon complain 
11. Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r , 
12. Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
. 
13. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
14. Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 
15. Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
16. The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
17. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
18. The swallow twittring from the straw-built shed, 
19. The ****'s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
20. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
. 
21. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
22. Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 
23. No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
24. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
25. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
26. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
27. How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
28. How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 
29. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
30. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
31. Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
32. The short and simple annals of the poor. 
33. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 
34. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
35. Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 
36. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

37. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
38. If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
39. Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
40. The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
41. Can storied urn or animated bust 
42. Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
43. Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
44. Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 
45. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
46. Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
47. Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
48. Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 
49. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
50. Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 
51. Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
52. And froze the genial current of the soul. 
53. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
54. The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
55. Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, 
56. And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
57. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
58. The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 
59. Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
60. Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
61. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
62. The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
63. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
64. And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes , 
65. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone 
66. Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 
67. Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
68. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ), 
69. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
70. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
71. Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
72. With incense kindled at the Muse's flame . 
73. Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife, 
74. Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
75. Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
76. They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
77. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 
78. Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
79. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
80. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
81. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse , 
82. The place of fame and elegy supply: 
83. And many a holy text around she strews, 
84. That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
85. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
86. This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 
87. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
88. Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? 
89. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
90. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
91. Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
92. Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
93. For thee , who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 
94. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 
95. If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
96. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate , 
97. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
98. "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
99. Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
100. To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
101. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
102. That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
103. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
104. And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
105. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
106. Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 
107. Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 
108. Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

109. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
110. Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 
111. Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 
112. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

113. "The next with dirges due in sad array 
114. Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. 
115. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
116. Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 
117. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
118. A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 
119. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
120. And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
121. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
122. Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: 
123. He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, 
124. He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 
125. No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
126. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
127. (There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
128. The bosom of his Father and his God.

----------


## ennison

And this ballad.

The Unquiet Grave

1	THE wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.

2	Ill do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
Ill sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.

3	The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?

4	Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.

5	You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.

6	Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that ere was seen
Is withered to a stalk.

7	The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.

----------


## ennison

And just to show you that I like short amusing poetry too.


The Diatonic Dittymunch 

The Diatonic Dittymunch plucked music from the air,
He swallowed scores of symphonies and still had space to spare.
Sonatas and cantatas slithered sweetly down his throat;
He made ballads into salads and consumed them note by note.

He ate marches and mazurkas; he ate rhapsodies and reels,
Minuets and tarantellas were the staples of his meals.
But the Diatonic Dittymunch outdid himself one day:
He ate a three-act opera --
And LOUDLY passed away.

Jack Prelutsky

----------


## mvr_moorthy

I like the following poem by Theodore Rothke.

I remember the neck curls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her,
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.

Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her;
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.

My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spring shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.

If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over the damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.

----------


## musewind

who knew poems in China
I AM A STUDENT IN CHINA MY ENGLISH IN NOT VERY WELL 
[email protected]

----------


## musewind

Very quietly I take my leave 
As quietly as I came here; 
Quietly I wave good-bye 
To the rosy clouds in the western sky. 



The golden willows by the riverside 
Are young brides in the setting sun; 
Their reflections on the shimmering waves 
Always linger in the depth of my heart. 



The floatingheart growing in the sludge 
Sways leisurely under the water; 
In the gentle waves of Cambridge 
I would be a water plant! 



That pool under the shade of elm trees 
Holds not water but the rainbow from the sky; 
Shattered to pieces among the duckweeds 
Is the sediment of a rainbow-like dream? 



To seek a dream? Just to pole a boat upstream 
To where the green grass is more verdant; 
Or to have the boat fully loaded with starlight 
And sing aloud in the splendour of starlight. 



But I cannot sing aloud 
Quietness is my farewell music; 
Even summer insects heep silence for me 
Silent is Cambridge tonight! 



Very quietly I take my leave 
As quietly as I came here; 
Gently I flick my sleeves 
Not even a wisp of cloud will I bring away

----------


## Aurora Ariel

This has to equally be one of my favourite shorter poems that I can still recite by heart.

I Am in Need of Music by Elizabeth Bishop

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

----------


## ElizabethBennet

I generally love all poems that talk about nature and the great outdoors. Here are a couple of my favourites that keep coming to my mind. The former, in particular, takes me away to a fairyland of distant dreams. (I usually judge poems by how emotionally drawn I feel to them)
1.Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness, - 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth.
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain - 
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: -do I wake or sleep?

John Keats

----------


## ElizabethBennet

And here's the second one:

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
Search on this Page: 
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: - 
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

----------


## Arania

To Riesa: 

I love Sylvia Plath. Have you read "Two Lovers and A Beachcomber by the Real Sea?"

My favorite poem is T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." I apologize if someone already posted it. 

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

----------


## dramasnot6

Im so glad you like that poem too Arania! It is one of my favorites, definetly in my top 3 poems. 
My favorite part is:
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Absolutely brilliant

----------


## Yelena

Here's my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson: 
Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree—
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—

I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
He never saw me—in this life—
I might surprise his eye!

I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains—
Just his face—nothing more!

We talk in careless—and it toss—
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly—
Just—how—deep—
The other’s one—had been—

We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tender—thoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—

Alone—if Angels are “alone”—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those “veiled faces”—be—
We cannot count—on High!

I’d give—to live that hour—again—
The purple—in my Vein—
But He must count the drops—himself—
My price for every stain!

----------


## ktd222

> Here's my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson: 
> Again—his voice is at the door—
> I feel the old Degree—
> I hear him ask the servant
> For such an one—as me—
> 
> I take a flower—as I go—
> My face to justify—
> He never saw me—in this life—
> ...


That's a nice choice, Yelena. Though, I, myself consider hundreds of her poems among my favorites. She makes me so sad when she speaks of instances so amplified in importance to her, but of little meaning to the other in her poem.

----------


## Poetess

I don`t have a particular one, if it`s right to say "paticular ones".
I love all of Poe`s and Emily Dickinson`s.
First of all, I was growing very fond of William Blake and William Wordsworth.
I like the figurative language and scenes of "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth;
I don`t have enough of reading "_The World Is Too Much with Us_" by Wordsworth, too, which shows how and what`s wrong with out modern world.
"_In the sonnet "The World Is Too Much with Us" the poet contrasts Nature with the world of materialism and "making it." Because we are insensitive to the richness of Nature, we may be forfeiting our souls. To us there is nothing wonderful or mysterious about the natural world, but ancients who were pagans created a colorful mythology out of their awe of Nature._"

_The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; (1)
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, (2)
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus (3) rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton (4) blow his wreathed horn.
_



Apart from that:


*Acquainted with the Night*


_ I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night. 
_
Robert Frost 

.............................................



"*I Am Not Yours*"


_ I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind. 
_
Sarah Teasdale

----------


## Arania

What about Poe´s _For Annie?_ It was my first ¨favorite poem.¨ I love the meter. It is beautiful. I´m going to post it. I promise it´s worth the read. 

THANK Heaven! the crisis 
The danger is past, 
And the lingering illness 
Is over at last 
And the fever called 'Living' 5
Is conquer'd at last. 

Sadly, I know 
I am shorn of my strength, 
And no muscle I move 
As I lie at full length: 10
But no matterI feel 
I am better at length. 

And I rest so composedly 
Now, in my bed, 
That any beholder 15
Might fancy me dead 
Might start at beholding me, 
Thinking me dead. 

The moaning and groaning, 
The sighing and sobbing, 20
Are quieted now, 
With that horrible throbbing 
At heartah, that horrible, 
Horrible throbbing! 

The sicknessthe nausea 25
The pitiless pain 
Have ceased, with the fever 
That madden'd my brain 
With the fever called 'Living' 
That burn'd in my brain. 30

And O! of all tortures 
That torture the worst 
Has abatedthe terrible 
Torture of thirst 
For the naphthaline river 35
Of Passion accurst 
I have drunk of a water 
That quenches all thirst. 

Of a water that flows, 
With a lullaby sound, 40
From a spring but a very few 
Feet under ground 
From a cavern not very far 
Down under ground. 

And ah! let it never 45
Be foolishly said 
That my room it is gloomy, 
And narrow my bed; 
For man never slept 
In a different bed 50
And, to sleep, you must slumber 
In just such a bed. 

My tantalized spirit 
Here blandly reposes, 
Forgetting, or never 55
Regretting its roses 
Its old agitations 
Of myrtles and roses: 

For now, while so quietly 
Lying, it fancies 60
A holier odour 
About it, of pansies 
A rosemary odour, 
Commingled with pansies 
With rue and the beautiful 65
Puritan pansies. 

And so it lies happily, 
Bathing in many 
A dream of the truth 
And the beauty of Annie 70
Drown'd in a bath 
Of the tresses of Annie. 

She tenderly kiss'd me, 
She fondly caress'd, 
And then I fell gently 75
To sleep on her breast 
Deeply to sleep 
From the heaven of her breast. 

When the light was extinguish'd, 
She cover'd me warm, 80
And she pray'd to the angels 
To keep me from harm 
To the queen of the angels 
To shield me from harm. 

And I lie so composedly, 85
Now, in my bed 
(Knowing her love), 
That you fancy me dead 
And I rest so contentedly, 
Now, in my bed 90
(With her love at my breast), 
That you fancy me dead 
That you shudder to look at me, 
Thinking me dead. 

But my heart it is brighter 95
Than all of the many 
Stars in the sky, 
For it sparkles with Annie 
It glows with the light 
Of the love of my Annie 100
With the thought of the light 
Of the eyes of my Annie.

----------


## Janine

Just saw this poem on Poets' Corner and thought it was appropriate to the site: 

Fragment

What is poetry? Is it a mosaic 
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought 
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught 
By patient labor any hue to take 
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make 
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught, 
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught 
With storied meaning for religion's sake. 

Amy Lowell

----------


## Janine

> "*I Am Not Yours*"
> 
> 
> _ I am not yours, not lost in you,
> Not lost, although I long to be
> Lost as a candle lit at noon,
> Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
> 
> You love me, and I find you still
> ...


Poetess, I love this poem by Sarah Teasdale, have for many years now. I love her poetry so much; I have a book of her collection, but cannot presently find it...hidden somewhere in the deepest recesses of my bookshelves.  :Frown:  
I enjoyed the other poems you posted very much. Loved the Frost poem about night...never heard it before. Janine

----------


## ALI ASGHAR JOYO

Whether hot or cold march on,
There is no time to rest
Lest you fail to find your beloved`s track


O sleeper awake arise sleep no so,
Royal affection can not be achieved by sleeping more.

----------


## Ruede

T. S. Eliot's _Prufrock_;

Robert Frost's _Fire and Ice_;

Alexander Pope's stuff, including _Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot_;

Robert Browning's _My Last Duchess_;

John Donne's _The Tripple Fool_;

...so many... so many! :/

----------


## julien

In Tagalong 
Isangmahol means one love
One word 
To express one thing
Where the English language
Imposes separation.

How could one not mean love?
And how could love not mean one?

I know I'm being simple
But I don't have time
For complicated line breaks
Or confusing word structures.
Basically,
I don't have time for bull****.

Love may leave me soon.
So I must embrace it
While I've got it.
And you've got to flaunt what you've got
'cuz
if there's one thing I've learned
from the immigrant experience
it's that a silenced heart
is one that never loves.

The quiet of a hardship never shared
In songs or hugs
Is death.

And the sins of the father unresolved
Fall onto the sun.
And so I yell from stage to stage
On page 
And in person.
"I love you."
And mean it.
And back it up.

And have two fists and two fast ****ing kung-fu kicking legs to take down
Anyone
Who says otherwise of me.
'cuz I will not doubt love
in a rough skinned world
of helpless angles clipped
because they feel isolated.

Beautiful creatures broken by
Systems and cultures and wars
Who leave homelands searching
Instead of reaching out for home in others
Through shared experience.

You'll be amazed at what a common childhood will do
For two who have always felt alone.
And what holding that person will be like
For the rest of your life on.

I must live love always.

I don't write these words
To make it easy.

I write them to remind myself
How much work I have left,
How many layers I must melt, 
How many more people 
I have to quit excluding.

I'm not noble.
My anger and hate occupy spaces 
Only love should.
But I'd rather acknowledge something
That I can work on
Than deny something
That will later consume me.

That's right.
I'm talking about you.
I'm calling you out.
All uncomfortable people 
At this point are marked.

Be warned.
Shape up.
Or else you'll be loved
When you least expect it.
You want to be loved, now don't you?

But don't think love it just
A hug and a smile,
A good **** and duty, 
A phase and a poem.
Love 
is none of these things solely
but all of these things plus.

Plus I got your back when tears exhaust.
Plus I got your back when they come for us.
Plus 
I got you
So I'll check ego
In return for us.

This is a call to arms.
A first step in a revolution long overdue.

This is a war, people.

Do you want to die with regret?
Do you want to die holding back?
Do you want to die alone?

Live love always
And I will love you
As long as I live.
 
Isangmahol.
Isangmahol.
Isangmahol.


Isangmahol by Beau Sia. 
--------------------------------------

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Spring and Fall, to a Young Child by Gerard Manley Hopkins

----------


## Elyx

when i was a boy, some 15 years ago, i had watched a film about WW2 pilots...._Memphis Belle_, if i'm not mistaken. somewhere in the film....a line caught my attention and had since lodged in my mind.

_Those that i fight i do not hate,
those that i guard i do not love . . ._ 

it created some sort of lofty sensation my young heart never knew....even now, with 15 years in between me and the boy i was, the feeling never really left my mind -- a feeling of solitude amidst a world of strife and disillusioment, mutability and....me. from then on, whenever i HAD to choose a poem i love most, it would be -- 

*An Irish Airman Forsees His Death*

I know that i shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above; 
Those that i fight i do not hate,
Those that i guard i do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind, 
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

----------


## Janine

> when i was a boy, some 15 years ago, i had watched a film about WW2 pilots...._Memphis Belle_, if i'm not mistaken. somewhere in the film....a line caught my attention and had since lodged in my mind.
> 
> _Those that i fight i do not hate,
> those that i guard i do not love . . ._ 
> 
> it created some sort of lofty sensation my young heart never knew....even now, with 15 years in between me and the boy i was, the feeling never really left my mind -- a feeling of solitude amidst a world of strife and disillusioment, mutability and....me. from then on, whenever i HAD to choose a poem i love most, it would be -- 
> 
> *An Irish Airman Forsees His Death*
> 
> ...


Elyx, interesting and sad poem. I also saw "Memphis Bell" years ago and have been wanting to see the film again. I remember it was really good. Some of the actors in it were quite young then and went on to be big stars. 
Do you know who wrote the poem you posted and how did you locate it?
I wondered if a true airman wrote it and would like to know more of the history of the poem, for instance if he really met his death...if so how sad. I understand there was a real plane "Memphis Bell". I just saw a documentary on a film dircector, William Wyer and he joined up during WWII and he flew in the plane to take documentary films. He also manned the guns and became partially deaf because of the intense sound; then he was discharged from the service. He directed such great films as "Ben Hur" and "Best Years of Our Lives". You may know all this but thought it would be of interest to you and others.

----------


## Elyx

_An Irish Airman Forsees His Death_ was written by the Irish William Butler Yeats ( 1865 - 1939 ), a Nobel poet, freedom fighter, and in my opinion, the last romanticist to have braced the modern world. this is of course purely subjective, as many view him as the paragon of modernistic disillusionment. 

Yeats never fought in arms....his is a war within, a constant dilemma between spiritual sublimity and the earthly struggle of his people. His peotry hence becomes a medium through which he attempts to conciliate these contending passions. it is for this reason his poems emanate a sense of philosophical fatigue that in turn reflects the modern world more accurately than his contemporaries have. 

alot more could be said of Yeats; and even what little i have stated, others would disagree. but one thing is certain: W.B.Yeats is among the best of poets in the western world.

----------


## dumwitliteratur

I have many favorites but if I had to post on it would be "The Glove And The Lions" by James Leigh Hunt

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another;
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
"By God!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat:
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

----------


## omegaxx

Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" is my all-time favourite. I took on literature in college because of that single poem. Some lines are embarassing to read aloud; so what? The poem still transports me far and wide and leaves me enraptured in the clouds. "Mount Blanc" is another poem I heart. Yes I heart Shelley.


Ode to the West Wind


I


O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being 
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill; 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! 


II


Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear! 


III


Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystàlline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! 


IV


If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a visionI would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like theetameless, and swift, and proud. 


V


Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: 
What if my leaves are falling like its own? 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

----------


## omegaxx

> Here's my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson: 
> Againhis voice is at the door
> I feel the old Degree
> I hear him ask the servant
> For such an oneas me
> 
> I take a floweras I go
> My face to justify
> He never saw mein this life
> ...


OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG
This just got me sobbing and sniffling away here :Bawling:   :Bawling:   :Bawling:

----------


## brokenheartpoet

The Raven by Edgar allen poe

----------


## Logos

"Last Words To A Dumb Friend"

Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall -
Foot suspended in its fall -
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.

Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons' mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should--by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance -
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man's will,
Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.

Thomas Hardy, October 2, 1904.

----------


## Janine

> "Last Words To A Dumb Friend"
> 
> Pet was never mourned as you,
> Purrer of the spotless hue,
> Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
> While you humoured our queer ways,
> Or outshrilled your morning call
> Up the stairs and through the hall -
> Foot suspended in its fall -
> ...


Logos, this poem is so sweet. I love Hardy but never read this one before. I have many departed animal friends - cats, a rabbit and a goose, and this really hit me right (painfully) in the heart like an arrow. Thanks for posting such a great poem.

----------


## Logos

Yeah, I thought it was a gem, had to post it. I had no idea Thomas Hardy wrote so much poetry, I'm adding *dozens* of his poems now, should be on the site in a few days  :Smile:

----------


## Janine

> Yeah, I thought it was a gem, had to post it. I had no idea Thomas Hardy wrote so much poetry, I'm adding *dozens* of his poems now, should be on the site in a few days


Logos, Those additions would be so nice. Hardy wrote tons of poetry. In fact, I found this out, since I used to belong to a Hardy group; he gave up writing novels after "Jude the Obscure" and wrote poetry exclusively. He thought himself more a poet than a novelist. A friend of mine knows so much about Hardy and visited England just to see Hardy country...he loved it. He is totally obsessed with Hardy and he is now pursuing the full volume of his poetry, but being native born Japanese, it is quite difficult for him. I have one book of his poems, but I don't think I noticed this one. I will have to check and see if it is in my book. I will definitely copy your post of the poem to keep in a file on my hard-drive. Thanks again for posting it. 
I haven't seen you around lately so it is nice to see you tonight ~ Janine

----------


## raspberry_jelly

DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 
And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!  An ecstasy of fumbling, 
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, 
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime .- 
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 
Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 
To children ardent for some desperate glory, 
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 
Pro patria mori.

By Wilfred Owen


SONNET 116 
Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove: 
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come: 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

By W.Shakespeare

----------


## Drummerzzz

I read this poem after randomly surfing the web and I've been reading it over and over.

itzamatch.com/smorgazboard_imprezzionz_stirrings.jsp

stirrings. stirrings.

Drip from my body like water 
Cleanse me away as you slide off 
And onto the ground 
Slithering away into the sewers 

Are you not entertained as I 
By the night's lusty proceedings 
Kept, stoked, to juicy consistency 
Till oozing in abundance 
We could no longer hold it back. 

I feel toxic, yet however clean I now feel 
I have seen you in the darkness 
Bent to bite your neck and taste your saltiness 
Bitten into your flesh and savored your pink meat 
I savored your moans before biting into you 
Lower. Deeper. The hotness of your body 
Oil glistening on my skin.

cold ashes. 

Mingled about 
The tears of passion and desire 
I've claimed rapture 
Only to fall back spent within 
Like so many empty vessels of wine and beer 
More, I crave 
Till I've killed the woman in you. 
The beast 
I've raised 
I've killed with the weapons 
My fathers' loins gave me. 

So take me, oh, to your gentling dreams 
For I cannot thrash in delight 
At such wanton, 
To see her mouth full of myself 
To see her eyes slaked of its hunger 
To fill her depths of thirst 
Now abated, now spent

Perhaps when I was younger 
The passing into immortality 
Would not have been as painful 
As it is, 

As it is.

----------


## fallingup

ee cummings.. i haven't read this whole thread so it may have already been posted, as it is one of his most famous - 

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

----------


## mjc

Hi, first time on. Has Keats' Ode to a Nightengale been said a lot? or his La belle dame sans merci. But I also like Pound and The Wasteland...

----------


## Cheese King

Wow, long thread! My favorites are The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson:

http://www.bartleby.com/236/239.html

And "Recuerdo" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

WE were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

----------


## dorindapaige

The Lady of Shallot - Tennyson
Ozymandias - Shelley
My Last Duchess - Browning
Death, Be Not Proud - Donne
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Thomas
A Poison Tree - Blake
Nothing Gold Can Stay - Frost
Richard Cory - EA Robinson
O Captain! My Captain! - Whitman
Sonnet 121 - Shakespeare

----------


## Lyn

I met ayont the cairney
a lass wi tousie hair
Singin till a bairnie
That wis nae langer there

Wunds wi warlds tae swing
Widne sing sae sweet
The licht than bends owre aa thing
Is less taen up wi it.

Hugh MacDiarmid.

and Sonnet 116. Did it at school, loved it ever since. And the Wasteland. And of course, Paradise Lost. And anything by Norman MacCaig. He is, indeed, a God of poetry.

----------


## kilted exile

> And anything by Norman MacCaig.


On the topic of MacCaig, my favourite of his was always:

*Assisi*

The dwarf with his hands on backwards
Sat, slumped like a half filled sack
On tiny twisted legs from which
Sawdust might run,
Outside the three tiers of churches built
In honour of St Francis, brother
Of the poor, talker with birds, Over whom
He had the advantage
Of not being dead yet

A priest explained
How clever it was of Giotto
To make his frescoes tell stories
That would reveal to the illiterate the goodness
Of God and the suffering
Of His Son. I understood
The explanation and
The cleverness.

A rush of tourists, clucking contentedly,
Fluttered around him as he scattered
The grain of the word. It was they who had passed
The ruined temple outside, whose eyes
Wept pus, whose back was higher
Than his head, whose lopsided mouth
Said, _Grazie_ in a voice as sweet
As a child's when she speaks to her mother
Or a bird's, when it spoke
To St Francis

Another couple of my favourite poems by 20th Century Scots are:

*One Cigarette* _(Edwin Morgan)_

No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed in on my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled in wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker's tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.

&

*For the unknown seamen of the 1939 - 1945 war* _(Iain Crichton Smith)_

One would like to be able to write something for them
not for the sake of writing but because
a man should be named in dying as well as living,
in drowning as well as on death-bed, and because
the brain being brain must try to establish laws.

Yet these events are not amenable
to any discipline that we can impose
and are not in the end even imaginable.
What happened was simply this, bad luck for those
who have lain here twelve years in a changing pose

These things happen and there's no explaining,
and to call them "chosen" might abuse a word.
It is better also not to assume a mourning,
moaning stance. These may well have concurred
in whatever struck them through the absurd

or maybe meaningful. One simply doesn't
know enough, or understand what came
out of the altering weather in a fashioned
descriptive phrase that was common to each name
or may have surrounded each like a dear frame.

Best not to make much of it and leave these seamen
in the equally altering acre they now have
inherited from strangers though yet human.
They fell from sea to earth, from grave to grave,
and, griefless now, taught others how to grieve.

----------


## ennison

It's long but one I like. Not my favourite because I cannot make a choice like that. This is Francis Thompson's 'The Hound of Heaven.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; 
I fled Him, down the arches of the years; 
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways 
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears 
I hid from Him, and under running laughter. 
Up vistaed hopes I sped; 
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasm&#232;d fears, 
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. 
But with unhurrying chase, 
And unperturb&#232;d pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 
They beat -- and a voice beat 
More instant than the Feet --
"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."
I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red, 
Trellised with intertwining charities; 
(For, though I knew His love Who follow&#232;d, 
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.) 
But, if one little casement parted wide, 
The gust of his approach would clash it to : 
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. 
Across the margent of the world I fled, 
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, 
Smiting for shelter on their clang&#232;d bars ; 
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon. 
I said to Dawn : Be sudden -- to Eve : Be soon ; 
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over 
From this tremendous Lover--
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see ! 
I tempted all His servitors, but to find 
My own betrayal in their constancy, 
In faith to Him their fickleness to me, 
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. 
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue ; 
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. 
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, 
The long savannahs of the blue ; 
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet :-- 
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. 
Still with unhurrying chase, 
And unperturb&#232;d pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 
Came on the following Feet, 
And a Voice above their beat--
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me." 
I sought no more that after which I strayed, 
In face of man or maid ;
But still within the little children's eyes 
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me ! 
I turned me to them very wistfully ; 
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair 
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. 
"Come then, ye other children, Nature's -- share 
With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship ; 
Let me greet you lip to lip, 
Let me twine with you caresses, 
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, 
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace, 
Underneath her azured da&#239;s, 
Quaffing, as your taintless way is, 
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring." 
So it was done :
I in their delicate fellowship was one -- 
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies. 
I knew all the swift importings 
On the wilful face of skies ; 
I knew how the clouds arise 
Spum&#232;d of the wild sea-snortings ; 
All that's born or dies
Rose and drooped with ; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine ; 
With them joyed and was bereaven. 
I was heavy with the even, 
When she lit her glimmering tapers 
Round the day's dead sanctities. 
I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, 
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine ; 
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart 
I laid my own to beat, 
And share commingling heat ;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. 
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. 
For ah ! we know not what each other says, 
These things and I ; in sound I speak--
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. 
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth ; 
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me 
The breasts o' her tenderness ;
Never did any milk of hers once bless 
My thirsting mouth. 
Nigh and nigh draws the chase, 
With unperturb&#232;d pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy ; 
And past those nois&#232;d Feet 
A Voice comes yet more fleet --
"Lo ! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me." 
Naked I wait thy Love's uplifted stroke ! 
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, 
And smitten me to my knee ;
I am defenceless utterly. 
I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. 
In the rash lustihead of my young powers, 
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me ; grimed with smears, 
I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years -- 
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. 
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, 
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. 
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist ; 
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist 
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, 
Are yielding ; cords of all too weak account 
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. 
Ah ! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, 
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount ? 
Ah ! must -- 
Designer infinite !--
Ah ! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it ? 
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust ; 
And now my heart is as a broken fount, 
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever 
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind. 
Such is ; what is to be ?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ? 
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds ; 
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds 
From the hid battlements of Eternity ; 
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then 
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. 
But not ere him who summoneth 
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ; 
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. 
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields 
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields 
Be dunged with rotten death ? 
Now of that long pursuit 
Comes on at hand the bruit ;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea : 
"And is thy earth so marred, 
Shattered in shard on shard ?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me ! 
"Strange, piteous, futile thing !
Wherefore should any set thee love apart ? 
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said), 
"And human love needs human meriting : 
How hast thou merited --
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ? 
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art ! 
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, 
Save Me, save only Me ?
All which I took from thee I did but take, 
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. 
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home : 
Rise, clasp My hand, and come !" 
Halts by me that footfall : 
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ? 
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, 
I am He Whom thou seekest !
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."

----------


## Sarasvati

Matthew Arnold:

_Requiscat_

Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew.
In quiet she reposes;
Ah, would that I did too!

Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd ample spirit,
It fultter'd and fail'd for breath.
Tonight it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.

----------


## Mrs. Dalloway

He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven 

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. 

*W.B.Yeats*

and also

The Stolen Child 

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scare could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

*W.B.Yeats*

----------


## hockeychick8792

This has to be one of my favorites. It is short sweet and romantic
I wrote your name in the sky,
but the wind blew it away.
I wrote your name in the sand,
but the waves washed it away.
I wrote your name in my heart,
and forever it will stay.

Here is another that I adore
I Asked God
- John Raine -
I asked God for a flower, he gave me a bouquet
I asked God for a minute, he gave me a day
I asked God for true love, he gave me that too
I asked for an angel and he gave me you.

----------


## Sarasvati

I feel I should be more specific. "Requiscat" is beautiful, but definitely won't be my favorite poem for long.

I enjoy e. e. cummings, Robert Frost, Stephen Crane, Carl Sandburg, and Dorothy Parker.

I loved Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner."
And T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land."

And, Mrs. Dalloway? I like that Yeats poem too.  :Smile:

----------


## Mrs. Dalloway

Which one?  :Biggrin:  The Stolen Child or the other? They're great! 
I also like the Ancient Mariner!! :Tongue:  It's the only poem I like from Coleridge.

----------


## dboodoofortune

Conrad Aiken's 'Window', and TS Eliot's 'Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock'... both definitely come to mind when I think of my favourites! Other favourite poets of mine are Rainer Maria Rilke and Pablo Neruda

----------


## Niamh

> *W.B.Yeats*
> 
> The Stolen Child 
> 
> WHERE dips the rocky highland
> Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
> There lies a leafy island
> Where flapping herons wake
> The drowsy water rats;
> ...


Good choice! :Wink:

----------


## AChristieFan

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, whom is my favorite Poet. :Smile:   :Smile:   :Smile:   :Smile:   :Smile:

----------


## ejarg7

> The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, whom is my favorite Poet.


Hey, that's my favorite too! I also like The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.  :Smile:

----------


## lumos

"You ask me 'why I like him.'
Nay
I cannot; nay I would not, say.
I think it vile to pidgeonhole
The pros and cons of a kindred soul.

You 'wonder he should be my friend.'
But then why should you comprehend
Thank God for this--a new--surprise:
My eyes, remember, are not your eyes.

Cherish this one small mystery
And marvel not that love can be
"In spite of all his many flaws.'
In spite? Supposing I said
'Because.'

A truce, a truce to questioning:
'We two are friends' tells everything.
Yet if you must know, this is why:
Because he is he, and I am I.

Friends, by Edward Verrall Lucas.

----------


## Lily Adams

I always thought this one was really cute:

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you a nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us-don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-Emliy Dickinson

----------


## autumn rose

> Okay, so I lied.  e e cumming's Since Feeling is First is my fav poem. I'll share: 
> 
> since feeling is first
> who pays any attention
> to the syntax of things
> will never wholly kiss you;
> 
> wholly to be a fool
> while Spring is in the world
> ...


I love that poem!

----------


## Janine

I love these poems! 
I love *Lily Adam's* entry. I read that poem many times before - it is so simple and so great! 
I love *Lumos'* entry - I have never heard that poem before, but I have heard a poem that is much like it in theme. I must try to recall who wrote it and post it soon. 
The poem that *Niamh* quoted that *Mrs. Dalloway* posted originally - the Yeats poem - "The Stolen Child" - Loreena Mckennitt records a version of that poem that I just adore. It is so soulful.
*Mrs. Dalloway* - the first poem is beautiful, too - who wrote it? 
*Hockychick* - that is a sweet little poem. 
*Sarsavati* - I love e.e.cummings and I adore "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". I also love "The Road Not Taken" by Frost. 

There are too many wonderful poems to choose a best one or favorite. Soon, when I have more time I will post some of mine. I have many, many favorites. :Smile:

----------


## Lily Adams

Oh yes, isn't it? 

"How dreary to be public..."  :Nod:

----------


## Mrs. Dalloway

> I love these poems! 
> I love *Lily Adam's* entry. I read that poem many times before - it is so simple and so great! 
> I love *Lumos'* entry - I have never heard that poem before, but I have heard a poem that is much like it in theme. I must try to recall who wrote it and post it soon. 
> The poem that *Niamh* quoted that *Mrs. Dalloway* posted originally - the Yeats poem - "The Stolen Child" - Loreena Mckennitt records a version of that poem that I just adore. It is so soulful.
> *Mrs. Dalloway* - the first poem is beautiful, too - who wrote it? 
> *Hockychick* - that is a sweet little poem. 
> *Sarsavati* - I love e.e.cummings and I adore "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". I also love "The Road Not Taken" by Frost. 
> 
> There are too many wonderful poems to choose a best one or favorite. Soon, when I have more time I will post some of mine. I have many, many favorites.


Both were written by William Butler Yeats!  :Biggrin:

----------


## aabbcc

It is hard for me to speak of "favourite" poem(s) as I adore so many of them, but if I had to make some selection, these would probably be in it:

V.Petković Dis - "Možda spava" ["Perhaps she is sleeping"], "Nirvana", "Utopljene duše" ["Drowned Souls"], in fact, I could probably claim most of the poems from his opus to be my favourites. I do not know if Dis has ever been translated into English, but his poems are of indescribable beauty;
K.H.M&#225;cha - "M&#225;j";
A.G.Matoš - "Utjeha kose" ["The Consolation of the Hair"], "Jesenje veče" ["An autumn evening"];
C.Pavese - "Verr&#224; la morte e avr&#224; i tuoi occhi" ["The Death shall come and it shall have your eyes"];
innumerable of the poems written by A.Šantić and F.Tjutchev;
Sappho's "Φαίνεται μοι κήνος ίσος θέοισιν", and its Latin translation "Ille mi par esse deo videtur".

----------


## Omniglot

*When I have Fears that I may cease to be*

WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
Before high pil&grave;d books, in charact'ry, 
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And feel that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! 
That I shall never look upon thee more, 
Never have relish in the faery power 
Of unreflecting love;then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

Keats

----------


## symphony

may be this is way too common, but i just cant help thinking of Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' and 'To a Skylark' when someone asks me about favourite poem hehe.

Cant resist falling in love(over and over again) with particularly this part-- 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

And, in "to a Skylark"---

What thou art we know not; 
What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:
....
Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know; 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Plus I'm also in love with the 1st stanza of "Lines to an Indian Air", in fact i even dared translate the 1st stanza once in bengali  :Blush:  !

Oh and i'm total nuts about "Triumph of Death", "Dirge of Love", "To me Fair Friend, u never can be old...." and etc by Shakespeare. But its just normal to be nuts about Shakespeare i guess!  :Biggrin:  

Oh and did i mention Rubaiyat-e-Omar Khayyam?! AND a 100 other odes by Rabindranath Tagore?!  :Tongue:  

Argh this can go on forever!  :Sick:

----------


## Aiculík

Although I love many poets and poems, my all-time favourite is *Jacques Prévert's Barbara*. Fallen in love with it on the first read.  :Smile:

----------


## Uncle Lar

Hello! My favorite Poem is,

*The Song of Wandering Aengus*
by William Butler Yeats

"I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

"When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

"Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun."

*Have a great day!*

Sincerely,

*Uncle Lar*

----------


## DeathAngel

a lot of people i no say they hate poetry "it's too confusing, why don't they just get to the freakin point, if you love her take her, quite tryna show off",
lol, in a way, i must agree

but there's no harm in writing art, is there?

i have too many favorite poets, but i value Poe's the most...he still remains a mystery to this day.....ooooooo

"The Raven"

and if not him than shakespeare, who takes forever to get to his thesis, haha...

----------


## mercy_mankind

hi,,
this is very good topic 
thanks so much

----------


## Riesa

found this the other day and just had to share: tempted to add it to my sig.

Wild to sit on a haypile,
Writing Haikus,
Drinkin wine

Jack Kerouac

----------


## Virgil

> found this the other day and just had to share: tempted to add it to my sig.
> 
> Wild to sit on a haypile,
> Writing Haikus,
> Drinkin wine
> 
> Jack Kerouac


 :FRlol:  Maybe I'll add it to my signature. Great find, Reisa.  :Thumbs Up:

----------


## chasestalling

I value little those much vaunted rights
that have for some the lure of dizzy heights.
I do not fret because the gods refuse 
to let me wrangle over revenues 
or thwart the wars of kings. 'Tis to me 
of no concern whether the press be free 
to dupe poor oafs or if censors cramp
the current fancies of some scrbbling scamp.
These things are words, words, words. My spirit fights
for deeper liberties, for better rights.
Whom shall we serve -- the people or the state? 
The poet does not care. So let them wait.
To give account to none, to be one's own 
vassal and lord, to please oneself alone,
to bend neither one's neck nor inner schemes
nor conscience to obtain some thing that seems 
power but is a flunky's coat; to stroll
in one's own wake, admiring the divine 
beauties of nature, and to feel one's soul 
melt in the glow of man's inspired design 
-- that is the blessing, those are the rights!

----------


## sumalan monica

Favouite poem is one who is close to your heart and represents your beliefs in everything you do.I mean something like a motto;
Favourite poem is written in order to be read and interpreted,in order to maintain your inner harmony.

----------


## tinustijger

Hey, in Holland there's a saying 'gedeelde smart is halve smart' which means something like: shared pain is half the pain. This Dutch poet opposes this saying in the following poem, it's my favourite Dutch poem.

*Verborgen smart is halve smart

Ik zal niet droevig klagen,
Dat niemand mij troost in mijn leed;
Juist daarom kan ik het dragen,
Omdat geen mensch het weet.

Geen troost, geen mededoogen,
Maakt ooit dit hart gezond,
Want zagen nieuwsgierige oogen
De groote, open wond,

En peilden nieuwsgierige handen
Hoe diep die wonden zijn,
Hoe smartelijk zouden ze branden
Met haast onduldbare pijn!

Want iedere blik zou schrijnen,
Wat toch reeds zo moeilijk geneest.
Alleen door rustig te schijnen
Ben ik ook rustig geweest.

Jacqueline E. van der Waals*

I tried to translate it, but ofcourse I can convey nothing of the beauty of this poem.. Now it's just words, in Dutch it's much more!
Well anyway:

_I won’t sadly complain
That no-one comforts me in my suffering
That’s how I can endure it
Because no-one knows

No consolation, no compassion
Will ever cure this heart
When curious eyes would see
These big open wounds

And curious hands would measure
How deep these wounds are
How heartbreaking they’d burn 
With almost insufferable pain!

Because every look would burn
That which is already hard to cure
Only by calmly pretending
I too have been calm._

----------


## Sylph

there's a long list of my fav poems, now a days, these 2 r my most fav


*A Ballade of Suicide* 

The gallows in my garden, people say,


Is new and neat and adequately tall; 
I tie the noose on in a knowing way

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours--on the wall-- 
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all 
I think I will not hang myself to-day. 
To-morrow is the time I get my pay--


My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall-- 
I see a little cloud all pink and grey--

Perhaps the rector's mother will not call-- I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall 
That mushrooms could be cooked another way--

I never read the works of Juvenal-- 
I think I will not hang myself to-day. 
The world will have another washing-day;


The decadents decay; the pedants pall; 
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,

And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational-- 
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray

So secret that the very sky seems small-- 
I think I will not hang myself to-day. 

ENVOI 
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, 
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;

Even to-day your royal head may fall, 
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

*- G.K. Chesterton* 


*Death & Dying
*

Dying 
Is an art, like everything else. 
I do it exceptionally well. 

I do it so it feels like hell. 
I do it so it feels real. 
I guess you could say I've a call. 

It's easy enough to do it in a cell. 
It's easy enough to do it and stay put. 
It's the theatrical 

Comeback in broad day 
To the same place, the same face, the same brute 
Amused shout: 

'A miracle!' 
That knocks me out. 
There is a charge 

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge 
For the hearing of my heart--- 
It really goes. 

And there is a charge, a very large charge 
For a word or a touch 
Or a bit of blood 

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes. 
So, so, Herr Doktor. 
So, Herr Enemy. 

I am your opus, 
I am your valuable, 
The pure gold baby 

That melts to a shriek. 
I turn and burn. 
Do not think I underestimate your great concern. 

Ash, ash--- 
You poke and stir. 
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- 

A cake of soap, 
A wedding ring, 
A gold filling. 

Herr God, Herr Lucifer 
Beware 
Beware. 

Out of the ash 
I rise with my red hair 
And I eat men like air.

*
Sylvia Plath*

----------


## HappyReader

There's two little poems that come to mind which I really enjoy.
1. The one l llama he's a priest.
The two l llama he's a beast.
And I will bet a silk pajama
There isn't any three l llama.


2. Willie with a thirst for gore
Nailed his sister to the door.
Mother said with humor quaint
Now, Willie dear, don't scratch the paint.

Unfortunately I cannot remember the authors right now; but if anyone else knows who they are feel free to tell us. 

"If your tired of problems, your tired of life." H. A. Ted Bailey(or my grandfather.)

----------


## MariahElizabeth

Part One I The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,And the highwayman came riding- Riding-riding-The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. IIHe'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle,His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. IIIOver the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting thereBut the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. IVAnd dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creakedWhere Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say- V"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." VIHe rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brandAs the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.Part Two IHe did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching-King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. IIThey said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that <EM>he</EM> would ride. IIIThey had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-<EM>Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!</EM> IVShe twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by likeyears,Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! VThe tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. VI<EM> Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!</EM> Had they heard it? The horse-hoofsringing clear;<EM>Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot</EM>, in the distance? Were they deaf that they didnot hear?Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding!The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! VII<EM>Tlot-tlot</EM>, in the frosty silence! <EM>Tlot-tlot</EM>, in the echoing night!Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death. VIIIHe turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stoodBowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hearHow Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. IXBack, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. * * * * * * X<EM>And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,A highwayman comes riding- Riding-riding-A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.</EM> XI<EM>Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting thereBut the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

----------


## aemy

There's two little poems that come to mind which I really enjoy.
1. The one l llama he's a priest.
The two l llama he's a beast.
And I will bet a silk pajama
There isn't any three l llama.

*** HappyReader. # 1 is Ogden Nash; wouldn't be surprised if #2 is also - just type the first line into your search engine (Google?) and the author will pop up.

2. Willie with a thirst for gore
Nailed his sister to the door.
Mother said with humor quaint
Now, Willie dear, don't scratch the paint.

Unfortunately I cannot remember the authors right now; but if anyone else knows who they are feel free to tell us. 

"If your tired of problems, your tired of life." H. A. Ted Bailey(or my grandfather.)[/QUOTE]

----------


## Aunty-lion

> e.e. cummings - anyone lived in a pretty how town
> 
> anyone lived in a pretty how town
> (with up so floating many bells down)
> spring summer autumn winter
> he sang his didn't he danced his did
> 
> Women and men(both little and small)
> cared for anyone not at all
> ...


It's in my signature. I cry every time I read it  :Bawling:  

I love heaps of poems though, I don't know if I have a definite favorite.

Oh, also:




> One Art 
> by Elizabeth Bishop
> 
> The art of losing isn't hard to master;
> 
> so many things seem filled with the intent
> 
> to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
> 
> ...

----------


## NotWoodhouse

As you can probably tell by my signature my favorite poem is Tennyson's "Lady of Shalott".

----------


## Aunty-lion

On either side the river lie....

Yep, I luuuurrrvvvee that one too.

----------


## Franki Griffith

I would have to say that my favoite poem is The Raven by EAP. I tend to favor writters and authors that have a dark side... the kind that you have to think outside of the box so to speak

----------


## insomnia lodge

Prufrock!

----------


## pamroder1

So many poems but the one that speaks to me most personally is "Birches" by Robert Frost. Too long to quote here. 
I won't comment-the poem speaks for itself.

----------


## kenikki

sorry for length but i wanted to share my favourite poems with everyone. Cut is my all time favourite.


*Cut*

What a thrill -
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man -

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump -
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

_Sylvia Plath_ 


*'Resume'*

Razors pain you; 
Rivers are damp; 
Acids stain you; 
And drugs cause cramp; 
Guns aren't lawful; 
Nooses give; 
Gas smells awful; 
You might as well live. 

_Dorothy Parker_


*Twice Shy*

Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river,
Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam,
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.

A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart,
Preserved classic decorum,
Deployed our talk with art.

Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait,
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late -
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.

So, chary and excited,
As a thrush linked on a hawk,
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk:
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk.

*Seamus Heaney*

----------


## rsorad3

OMG!!!!!!!


Gerard Manley Hopkins (184489). 

14. Hurrahing in Harvest 


SUMMER ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise 
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour 
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier 
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies? 

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes, 5 
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour; 
And, éyes, heárt, what looks, what lips yet gave you a 
Rapturous loves greeting of realer, of rounder replies? 

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder 
Majesticas a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet! 10 
These things, these things were here and but the beholder 
Wanting; which two when they once meet, 
The heart rears wings bold and bolder 
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.

----------


## lewis allan

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

and death i think is no parenthesis 


*wipes tears from cheeks* that one gets me every time.

----------


## Danzamx

I'm going have to say The Raven by Poe

----------


## continuum

One of my all-time favorites is "Summer Farm" by Norman MacCaig.

----------


## Bii

There are so many poems I love that it's hard to pick a favourite, but at the moment I'm loving 'He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by W B Yeats which goes:

Had I the heavens embroidered cloths
enwrought with golden and silver light
the blue and the dim and the dark cloths
of night and light and the half-light
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
but I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

----------


## tinustijger

This is my favourite,, it's just so touching,.


*Funeral Blues* 

_Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

– W.H. Auden_

----------


## quasimodo1

Yahoo!My Yahoo!Mail Make Y! your home pageYahoo! SearchSearch:Sign In
New User? Sign UpGroups Home -Help 
PlanetCioran · Cioran - Emil Cioran - Emile Cioran 
Home 
Members Only 
Messages 
Post 
Files 
Photos 
Links 
Promote 
Info
Settings 

Group Information
Members: 650 
Category: Spirituality 
Founded: Feb 4, 2003 
Language: English 
Group Settings
Membership requires approval 
Messages require approval 
All members can post messages 
Email attachments are not permitted 
Members cannot hide email address
Listed in directory 

Already a member? Sign in to Yahoo! 
Yahoo! Groups Tips
Did you know...
Hear how Yahoo! Groups has changed the lives of others. Take me there. 
Yahoo! 360°
Share your life through photos, blogs, more. 
Home 


Activity within 7 days:3 New Messages 

Description

Life and Works of Cioran

www.Cioran.eu

Cioran, the most important Euro philosopher, spiritualitist and psychologist of the last century.

Related, influences:
Artaud, Baudelaire, Beckett, Bergson, Burke, Camus, Cau, Céline, Codreanu, Dickinson, Diogenes, Drieu La Rochelle, Le Bon, Eliade, Evola, Dostoevsky, Eckhart, Ortega y Gasset, Guénon, Hamsun, Hegel, Heidegger, Hesse, Huxley, Ionescu, Jung, Jünger, Klages, Lenz, London, Lorenz, Mabire, de Maistre, Mann, Maschke, Matzneff, Michaux, Michels, Mishima, Mohler, Montherlant, Mutti, Nagarjuna, Nietzsche, Orwell, Pareto, Pound, Pascal, Poulet, Raspail, de Saint-Exupéry, Sade, Saint-Loup, Saint-Simon, von Salomon, Schopenhauer, Socrates, Schmitt, Savater, Shockley, Spengler, van den Bruck, de Tocqueville, Tolkien

Key words:
Spirituality, Spiritualitist, Philosophy, Philosophers, Psychology, Mysticism, Religion, Traditionalism, Nihilism, Writers, Existentialism, Emile Cioran, Emil Cioran, E.M. Cioran, EM Cioran, Emil Mihai Cioran, Emile M. Cioran

Our site and this private list are unofficial and not linked either to Cioran's estate or to his publishers.

Project Cioran:
www.Cioran.eu 

Message History
Jan Feb Mar Apr May Jun Jul Aug Sep Oct Nov Dec 
2007 24 19 46 23 3 3 
2006 59 27 32 12 12 10 30 23 11 7 4 16 
2005 29 35 26 100 138 25 47 21 43 61 33 52 
2004 52 52 21 52 57 25 46 19 134 35 18 70 
2003 32 76 14 12 11 18 32 14 41 


Group Email Addresses
Related Link: http://www.Cioran.eu 
Post message: [email protected] 
Subscribe: [email protected] 
Unsubscribe: [email protected] 
List owner: [email protected] 




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright © 2007 Yahoo! Inc. All rights reserved.
Privacy Policy - Copyright/IP Policy - Terms of Service - Guidelines - Help

----------


## quasimodo1

The beauty of flames lies in their strange play, beyond all proportion and harmony. Their diaphanous flare symbolizes at once grace and tragedy, innocence and despair, sadness and voluptuousness. The burning transcendence has something of the lightness of great purifications. I wish the fiery transcendence would carry me up and throw me into a sea of flames, where, consumed by their delicate and insidious tongues, I would die an ecstatic death. The beauty of flames creates the illusion of a pure, sublime death similar to the light of dawn. Immaterial, death in flames is like a burning of light, graceful wings. Do only butterflies die in flames? What about those devoured by the flames within them? 
sixsixsick Emile M. Cioran quote

----------


## ELizabeth McC

Alan Ginsberg's Aunt Rose is one of my favourite poems. I was lucky enough to see and hear him preform this. I find it very moving and even more so since my mother's death. I hope it's not a problem to quote it here in its entirety:

TO AUNT ROSE

Aunt Rosenowmight I see you
with your thin face and buck tooth smile and pain
of rheumatismand a long black heavy shoe
for your bony left leg
limping down the long hall in Newark on the running carpet
past the black grand piano
in the day room
where the parties were
and I sang Spanish loyalist songs
in a high squeaky voice
(hysterical) the committee listening
while you limped around the room
collected the money
Aunt Honey, Uncle Sam, a stranger with a cloth arm
in his pocket
and huge young bald head
of Abraham Lincoln Brigade

your long sad face
your tears of sexual frustration
(what smothered sobs and bony hips
under the pillows of Osborne Terrace)
the time I stood on the toilet sear naked
and you powered my thighs with calamine
against the poison ivymy tender
and shamed first black curled hairs
what were you thinking in secret heart then
knowing me a man already
and I an ignorant girl of family silence on the thin pedestal
of my legs in the bathroomMuseum of Newark.

Aunt Rose
Hitler is dead, Hitler is in Eternity; Hitler is with
Tamburlane and Emily Brontë

Though I see you walking still, a ghost on Osborne Terrace
down the long dark hall to the front door
limping a little with a pinched smile
in what must have been a silken
flower dress
welcoming my father, the Poet, on his visit to Newark
see you arriving in the living room
dancing on your crippled leg
and clapping hands his book
had been accepted by Liveright

Hitler is dead and Liverights gone out of business
The Attic of the Past and Everlasting Minute are out of print
Uncle Harry sold his last silk stocking
Claire quite interpretive dancing school
Buba sits a wrinkled monument in Old
Ladies Home blinking at new babies

last time I saw you was the hospital
pale skull protruding under ashen skin
blue veined unconscious girl
in an oxygen tent
the war in Spain has ended long ago
Aunt Rose

Paris, June 1958

----------


## anochapr

I look across the distant sky, staring with curiosity
wondering about who was it that led you to me
There are millions of people, it doesn't make any sense that we met
From a person that believes in nothing, I finally question myself
So, is it really destiny that let us be?
So, we are destined for each other, then could I ask for something?
Please don't ever let us part, let us love one another till death do us part
Can I ask for this?
Back then, I thought my breath was for myself
But when I met you, I just realized that my breath is for you
There are millions of people, it doesn't make any sense that we met
From a person that believes in nothing, finally I have to question myself again
There are still millions of people, there's no reason that I'm the one
From a person that believes in nothing, finally I have to question myself again

please visit my blog about poem
http://poeminlove.blogspot.com

----------


## tulysg1982

i love keats, Shelley, Eliot , Shakespeare's sonnet and lots more

----------


## annabellee

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Search on this Page: 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Whose woods these are I think I know. 
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

----------


## fleurus

yay Kenniki, you have great taste! As do all of the other posters. "Cut" used to be my favorite poem, I'm curious why it's yours. I'm also a huge fan of Auden, Yeats, and Cummings. Great picks! 

My favorite of late is "The Journey of the Magi," by Eliot. Incredible.

"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The was deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter."
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we lead all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

----------


## annabellee

[Text: Edgar Allan Poe, "Annabel Lee" (A), "Griswold" manuscript, about May of 1849.] 
Annabel Lee. 
By Edgar A. Poe. 

It was many and many a year ago, 
In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
By the name of Annabel Lee; — 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 
In this kingdom by the sea; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love — 
I and my Annabel Lee — 
With a love that the wing&#233;d seraphs in Heaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came 
And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre, 
In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, 
Went envying her and me — 
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know, 
In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
Of those who were older than we — 
Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in Heaven above, 
Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: — 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: — 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
In her sepulchre there by the sea — 
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[This is probably the last poem Poe wrote. In 1850, Frances S. Osgood identified Poe's wife, Virginia, as the real Annabel Lee, an attribution that has meet with much agreement. In contrast, T. O. Mabbott and other scholars have pointed out that although perhaps inspired, in part, by Virginia, Annabel Lee is a fictional character and need not truly represent any real person. Elmira Shelton, Poe's childhood sweetheart, considered herself as Annabel Lee, even though she outlived the author by many years.]

----------


## BlueSkyGB

Thanks for that one by Poe...
which brings to mind, one of my favs...by Poe also
The Bells...

..."To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells."

----------


## Ineverland

I could never choose just one so here is my list. 

Tulips, Daddy, Insomniac by Sylvia Plath
Night Mail, Funeral Blues by WH Auden
Composed upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth
Howl, Kaddish, A Supermarket in California, America by Allen Ginsberg
Dawn by Federico Garcia Lorca
Song of Myself by Walt Whitman 
In my craft or art (I think that is the right title) Dylan Thomas
Crow by Ted Hughes

----------


## _JadeRain_

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day) 
and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and 

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were; 

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and 

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone. 

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea 

ee cummings

----------


## Monica

This poem was in the film "21 Grams". 

The Earth Turned to Bring Us Closer

by Eugenio Montejo
translated by Peter Boyle

The earth turned to bring us closer,
it spun on itself and within us,
and finally joined us together in this dream
as written in the Symposium.
Nights passed by, snowfalls and solstices;
time passed in minutes and millennia.
An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveh
arrived in Nebraska.
A rooster was singing some distance from the world,
in one of the thousand pre-lives of our fathers.
The earth was spinning with its music
carrying us on board;
it didn't stop turning a single moment
as if so much love, so much that's miraculous
was only an adagio written long ago
in the Symposium's score.

----------


## quasimodo1

Eugenio Montejo is a new name for me. This poem is great; what language (Spanish, Portuguese) does he write in? Also have no idea about the movie. How about a clue? quasimodo1

----------


## Endymion

I'm pretty sure the original was written in Spanish.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0315733/

----------


## quasimodo1

To Endymion: definitely latin, translates roughly ...why does man exist if only to error, no error has any right to exist ...could be off on that quasi

----------


## Behemoth

My favourite of the moment has to be Donne's "Witchcraft by a Picture":

I fix mine eye on thine, and there
Pity the picture burning in thine eye; 
My picture drowned in a transparent tear
When I look lower I espy; 
Hadst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made and marred, to kill, 
How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?

But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears, 
And though thou pour more i'll depart; 
My picture vanished, vanish fears, 
That I can be endamaged by that art; 
Though thou retain of me 
One picture more, yet that will be, 
Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.

----------


## GrayFoxDown

My favorite poem was,is and will always be Keats' ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. It's concluding lines "'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'--that is all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" is the essence of much of what I believe in...regardless of life's complexities and intellectual contentions.

----------


## Monica

> Eugenio Montejo is a new name for me. This poem is great; what language (Spanish, Portuguese) does he write in? Also have no idea about the movie. How about a clue? quasimodo1




Endymion is right, Montejo writes in Spanish. He's from Venezuela, I believe. I got to know about him from the film. In "21 Grams" the main protagonist, played by Sean Penn, quotes the poem. The film is pretty good, I really enjoyed it. Although maybe the plot is a bit complicated, because not chronological.

----------


## Haven

My favourite from childhood, and if I am not mistaken, my first encounter with poetry. 

Rebecca
Hilaire Belloc
Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably

_A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
A wealthy bankers little daughter
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to this furious sport.

She would deliberately go
And slam the door like billy-o!
To make her uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild;
She was an aggravating child

It happened that a marble bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the door this little lamb
Had carefully prepared to slam,
And down it came! It knocked her flat!
It laid her out! She looked like that.

Her funeral sermon (which was long
And followed by a sacred song)
Mentioned her virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her vices too,
And showed the deadful end of one
Who goes and slams the door for fun.

The children who were brought to hear
The awful tale from far and near
Were much impressed, and inly swore
They never more would slam the door,
 As often they had done before_.
Online text © 1998-2007 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Cautionary Tales for Children | 1920

----------


## Harahara8

I, too, love Tintern Abbey. Whenever I read the poem aloud, I am amazed at its musicality--I particularly love the line "the sounding cataract haunted me like a passion." I'm less fond of "Immortality Ode," though it rhymes...

Another poem whose musicality haunts me is Mark Strand's The Disquieting Muses, which starts with "Boredom sets in first, and then despair/ One tries to brush it off. It only grows." It's a villanelle, and the recurrence of certain phrases in the poem catches quite well what Wallace Stevens calls "the malady of the quotidian." 

Lastly, I'm in love with Yeats's "The Wild Swans at Coole": the opening lines are "The trees are in their autumn beauty,/ and the woodland paths are dry./ Under the October twilight, the water/ Mirrors the still sky." I can't understand why he could write such a beautiful poem which exploits the slow movement of long vowels in order to create a feeling of nostalgia.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

Maybe this has been posted already. I haven't read through all the pages, but am awed by the wonderful choices others have made:

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


W. B. Yeats

----------


## IrishBlues

I Sit and Look Out by: Walt Whitman

I SIT and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame; 
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done; 
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate; 
I see the wife misused by her husbandI see the treacherous seducer of young women; 
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hidI see these sights on the earth; 
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyrannyI see martyrs and prisoners; 
I observe a famine at seaI observe the sailors casting lots who shall be killd, to preserve the lives of the rest; 
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like; 
All theseAll the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out upon, 
See, hear, and am silent.

----------


## quasimodo1

To IrishBlues: There was my day, moving along just fine, and here comes THIS post of an amazing poem by Whitman and everything changes. I forgot how great he is, although he did live in Camden, ...thank you IB for a great posting. quasimodo1

----------


## Ludmila607

Two fauvorites for my.
One by Emily Dickinson ¨I Hide Myself Withing my flower¨¨for its melancholic sweetness.
One, prose poem by the great Charles Baudelaire ¨The eyes of the poor¨...an ode to missunderstanding and the dessillussion of loving someone who dont share the same values of life.

----------


## IrishBlues

Anytime quasimodo1.  :Smile:

----------


## annabellee

TEARS,IDLE TEARS 
Tears,idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

----------


## PrinceMyshkin

*All of creation is offended by this distress.
It is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes,
rising. The lovers especially cannot bear it,
it fills them with unspeakable sadness, so that
they close their eyes again and hold each other, each
feeling the mortal singularity of the body
they have enchanted out of death for an hour or so,
and one day, running at sunset, the woman says to the man,
I woke up feeling so sad this morning because I realized
that you could not, as much as I love you,
dear heart, cure my loneliness,
wherewith she touched his cheek to reassure him
that she did not mean to hurt him with this truth.
And the man is not hurt exactly, 
he understands that life has limits, that people
die young, fail at love,
fail of their ambitions.* 

Robert Hass, excerpt from "Privilege of Being," from _Human Wishes_

----------


## tinustijger

Death, be not proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
_One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die._

By John Donne

The last two lines are the best in my opinion  :Smile:

----------


## quasimodo1

FIRST WEEKS by contemporary poet...Sharon Olds

Those first weeks, I don’t know if I knew
how to love our daughter. Her face looked crushed,
crumpled with worry-and not even
despair, but just depression, a look of
endurance. The skin of her face was finely
wrinkled, there were wisps of hair on her ears,
she looked a little like a squirrel, suspicious,
tranced. And smallish, 6.13,
wizened-she looked as if she were wincing
away from me without moving. The first
moment I had seen her, my glasses off,
in the delivery room, a blur of blood,
and blue skin, and limbs, I had known her,
upside down, and they righted her, and there
came that faint, almost sexual, wail, and her
whole body flushed rose.
When I saw her next, she was bound in cotton,
someone else had cleaned her, wiped
the inside of my body off her
and combed her hair in narrow scary
plough-lines. She was ten days early;
sleepy, the breast so engorged it stood out nearly
even with the nipple, her lips would so much as
approach it, it would hiss and spray.
In two days we took her home, she shrieked
and whimpered, like a dream of a burn victim,
and when she was quiet, she would lie there and peer, not quite
anxiously. I didn’t blame her,
she’d been born to my mother’s daughter. I would kneel
and gaze at her, and pity her.
All day I nursed her, all night I walked her,
and napped, and nursed, and walked her. And then,
one day, she looked at me, as if
she knew me. She lay along my forearm, fed, and
gazed at me as if remembering me,
as if she had known me, and liked me, and was getting
her memory back. When she smiled at me,
delicate rictus like a birth-pain coming,
I fell in love, I became human.

----------


## ganesa

it is worse than dream

the light randy slut can’t be easy

this clonic earth

all these phantoms shuddering out of focus

it is useless to close the eyes 

"Samuel Becket"

----------


## _JadeRain_

Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

----------


## tinustijger

I just read this in the paper yesterday, soo cool!

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

By Mark Strand

----------


## firefangled

tinustijger, Mark Strand does write very cool poetry. You would like "Reasons for Moving" 

I'll see if I can find it and post it.

----------


## firefangled

The book by Mark Strand is collection of three books, one of which is _Reasons for Moving_ the poem I remembered is _Keeping Things Whole_


In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my bodys been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

----------


## tinustijger

Wow! That's a very cool poem too! Thank you so much firefangled!

----------


## Lyn

I'm impressed, im off to buy some on amazon. thanks for posting those poems.

----------


## ampoule

And I thank you too! I will be off to the bookstore a little later to stand in the corner and fondle his books.

----------


## dramasnot6

My current favorite...so amazing.
"Since Feeling is First"- e.e. cummings



> since feeling is first
> who pays any attention
> to the syntax of things
> will never wholly kiss you;
> 
> wholly to be a fool
> while Spring is in the world
> 
> my blood approves,
> ...

----------


## MaryLupin

My favourite is by Nazim Hikmet. 

ON LIVING

I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example-
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people-
even for people whose faces you've never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees-
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don't believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.


II

Let's say you're seriously ill, need surgery -
which is to say we might not get
from the white table.
Even though it's impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we'll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we'll look out the window to see it's raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast ...
Let's say we're at the front-
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We'll know this with a curious anger,
but we'll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let's say we're in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say, 
before the iron doors will open.
We'll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind-
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.


III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet-
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space ...
You must grieve for this right now
-you have to feel this sorrow now-
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say ``I lived'' ...


Nazim Hikmet
February, 1948
Trans. Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk - 1993

----------


## ampoule

There is much to read here so I am not sure if anyone has posted anything by Billy Collins but oh, how I like him.

Taking off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water, 
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything-
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that Reason is a plank,
that Life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

----------


## quasimodo1

Autumn day 

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free. 

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine. 

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander along the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing. 

- Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Stephen Mitchell

----------


## Adolescent09

OMG. You people have posted the most beautiful works of poetry I have ever seen!!! Thank you so much!!! I don't even have to buy a poetry book! I got all the greatest works right here!! LOL. Keep it up people.

----------


## dibyendra

This thread has so much poems to read. Thank you all. I'm very interested in poetry and literature. I wish to post my poems in this thread too.

----------


## ampoule

I think this is truly my favorite.

The Vinegar Man

THE crazy old Vinegar Man is dead! He never had missed a day before! 
Somebody went to his tumble-down shed by the Haunted House and forced the door. 
There in the litter of his pungent pans, the murky mess of his mixing place  
Deep, sticky spiders and empty cans  with the same old frown on his sour old face. 
"Vinegar - Vinegar - Vinegar Man! 
Face - us - and - chase - us - and - catch - if -you - can! 
Pepper for a tongue! Pickle for a nose! 
Stick a pin in him and vinegar flows! 
Glare -at-us- swear -at-us- catch - if - you-can! 
Ketchup - and - chow - chow - and -Vinegar -Man!" 

Nothing but recipes and worthless junk; greasy old records of paid and due ; 
But down in the depths of a battered trunk, a queer, quaint valentine torn in two  
Red hearts and arrows and silver lace, and a prim, dim, ladylike script that said  
(Oh, Vinegar Man, with the sour old face!)  
"With dearest love, from Ellen to Ned!" 

"Steel - us - and - peel - us - and - drown - us -in - brine! 
He pickles his heart in"  a valentine! ' 
' Vinegar for blood! Pepper for his tongue! 
Stick a pin in him and " once he was young! " 
Glare -at-us- swear -at-us- catch - if - you - can! " - 
"With dearest love"  to the Vinegar Man! 

Dingy little books of profit and loss 
(died about Saturday, so they say), 
And a queer, quaint valentine torn across . . . 
torn, but it never was thrown away! 
"With dearest love from Ellen to Ned"  
"Old Pepper Tongue! Pickles his heart in brine!" 
The Vinegar Man is a long time dead: 
he died when he tore his valentine. 

Ruth Comfort Mitchell

----------


## Riesa

that is great.  :Smile:

----------


## dumwitliteratur

I'm a huge Edgar Allan Poe fan so I'd have to say that my favorite poem is "The Raven"


```
http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html
```

----------


## firefangled

Someday I suppose I will have to write 
a great poem about Billy Collins, 

because he has written so many 
about me and everyone I know,

and as if he thought that wasn't enough,
there are those descriptions of delicious meals -

osso buco, portabellos, salmon, 
so real on the page, their aroma rising 

in a fine ink vapor as the vowels
and consonants begin to simmer.

In the poem I write about Billy Collins
you will learn how he helped me quit smoking,

how I learned to watch, while driving at night,
for the eyes of poems on the roadside,

waiting for me to pass before crossing
and following the tail lights to my home.

I think how good my poem to him will be,
when suddenly he's there, on the jacket flap,

arms folded, and he stares at me all the way
from Lehman College, by the classroom door,

as if he is analyzing my poem,
filling its pages with circles and lines,

comments in red pencil, like a strange map
illuminated with angels, butterflies and fifth tones.

*****
This is just to introduce one of my favorites by Billy Collins, from _Nine Horses_:



*Surprise*

This 
according to the voice on the radio,
the host of a classical music program no less 
this is the birthday of Vivaldi.

He would be 325 years old today,
quite bent over, I would imagine,
and not able to see much through his watery eyes.

Surely, he would be deaf by now,
the clothes flaking off him,
hair pitiably sparse.

But we would throw a party for him anyway,
a surprise party where everyone
would hide behind the furniture to listen

for the tap of his cane on the pavement
and the sound of his dry, persistent cough.


-_Billy Collins, Copyright 2002_

----------


## quasimodo1

Still havn't found a better poem to call favorite...Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920. 

1. The Road Not Taken 


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, 
And sorry I could not travel both 
And be one traveler, long I stood 
And looked down one as far as I could 
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5 

Then took the other, as just as fair, 
And having perhaps the better claim, 
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 
Though as for that the passing there 
Had worn them really about the same, 10 

And both that morning equally lay 
In leaves no step had trodden black. 
Oh, I kept the first for another day! 
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15 

I shall be telling this with a sigh 
Somewhere ages and ages hence: 
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— 
I took the one less traveled by, 
And that has made all the difference. 20

----------


## ampoule

> Someday I suppose I will have to write 
> a great poem about Billy Collins, 
> 
> because he has written so many 
> about me and everyone I know,
> 
> and as if he thought that wasn't enough,
> there are those descriptions of delicious meals -
> 
> ...


And would not the biggest surprise be that you, firefangled, have written this introduction yourself? In the style of favored poet? Absolutely marvelous! 
Thank you for sharing _Surprise_. I could laugh but I could cry over it, that poem.

Could it be possible that you love this one also? 

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking,
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbor's dog will not stop barking,
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Billy Collins, copyright 2001

I was hostess a few months ago for book club, Prose and Cons, and I chose _Sailing Alone Around the Room_ to be read. They were to choose several of their favorites and I believe everyone had liked the one about the dog barking in the orchestra.

----------


## firefangled

> And would not the biggest surprise be that you, firefangled, have written this introduction yourself? In the style of favored poet? Absolutely marvelous! 
> Thank you for sharing _Surprise_. I could laugh but I could cry over it, that poem.
> 
> Could it be possible that you love this one also? 
> 
> Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House
> 
> The neighbors' dog will not stop barking,
> He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
> ...


One of my very favorites, along with most of the other ones. I started to laugh as soon as I saw the title, it jumped right into my cerbral cortex (if that is where barking dogs jump) as if I had read it yesterday. I love it that the title doesn't give anything away and when you finish reading it, you realize there is no more perfect title. Thanks!!

----------


## quasimodo1

The Cremation of Sam Mcgee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun 
By the men who moil for gold; 
The Arctic trails have their secret tales 
That would make your blood run cold; 
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, 
But the queerest they ever did see 
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge 
I cremated Sam McGee. 

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. 
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. 
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; 
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell". 

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. 
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. 
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; 
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee. 

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, 
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, 
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; 
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request." 

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: 
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. 
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; 
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains." 

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; 
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. 
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; 
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee. 

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, 
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; 
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, 
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains." 

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. 
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. 
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, 
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing. 

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; 
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; 
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; 
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin. 

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; 
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May". 
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; 
Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum." 

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; 
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; 
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see; 
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. 

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; 
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. 
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; 
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. 

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; 
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; 
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. 
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked";. . . then the door I opened wide. 

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; 
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. 
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -- 
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm." 

There are strange things done in the midnight sun 
By the men who moil for gold; 
The Arctic trails have their secret tales 
That would make your blood run cold; 
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, 
But the queerest they ever did see 
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge 
I cremated Sam McGee. 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

----------


## quasimodo1

The Day of Wrath / Dies Ir&#230; 
by Ambrose Bierce 


Day of Satan's painful duty! 
Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; 
So says Virtue, so says Beauty. 


Ah! what terror shall be shaping 
When the Judge the truth's undraping— 
Cats from every bag escaping! 


Now the trumpet's invocation 
Calls the dead to condemnation; 
All receive an invitation. 


Death and Nature now are quaking, 
And the late lamented, waking, 
In their breezy shrouds are shaking. 


Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, 
And the Clerk, to them referring, 
Makes it awkward for the erring. 


When the Judge appears in session, 
We shall all attend confession, 
Loudly preaching non-suppression. 


How shall I then make romances 
Mitigating circumstances? 
Even the just must take their chances. 


King whose majesty amazes, 
Save thou him who sings thy praises; 
Fountain, quench my private blazes. 


Pray remember, sacred Saviour, 
Mine the playful hand that gave your 
Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. 


Seeking me, fatigue assailed thee, 
Calvary's outlook naught availed thee; 
Now 'twere cruel if I failed thee. 


Righteous judge and learn&#232;d brother, 
Pray thy prejudices smother 
Ere we meet to try each other. 


Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, 
And my face vermilion flushes; 
Spare me for my pretty blushes. 


Thief and harlot, when repenting, 
Thou forgavest—complimenting 
Me with sign of like relenting. 


If too bold is my petition 
I'll receive with due submission 
My dismissal—from perdition. 


When thy sheep thou hast selected 
From the goats, may I, respected, 
Stand amongst them undetected. 


When offenders are indited, 
And with trial-flames ignited, 
Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. 


Ashen-hearted, prone and prayerful, 
When of death I see the air full, 
Lest I perish too be careful. 


On that day of lamentation, 
When, to enjoy the conflagration, 
Men come forth, O be not cruel: 
Spare me, Lord—make them thy fuel. 









Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?) was a journalist, short story writer, poet, and satirist who wrote about the culture around him.

addendum/quasimodo1....Ambrose Bierce spent much of his journalistic life working for Randolph Hearst and occaisonally would quit writing for him out of disgust with the sensensationalism of this type of newspaper or just because his interest drew him elsewhere. R. Hearst however would never stop sending Ambrose his checks no matter how long he stayed away. Always (probably because of this) he returned and resumed writing for the paper.

----------


## tinustijger

> Still havn't found a better poem to call favorite...Robert Frost (18741963). Mountain Interval. 1920. 
> 
> 1. The Road Not Taken 
> 
> 
> TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, 
> And sorry I could not travel both 
> And be one traveler, long I stood 
> And looked down one as far as I could 
> ...


That's my favourite Robert Frost poem! Last lines are really cool!

----------


## Annabel Lee

Love, by William Wordsworth


All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal Frame,
All are but Ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the Mount I lay
Beside the Ruin'd Tower.

The Moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the Lights of Eve;
And she was there, my Hope, my Joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the Armed Man,
The Statue of the Armed Knight:
She stood and listen'd to my Harp
Amid the ling'ring Light.

Few Sorrows hath she of her own,
My Hope, my Joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The Songs, that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful Air,
I sang an old and moving Story--
An old rude Song that fitted well
The Ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting Blush,
With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her Face.

I told her of the Knight, that wore
Upon his Shield a burning Brand;
And that for ten long Years he woo'd
_The Lady of the Land_.

I told her, how he pin'd: and, ah!
The low, the deep, the pleading tone,
With which I sang another's Love,
Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting Blush,
With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;
And she forgave me, that I gaz'd
Too fondly on her Face!

But when I told the cruel scorn
Which craz'd this bold and lovely Knight,
And that be cross'd the mountain woods
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage Den,
And sometimes from the darksome Shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny Glade,

There came, and look'd him in the face,
An Angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew, it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a murd'rous Band,
And sav'd from Outrage worse than Death
The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees
And how she tended him in vain--
And ever strove to expiate
The Scorn, that craz'd his Brain

And that she nurs'd him in a Cave;
And how his Madness went away
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying Man he lay;

His dying words--but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the Ditty,
My falt'ring Voice and pausing Harp
Disturb'd her Soul with Pity!

All Impulses of Soul and Sense
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve,
The Music, and the doleful Tale,
The rich and balmy Eve;

And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope,
An undistinguishable Throng!
And gentle Wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love and maiden shame;
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her Bosom heav'd--she stepp'd aside;
As conscious of my Look, she stepp'd--
Then suddenly with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head look'd up,
And gaz'd upon my face.

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful Art
That I might rather feel than see
The Swelling of her Heart.

I calm'd her Tears; and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin Pride.
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride!

----------


## quasimodo1

For whom the bell tolls a poem 
(No man is an island) by John Donne 










No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee. 

These famous words by John Donne were not originally written as a poem - the passage is taken from the 1624 Meditation 17, from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions and is prose. The words of the original passage are as follows:

John Donne
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee..." 


footnote: obviously, Ernest Hemingway did not write the famous line here quasimodo1

----------


## Lily Adams

Tim Burton's Vincent is my favorite poem. It's on my bedroom door.

Vincent

Vincent Malloy is seven years old,
He’s always polite and does what he’s told.
For a boy his age he’s considerate and nice,
But he wants to be just like Vincent Price.

He doesn’t mind living with his sister, dog and cat,
Though he’d rather share a home with spiders and bats.
There he could reflect on the horrors he’s invented,
And wander dark hallways alone and tormented.

Vincent is nice when his aunt comes to see him,
But imagines dipping her in wax for his wax museum.

He likes to experiment on his dog Abercrombie,
In the hopes of creating a horrible zombie.
So he and his horrible zombie dog,
Could go searching for victims in the London fog.

His thoughts aren’t only of ghoulish crime,
He likes to paint and read to pass the time.
While other kids read books like Go Jane Go,
Vincent’s favorite author is Edgar Allen Poe.

One night while reading a gruesome tale,
He read a passage that made him turn pale.

Such horrible news he could not survive,
For his beautiful wife had been buried alive.
He dug out her grave to make sure she was dead,
Unaware that her grave was his mother’s flower bed.

His mother sent Vincent off to his room,
He knew he’d been banished to the tower of doom.
Where he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life,
Alone with a portrait of his beautiful wife.

While alone and insane, encased in his tomb,
Vincent’s mother suddenly burst into the room.
“If you want to you can go outside and play.
It’s sunny outside and a beautiful day.”

Vincent tried to talk, but he just couldn’t speak,
The years of isolation had made him quite weak.
So he took out some paper, and scrawled with a pen,
“I am possessed by this house, and can never leave it again.”
His mother said, “You’re not possessed, and you’re not almost dead.
These games that you play are all in your head.
You’re not Vincent Price, you’re Vincent Malloy.
You’re not tormented, you’re just a young boy.”
“You’re seven years old, and you’re my son,
I want you to get outside and have some real fun.”

Her anger now spent, she walked out through the hall,
While Vincent backed slowly against the wall.
The room started to sway, to shiver and creak.
His horrid insanity had reached its peak.

He saw Abercrombie his zombie slave,
And heard his wife call from beyond the grave.
She spoke from her coffin, and made ghoulish demands.
While through cracking walls reached skeleton hands.

Every horror in his life that had crept through his dreams,
Swept his mad laugh to terrified screams.
To escape the madness, he reached for the door,
But fell limp and lifeless down on the floor.

His voice was soft and very slow,
As he quoted The Raven from Edgar Allen Poe:

“And my soul from out that shadow floating on the floor, shall be lifted –Nevermore!”





One of the best parts about this poem? There's a SHORT to go with it. Watch: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCuiEr9rUDg

----------


## quasimodo1

In Youth I have Known One by Edgar Allan Poe
How often we forget all time, when lone 
Admiring Nature's universal throne; 
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense 
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence! 

I. 

In youth I have known one with whom the Earth 
In secret communing held - as he with it, 
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth: 
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit 
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth 
A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit - 
And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour 
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power. 

II. 

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought 
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er, 
But I will half believe that wild light fraught 
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore 
Hath ever told - or is it of a thought 
The unembodied essence, and no more 
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass 
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass? 

III. 

Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye 
To the loved object - so the tear to the lid 
Will start, which lately slept in apathy? 
And yet it need not be - (that object) hid 
From us in life - but common - which doth lie 
Each hour before us - but then only bid 
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken 
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token - 

IV. 

Of what in other worlds shall be - and given 
In beauty by our God, to those alone 
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven 
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, 
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven 
Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne 
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down; 
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

----------


## tinustijger

Succes is counted sweetest

Succes is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear,
The distant strains of triumph
Break agonized and clear.

By Emily Dickinson

----------


## mattieog

may i feel said he by ee cummings

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she


(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she


(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)
....

Love in the Guise of Frindship 
by Robert Burns 

Talk not of love, it gives me pain, 
For love has been my foe; 
He bound me in an iron chain, 
And plung&#180;d me deep in woe. 

But friendship&#180;s pure and lasting joys, 
My heart was form&#180;d to prove; 
There, welcome win and wear the prize, 
But never talk of love. 

Your friendship much can make me blest, 
O why that bliss destroy? 
Why urge the only, one request 
You know I will deny? 

Your thought, if Love must harbour there, 
Conceal it in that thought; 
Nor cause it in that thought; 
Nor cause me from my bosom tear 
The very friend I sought

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER By DYLAN tHOMAS

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower 
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees 
Is my destroyer. 
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose 
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. 
The force that drives the water through the rocks 
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams 
Turns mine to wax. 
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins 
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. 
....

----------


## tinustijger

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER is beautiful.

----------


## Alex Sheremet

what I consider the greatest poem of all time ?

I always get chills when I read it. sadly, it's also one of the most neglected poems, by
one of the world's most neglected writers. If I were to choose a poet whose consistency
I admire most, it would be Countee Cullen. With other poets, I like perhaps 20-40 of their
poems. With Cullen, almost everything he touched turned gold.



Heritage

by Countee Cullen


What is Africa to me: 
Copper sun or scarlet sea, 
Jungle star or jungle track, 
Strong bronzed men, or regal black 
Women from whose loins I sprang 
When the birds of Eden sang? 
_One three centuries removed 
From the scenes his fathers loved, 
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, 
What is Africa to me?_ 

So I lie, who all day long 
Want no sound except the song 
Sung by wild barbaric birds 
Goading massive jungle herds, 
Juggernauts of flesh that pass 
Trampling tall defiant grass 
Where young forest lovers lie, 
Plighting troth beneath the sky. 
So I lie, who always hear, 
Though I cram against my ear 
Both my thumbs, and keep them there, 
Great drums throbbing through the air. 
So I lie, whose fount of pride, 
Dear distress, and joy allied, 
Is my somber flesh and skin, 
With the dark blood dammed within 
Like great pulsing tides of wine 
That, I fear, must burst the fine 
Channels of the chafing net 
Where they surge and foam and fret. 

....

[/I]

----------


## detritus

Undoubtedly one of my favorites, from Goethe, no less:

"Sound, sweet song."

Sound, sweet song, from some far land,
Sighing softly close at hand,

Now of joy, and now of woe!

Stars are wont to glimmer so.

Sooner thus will good unfold;
Children young and children old
Gladly hear thy numbers flow.

----------


## mattieog

The Angel that presided o'er my birth


The Angel that presided o'er my birth
Said, "Little creature, form'd of Joy and Mirth,
"Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth." 

William Blake

----------


## ellen c

I must confess that I never heard of Robert Service before this week - Aug 15th 2007

The Book Borrower

I am a mild man, you"ll agree
But red my rage is
When folks who borrow books from me
Turn down their pages

Or when a chap a book I lend
And find he"s loaned it
Without permission to a friend-
As if he owned it

But worst of all I hate those crooks
(May hell-fires burn them)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
And don"t return them

My books are tendrils of myself
No shears can sever
May he who rapes one from its shelf
Be damned forever

----------


## ampoule

I can't say that this is my FAVORITE poem but I certainly like it a lot. If you are a poet you might like it too.

The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins from the book of the same name.

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night-
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky-

the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world.

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.

Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.

And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.

And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti-
to be perfectly honest for a moment-

the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.

----------


## ellen c

Why do you never print my posts?

----------


## pellegrino

You guys are awesome! Having the poems at the ready isn't possible but there are so many! Robert Hayden's Those Winter Sundays, Leopardi's l'Infinito, Eliot's Waste Land, Wordsworth's Intimations of Immortality, Dickinson (usually) and the greatest sustained poem, Dante's Commedia. Milton's Lycidas, Keats' Ode to a Nightingale, Larkin's An Arundel Tomb oh so so many. Any one think Whitman is overrated and the Beats just God awful? Hate to be a sour puss, but I am mystified by Ginsbergites and the like.

----------


## Kiba

my first post and i dedicate it to my favorite writer Rudyard Kipling and to his poem "IF"

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

----------


## tome_keeper

too many to choose, but some include...

The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe
Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, William Butler Yeats
To L.L., Oscar Wilde
Ode, Arthur O'Shaughnessy

----------


## quasimodo1

ULALUME.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The skies they were ashen and sober; 
The leaves they were crisped and sere  
The leaves they were withering and sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 
Of my most immemorial year: 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
In the misty mid region of Weir:  
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul  
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
There were days when my heart was volcanic 
As the scoriac rivers that roll  
As the lavas that restlessly roll 
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek, 
In the ultimate climes of the Pole  
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
In the realms of the Boreal Pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere  
Our memories were treacherous and sere; 
For we knew not the month was October, 
And we marked not the night of the year  
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 
We noted not the dim lake of Auber, 
(Though once we had journeyed down here) 
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. [page 21:] 

And now, as the night was senescent, 
And star-dials pointed to morn  
As the star-dials hinted of morn  
At the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous lustre was born, 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn  
Astarte's bediamonded crescent, 
Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said  "She is warmer than Dian: 
She rolls through an ether of sighs  
She revels in a region of sighs. 
She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
And has come past the stars of the Lion, 
To point us the path to the skies  
To the Lethean peace of the skies  
Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
To shine on us with her bright eyes  
Come up, through the lair of the Lion, 
With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
Said  "Sadly this star I mistrust  
Her pallor I strangely mistrust  
Ah, hasten!  ah, let us not linger! 
Ah, fly!  let us fly!  for we must." 
In terror she spoke; letting sink her 
Wings till they trailed in the dust  
In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Plumes till they trailed in the dust  
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied  "This is nothing but dreaming. 
Let us on, by this tremulous light! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light! [page 22:]
Its Sybillic splendor is beaming 
With Hope and in Beauty to-night  
See!  it flickers up the sky through the night! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
And be sure it will lead us aright  
We safely may trust to a gleaming 
That cannot but guide us aright, 
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
And tempted her out of her gloom  
And conquered her scruples and gloom; 
And we passed to the end of the vista  
But were stopped by the door of a tomb  
By the door of a legended tomb:  
And I said  "What is written, sweet sister, 
On the door of this legended tomb?" 
She replied  "Ulalume  Ulalume  
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and sere  
As the leaves that were withering and sere  
And I cried  "It was surely October 
On this very night of last year, 
That I journeyed  I journeyed down here!  
That I brought a dread burden down here  
On this night, of all nights in the year, 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber  
This misty mid region of Weir:  
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber  
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No poem haunts like this one; one of love and loss, Edgar Allen Poe's best in my opinion. quasimodo1

----------


## Lyn

I learned words, I learned words: but half of them
died for lack of exercise. And the ones I use
often look at me
with a look that whispers, Liar.

from Ineducable Me, Norman MacCaig

----------


## Pensive

> I learned words, I learned words: but half of them
> died for lack of exercise. And the ones I use
> often look at me
> with a look that whispers, Liar.
> 
> from Ineducable Me, Norman MacCaig


It's great but is making me feel a bit guilty. Thanks for posting this poem, Lyn...

----------


## tinustijger

Very 'cool' poem, I think!

----------


## Lyn

Glad you like it. MacCaig's my favourite poet of the moment, although I think a lot of people ignore/underrate his work. Here's another extract, from his poem 'Summer Farm'

"I lie, not thinking, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me - as
This grasshopper with plated face
Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.

Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me."

----------


## ivette

I like novels more than poems but I still have a few favourite poems:

E.A.Poe - The Raven, Alone
Sylvia Plath - Lady Lazarus, Never try to trick me with a kiss, Last words

----------


## quoththeraven98

'The Raven', by Edgar Allen Poe, is my favorite poem, though that may be obvious considering my name.

----------


## higley

Not much for poetry on the whole (though I ought to pay more attention to it), but I do like Robert Frost. My favorite is Fragmentary Blue:

Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.

----------


## theP3ach

The Hollow Men by T.S Elliot

----------


## Bakiryu

Anything by Plath. I love her  :Blush:

----------


## Pensive

> Anything by Plath. I love her


I like _Daddy_.

----------


## Anza

Edgar Allan Poe: The Conquerer Worm (Memorized), and The Raven.
I've completely memorized The Raven. The last few stanzas are a little shaky, but otherwise it's good.
I also like The Lady of Shallot, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. I memorized that one, too.

----------


## Anza

I started memorizing the Raven three days ago, and I've been reciting it every waking moment. It's been driving my Mom insane.

----------


## tinustijger

Haha! I have that sort of phases too  :Smile:  Just when you can't get enough from one poem!
I even had the idea to tattoo Death be not proud's last line: "Death thou shalt die" ~ John Donne, on my spine! I'm still toying with the idea but my love for this poem has diminished a tiny bit now!

----------


## Lyn

What is it about the raven that everyone loves so much? I like it too, was just interested to hear why so many people seem to like that one particular poem.

----------


## Pensive

> What is it about the raven that everyone loves so much? I like it too, was just interested to hear why so many people seem to like that one particular poem.


The rhythm, the rhyme. And the idea is most sublime.  :Smile:

----------


## cloudcuckooland

Hello!

*La Belle Dame Sans Merci*

I.

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge has wither’d from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 

II.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 
So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel’s granary is full, 
And the harvest’s done. 

III.

I see a lily on thy brow 
With anguish moist and fever dew, 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 

IV.

I met a lady in the meads, 
Full beautiful—a faery’s child, 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 

V.

I made a garland for her head, 
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
She look’d at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

VI.

I set her on my pacing steed, 
And nothing else saw all day long, 
For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A faery’s song. 

VII.

She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild, and manna dew, 
And sure in language strange she said— 
“I love thee true.” 

VIII.

She took me to her elfin grot, 
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore, 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
With kisses four. 

IX.

And there she lulled me asleep, 
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide! 
The latest dream I ever dream’d 
On the cold hill’s side. 

X.

I saw pale kings and princes too, 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall!” 

XI.

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 
And I awoke and found me here, 
On the cold hill’s side. 

XII.

And this is why I sojourn here, 
Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 

John Keats.

I don't like it, to be quite honest, I'm obsessed with it!  :Smile:

----------


## Beverly S

I like this simple poem by Carl Sandburg entitled: Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking 
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then, moves on.

----------


## bookworm712

> Anything by Plath. I love her


I love her too- she was the subject of many many papers in college. 

I enjoy Walt Whitman- my parents were hippies....

----------


## Bardd

_Leap Before You Look_
The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it may look from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.

Tough minded men get mushy in their sleep
And break the by-laws any fool can keep;
It is not the convention but the fear
That has a tendency to disappear.

The worried efforts of the busy heap,
The dirt, the imprecision, and the beer
Produce a few smart wisecracks every year;
Laugh if you can, but you will have to leap.

The clothes that are considered right to wear
Will not be either sensible or cheap,
So long as we consent to live like sheep
And never mention those who disappear.

Much can be said for social savoir-fairs,
But to rejoice when no one else is there
Is even harder than it is to weap;
No one is watching, but you have to leap.

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.

- W. H. Auden

----------


## tinustijger

Wow! I love it!!!

----------


## quasimodo1

Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved 
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched 20
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, 30
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmèd night
To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, 40
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.
{from "Alastor: Or, The Spirit of Solitude"}

----------


## sreeja

I am also a fan of these lines by Robert Frost.

----------


## Awod

*Fire And Ice*


Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice. 

-Robert Frost

Honestly haven't read many poems but I remember this one from High School and liked it quite a bit.

----------


## Virgil

Not exactly my favorite poem, but a good one:




> *Snake*
> by D.H. Lawrence
> 
> A snake came to my water-trough
> On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, 
> To drink there.
> In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
> I came down the steps with my pitcher
> And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before
> ...

----------


## packersfan

We are dreaming of tomorrow and tomorrow isn't coming, 
We are dreaming of a glory that we don't really want. 
We are dreaming of a new day when the new day's here already. 
We are running from the battle when it's one that must be fought.

And still we sleep.

We are listening for the calling but never really heeding, 
Hoping for the future when the future's only plans. 
Dreaming of the wisdom that we are dodging daily, 
Praying for a savior when salvation's in our hands.

And still we sleep.

And still we dream. 
And still we pray. 
And still we fear. 

And still we sleep.

- Todd Anderson of Dead Poets' Society

----------


## Janine

> *Fire And Ice*
> 
> 
> Some say the world will end in fire,
> Some say in ice.
> From what I've tasted of desire
> I hold with those who favor fire.
> But if it had to perish twice,
> I think I know enough of hate
> ...


And, *Awod,* that is a great choice. I really love that poem. I heard it once before and I recall it truly stuck in my mind; who can go wrong with Robert Frost? To me that is a perfect poem.

If you can think of any others do post them. 


*Virgil,* I see you posted the "Snake" poem, that I posted on the D.H.L. short story thread. Good choice and it is downright 'highway robbery'!  :Wink:   :FRlol:

----------


## Pensive

> And, *Awod,* that is a great choice. I really love that poem. I heard it once before and I recall it truly stuck in my mind; who can go wrong with Robert Frost? To me that is a perfect poem.


I like this poem a lot too. Though Frost wrote many other good poems too, but I believe none of them can compete this one!

----------


## Virgil

You know it's annoying when people post their school problems in threads dedicated to other things.  :Flare:

----------


## Logos

They've been dealt with Virgil  :Tongue:

----------


## Janine

> They've been dealt with Virgil


Good, *Logos,* Thank you. I also, get rather frustrated and annoyed when people ask me or us to do their school assignments. Afterall, we are all here to be just 'students' and learn more; we are not here to be 'teachers'. I don't mind helping those with their English or directing them to resources, but to do whole assignments is uncalled for.

----------


## Logos

I know, I agree Janine. Don't go into the Orwell forums right now  :FRlol:

----------


## Janine

*Logos,* :FRlol:  don't you know if you tell someone not to do something, they are going to want to go and do that very thing - 'curiosity did kill the cat!' 

Why can't I go there? Also, why does just the O in Orwell appear in brown highlight - oh, you underlined it, I see - am I missing the joke here?  :FRlol: 

revised post after above:

*Logos,* Ok, oK, I confess, I confess....quilty......I snuck a tiny peak....what is that over there....'Political Science' 101?...... :FRlol: 

Just don't tell, *Virgil*..... :FRlol:

----------


## IrishMark

the raven by edgar allen poe- the tightness of the rhythm is beyond perfection-anybody disagree? am in the mood for a debate...

----------


## Etienne

Soir d'hiver
Emile Nelligan

Ah! comme la neige a neig&#233;!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neig&#233;!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
&#212; la douleur que j'ai, que j'ai!

Tous les &#233;tangs gisent gel&#233;s,
Mon &#226;me est noire: O&#249; vis-je? o&#249; vais-je?
Tous ses espoirs gisent gel&#233;s:
Je suis la nouvelle Norv&#232;ge
D'o&#249; les blonds ciels s'en sont all&#233;s.

Pleurez, oiseaux de f&#233;vrier,
Au sinistre frisson des choses,
Pleurez, oiseaux de f&#233;vrier,
Pleurez mes pleurs, pleurez mes roses,
Aux branches du gen&#233;vrier.

Ah! comme la neige a neig&#233;!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neig&#233;!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
A tout l'ennui que j'ai, que j'ai!...

There is some Emile Nelligan's translations in english, but they're bad. So whoever can read french enjoy this masterpiece, and for those who can't read french, you have no idea what you're missing!

"the raven by edgar allen poe- the tightness of the rhythm is beyond perfection-anybody disagree? am in the mood for a debate..."

Sorry to disappoint you, but there's no debate to be had there  :Tongue:

----------


## Beverly S

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)

----------


## V.Jayalakshmi

My favorite poem is "Gitanjali" by Rabindranath Tagore.Especially the stanza Mind Without Fear
............................

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up

into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason

has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action---

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
"METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE"
I

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud--
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 10
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave

The above by Wordsworth too touches me very much.

V.Jayalakshmi.

----------


## Mattch1331

*The Song of Wandering Aengus - W.B. Yeats*

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream 
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.


Poetry - Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

----------


## white camellia

Hynd Etin

May Margaret sits in her bower door 
Sewing her silken seam; 
She heard a note in Elmonds wood, 
And wishd she there had been. 

She loot the seam fa frae her side, 
The needle to her tae, 
And she is on to Elmonds wood 
As fast as she could gae. 

She hadna pud a nut, a nut, 
Nor broken a branch but ane, 
Till by there came the Hynd Etin, 
Says, Lady, lat alane. 

O why pu ye the nut, the nut, 
Or why break ye the tree? 
For I am forester o this wood: 
Ye should spier leave at me. 

Ill ask leave at nae living man, 
Nor yet will I at thee; 
My father is king oer a this realm, 
This wood belongs to me. 

The highest tree in Elmonds wood, 
Hes pud it by the reet, 
And he has built for her a bower 
Near by a hallow seat. 

Hes kept her there in Elmonds wood 
For six lang years and ane, 
Till six pretty sons to him she bare, 
And the seventh shes brought hame. 

It fell out ance upon a day 
Hes to the hunting gane, 
And a to carry his game for him 
Hes tane his eldest son. 

A question I will ask, father, 
Gin ye wadna angry be. 
Say on, say on, my bonny boy, 
Yese nae be quarrelld by me. 

I see my mithers cheeks aye weet, 
I never can see them dry; 
And I wonder what aileth my mither 
To mourn [sae constantly]. 

Your mither was a kings daughtèr, 
Sprung frae a high degree; 
She might hae wed some worthy prince 
Had she na been stown by me. 

Your mither was a kings daughtèr 
Of noble birth and fame, 
But now shes wife o Hynd Etin, 
Wha neer gat christendame. 

But well shoot the buntin o the bush, 
The linnet o the tree, 
And yese tak them hame to your dear mither, 
See if shell merrier be. 

It fell upon anither day, 
Hes to the hunting gane 
And left his seven [young] children 
To stay wi their mither at hame. 

O I will tell to you, mither, 
Gin ye wadna angry be. 
Speak on, speak on, my little wee boy, 
Yese nae be quarrelld by me. 

As we came frae the hind-hunting, 
We heard fine music ring. 
My blessings on you, my bonny boy, 
I wish Id been there my lane. 

They wistna weel where they were gaen, 
Wi the stratlins o their feet; 
They wistna weel where they were gaen, 
Till at her fathers yate. 

I hae nae money in my pocket, 
But royal rings hae three; 
Ill gie them you, my little young son, 
And yell walk there for me. 

Yell gie the first to the proud portèr 
And he will let you in; 
Yell gie the next to the butler-boy 
And he will show you ben; 

Yell gie the third to the minstrel 
That plays before the King; 
Hell play success to the bonny boy 
Came thro the wood him lane. 

He gae the first to the proud portèr 
And he opend and let him in; 
He gae the next to the butler-boy, 
And he has shown him ben. 

He gae the third to the minstrel 
That playd before the King, 
And he playd success to the bonny boy 
Came thro the wood him lane. 

Now when he came before the King, 
Fell low upon his knee; 
The King he turnd him round about, 
And the saut tear blint his ee. 

Win up, win up, my bonny boy, 
Gang frae my companie; 
Ye look sae like my dear daughtèr, 
My heart will burst in three. 

If I look like your dear daughtèr, 
A wonder it is none; 
If I look like your dear daughtèr, 
I am her eldest son. 

Will ye tell me, ye little wee boy, 
Where may my Margaret be? 
Shes just now standing at your yates, 
And my six brithers her wi. 

O where are a my porter-boys 
That I pay meat and fee, 
To open my yates baith wide and braid, 
Let her come in to me? 

When she cam in before the King, 
Fell low down on her knee: 
Win up, win up, my daughter dear, 
This day yese dine wi me. 

Ae bit I canna eat, father, 
Nor ae drop can I drink, 
Until I see my mither dear, 
For lang for her I think. 

When she cam in before the queen, 
Fell low down on her knee; 
Win up, win up, my daughter dear, 
This day yese dine wi me.  

Ae bit I canna eat, mither, 
Nor ae drop can I drink, 
Until I see my sister dear, 
For lang for her I think. 

When that these twa sisters met, 
She haild her courteouslie; 
Come ben, come ben, my sister dear, 
This day yese dine wi me. 

Ae bit I canna eat, sister, 
Nor ae drop can I drink, 
Until I see my dear husband, 
So lang for him I think. 

O where are a my rangers bold 
That I pay meat and fee, 
To search the forest far an wide, 
And bring Etin back to me? 

Out it speaks the little wee boy: 
Na, na, this mauna be; 
Without ye grant a free pardon, 
I hope yell nae him see. 

O here I grant a free pardon, 
Well seald by my own han; 
Ye may mak search for Young Etin 
As soon as ever ye can. 

They searchd the country wide and braid, 
The forests far and near, 
And they found him into Elmonds wood, 
Tearing his yellow hair. 

Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin, 
Win up an boun wi me; 
Were messengers come frae the court; 
The King wants you to see. 

O lat them tak frae me my head, 
Or hang me on a tree; 
For since Ive lost my dear lady, 
Lifes no pleasure to me. 

Your head will na be touchd, Etin, 
Nor you hangd on a tree; 
Your ladys in her fathers court 
And a he wants is thee. 

When he cam in before the King, 
Fell low down on his knee; 
Win up, win up now, Young Etin, 
This day yese dine wi me. 

But as they were at dinner set 
The wee boy askd a boon: 
I wish we were in a good kirk 
For to get christendoun. 

For we hae lived in gude green wood 
This seven years and ane; 
But a this time since eer I mind 
Was never a kirk within. 

Your asking s na sae great, my boy, 
But granted it sall be; 
This day to gude kirk ye sall gang 
And your mither sall gang you wi. 

When unto the gude kirk she came, 
She at the door did stan; 
She was sae sair sunk down wi shame, 
She couldna come farther ben. 

Then out and spak the parish priest, 
And a sweet smile gae he: 
Come ben, come ben, my lily-flower, 
Present your babes to me. 

Charles, Vincent, Sam and Dick, 
And likewise John and James; 
They calld the eldest Young Etin, 
Which was his fathers name.


Edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch in The Oxford Book of Ballads

----------


## Sylph

*A Sign-Seeker 
Thomas Hardy* 


I MARK the months in liveries dank and dry,
The day-tides many-shaped and hued;
I see the nightfall shades subtrude,
And hear the monotonous hours clang negligently by.

I view the evening bonfires of the sun
On hills where morning rains have hissed;
The eyeless countenance of the mist
Pallidly rising when the summer droughts are done.

I have seen the lightning-blade, the leaping star,
The caldrons of the sea in storm,
Have felt the earthquake's lifting arm,
And trodden where abysmal fires and snowcones are.

I learn to prophesy the hid eclipse,
The coming of eccentric orbs;
To mete the dust the sky absorbs,
To weigh the sun, and fix the hour each planet dips.

I witness fellow earth-men surge and strive;
Assemblies meet, and throb, and part;
Death's soothing finger, sorrow's smart;
--All the vast various moils that mean a world alive.

But that I fain would wot of shuns my sense--
Those sights of which old prophets tell,
Those signs the general word so well,
Vouchsafed to their unheed, denied my watchings tense.

In graveyard green, behind his monument
To glimpse a phantom parent, friend,
Wearing his smile, and "Not the end!"
Outbreathing softly: that were blest enlightenment;

Or, if a dead Love's lips, whom dreams reveal
When midnight imps of King Decay
Delve sly to solve me back to clay,
Should leave some print to prove her spirit-kisses real;

Or, when Earth's Frail lie bleeding of her Strong,
If some Recorder, as in Writ,
Near to the weary scene should flit
And drop one plume as pledge that Heaven inscrolls the wrong.

--There are who, rapt to heights of trancéd trust,
These tokens claim to feel and see,
Read radiant hints of times to be--
Of heart to heart returning after dust to dust.

Such scope is granted not my powers indign...
I have lain in dead men's beds, have walked
The tombs of those with whom I'd talked,
Called many a gone and goodly one to shape a sign,

And panted for response. But none replies;
No warnings loom, nor whisperings
To open out my limitings,
And Nescience mutely muses: When a man falls he lies.

----------


## quasimodo1

Dies Irae 

ON that great, that awful day, 
This vain world shall pass away. 
Thus the sibyl sang of old, 
Thus hath holy David told. 
There shall be a deadly fear 
When the Avenger shall appear, 
And unveiled before his eye 
All the works of man shall lie. 
Hark! to the great trumpet's tones 
Pealing o'er the place of bones: 
Hark! it waketh from their bed 
All the nations of the dead,-- 
In a countless throng to meet, 
At the eternal judgment seat. 
Nature sickens with dismay, 
Death may not retain its prey; 
And before the Maker stand 
All the creatures of his hand. 
The great book shall be unfurled, 
Whereby God shall judge the world; 
What was distant shall be near, 
What was hidden shall be clear. 
To what shelter shall I fly? 
To what guardian shall I cry? 
Oh, in that destroying hour, 
Source of goodness, Source of power, 
Show thou, of thine own free grace, 
Help unto a helpless race. 
Though I plead not at thy throne 
Aught that I for thee have done, 
Do not thou unmindful be, 
Of what thou hast borne for me: 
Of the wandering, of the scorn, 
Of the scourge, and of the thorn. 
Jesus, hast thou borne the pain, 
And hath all been borne in vain? 
Shall thy vengeance smite the head 
For whose ransom thou hast bled? 
Thou, whose dying blessing gave 
Glory to a guilty slave: 
Thou, who from the crew unclean 
Didst release the Magdalene: 
Shall not mercy vast and free, 
Evermore be found in thee? 
Father, turn on me thine eyes, 
See my blushes, hear my cries; 
Faint though be the cries I make, 
Save me for thy mercy's sake, 
From the worm, and from the fire, 
From the torments of thine ire. 
Fold me with the sheep that stand 
Pure and safe at thy right hand. 
Hear thy guilty child implore thee, 
Rolling in the dust before thee. 
Oh the horrors of that day! 
When this frame of sinful clay, 
Starting from its burial place, 
Must behold thee face to face. 
Hear and pity, hear and aid, 
Spare the creatures thou hast made. 
Mercy, mercy, save, forgive, 
Oh, who shall look on thee and live? 

Thomas Babbington Macaulay {Dies Irae, Dies Illa. from the Gregorian chant translated means "Day of wrath, Day of Mourning" which is sung in the Mass for the Dead...Roman Catholic High Mass}

----------


## quasimodo1

I will come to you in the day time.
I will raise you from your sleep.
I will kiss you in four places,
as I go running down your street.
And I will squeeze the life right out of you.
I will make you laugh and make you cry.
And we may never forget it
'cuz we had the time of our life.
And now all the good times are through.
And I will always love you.
So shed your tears, let's get it over.
I will come to you in at night time.
I will put you to bed.
I will say I love you.
And I won't be happy even when you're dreaming,
because I know I will bleeding
when I tell you, darlin', I'm leaving.
But let's put that aside and have some fun.
We'll never forget it even when we're done.
Because we had the time of our life,
and now that is through.
Please baby, don't cry when I say I love you.
Because now it's time to leave
and we may never forget it.
So baby please say good bye.
Don't shed a tear, no please don't cry.
Together we are, but now miles apart.
The inches between seem like light years.
Emptyness runs down my face in the form of tears. 
-- Submitted by Jeff Fair from Centereach
e-mail: [email protected]
{To Logos: This posting is a test as I found alot of poetry advertised as poetry from all over the world, adjusted by subject matter...cr issues are unclear}

----------


## hellsapoppin

To me, no poem can ever be the equal of,



THANATOPSIS

by: William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

O him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all,
Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound
Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest: and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged by his dungeon; but, sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

----------


## *_Annabel Lee_*

La Beaut&#233;

Je suis belle, &#244; mortels ! comme un r&#234;ve de pierre,
Et mon sein, o&#249; chacun s’est meurtri tour &#224; tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au po&#232;te un amour
&#201;ternel et muet ainsi que la mati&#232;re.

Je tr&#244;ne dans l’azur comme un sphinx incompris ;
J’unis un cœur de neige &#224; la blancheur des cygnes ;
Je hais le mouvement qui d&#233;place les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

Les po&#232;tes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j’ai l’air d’emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d’aust&#232;res &#233;tudes ;

Car j’ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles :
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clart&#233;s &#233;ternelles !


Charles Baudelaire

----------


## Etienne

Cors de chasse

Notre histoire est noble et tragique
Comme le masque d'un tyran
Nul drame hasardeux ou magique
Aucun d&#233;tail indiff&#233;rent
Ne rend notre amour path&#233;tique

Et Thomas de Quincey buvant
L'opium poison doux et chaste
A sa pauvre Anna allait r&#234;vant
Passons passons puisque tout passe
Je me retournerai souvent
[The two last lines are some of my favorite... incredible]

Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse
Dont meurt le bruit parmi le vent

-Apollinaire

Hercule et Omphalle

Le cul
D'Ophalle
Vaincu
S'affale.

- "Sens-tu
Mon phalle
Aigu
- "Quel m&#226;le!...

Le chien
Me cr&#232;ve!...
Quel r&#234;ve?...

- ...Tiens bien?"
Hercule
L'encule.

-Apollinaire

More grotesque but very funny especially in their context, they are from Gargantua and Pantagruel by Rabelais. The young Gargantua is reciting them (I do not like the english translations of them):

Chiard,
Foirard,
P&#233;tard,
Brenous,
Ton lard,
Chappard,
S'&#233;part,
Sur nous,
Ordous,
Merdous,
Egous,
Le feu de saint Antoine t'ard,
Si tous
Te trous
Eclous
Ne torches avant ton d&#233;part.

Rondeau

En chiant, l'autre hier, senti
La gabelle qu'&#224; mon cul dois;
L'odeur fut autre que cuidois;
J'en fus du tout empuanti.
Oh! si quelqu'un eut consenti
M'amener une qu'attendais
En chiant!

Car je lui eusse acimenti
Son trou d'urine &#224; mon lourdois;
Cependant e&#251;t avec ses doigts
Mon trou de merde garanti
En chiant!

-Young Gargantua to his father Grandgousier

----------


## quasimodo1

To *_Annabel Lee_* & Etienne: Could I request a translation from you French speaking poetry lovers? Your own would be fine. quasimodo1

----------


## HunterBrown1968

"Th' Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame"

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, muderous bloody, full of blame,
Savage, exstreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight:
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having,and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof; and proved a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream,
All this the world knows well; yet none knows well,
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
~William Shakespeare

----------


## Etienne

> To *_Annabel Lee_* & Etienne: Could I request a translation from you French speaking poetry lovers? Your own would be fine. quasimodo1


Hunting horns

Our story’s noble as its tragic
like the grimace of a tyrant
no drama’s chance or magic
no detail that’s indifferent
makes our great love pathetic

And Thomas de Quincey drinking
Opiate poison sweet and chaste
Of his poor Anne went dreaming
We pass we pass since all must pass
Often I’ll be returning

Memories are hunting horns alas
whose note along the wind is dying

-Apollinaire

----------


## patrycja

My favourite poem is an excerpt from 'Tamburlaine the Great' Part I. The text is as follows:

"Nature, that fram'd us of our four elements
Warring within our breasts for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds.
Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the world,
And measure every wandering planet's course,
Still climbing after knowledge infinite,
And always moving as the restless spheres,
Wills us to wear ourselves and never rest,
Until we reach the ripest fruit of all,
That perfect bliss and sole felicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown."

When it comes to "poem as a poem"... H. G. Hopkins' "The Windhover".

"The Windhover"

To Christ our Lord


I CAUGHT this morning mornings minion, king-	
dom of daylights dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding	
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding	
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing	
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, 
As a skates heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding	
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding	
Stirred for a bird,the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!	

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here	
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion 
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!	

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion	
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,	
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

----------


## white camellia

For lo! thy law is passed 
That this my love should manifestly be 
To serve and honor thee; 
And so I do; and my delight is full, 
Accepted for the servant of thy rule. 

Without almost, I am all rapturous, 
Since thus my will was set 
To serve, thou flower of joy, thine excellence; 
Nor ever seems it anything could rouse 
A pain or regret, 
But on thee dwells mine every thought and sense; 
Considering that from thee all virtues spread 
As from a fountain head, 
That in thy gift is wisdoms best avail, 
And honor without fail; 
With whom each sovereign good dwells separate, 
Fulfilling the perfection of thy state. 

Lady, since I conceived 
That pleasurable aspect in my heart, 
My life has been apart 
In shining brightness and the place of truth; 
Which till that time, good sooth, 
Groped among shadows in a darkend place, 
Where many hours and days 
It hardly ever had rememberd good. 
But now my servitude 
Is thine, and I am full of joy and rest. 
A man from a wild beast 
Thou madest me, since for thy love I lived.

----------


## quasimodo1

To White camellia: OK, who is the author?

----------


## sherlock

i like the raven

----------


## Fawkes

Hi, I'm new here! Thought I share one of my favorites poems:

"Hope' is the thing with feathers"

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet, never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of Me

Emily Dickinson

----------


## quasimodo1

Welcome to the litnet Fawkes. quasimodo1

----------


## mukta581

How Do We Mend A Broken Heart

How do we mend our broken hearts,
When our loved one has been untrue,
Surrounded with lies and deception,
After hearing the words I love only you.

Self esteem is now at an all time low,
Confidence has taken wings and flew,
Your trust in love has been shattered,
Now alone in a world with just you.

Falling tears that you cried leave you empty,
Your faith once so strong is now weak,
The love that you fought and sacrificed for,
Leaves you devastated and unable to speak.

The words keep haunting you day after day,
All the stories you once thought were true,
Asking yourself the same question once more,
Now what on earth shall I do.

Cracks and holes have pierced through your heart,
From someone who had claimed to love you,
Seem so slow in becoming whole once again,
But heal faster from what you can do!

Do not sit alone contemplating your past,
Self pity has hooks made of steel,
Hold your head way up high when your walking,
Be thankful no more hurt will you feel.

And please do not ever give up on love,
Take the lessons you've learned and be wise,
Make certain when someone says they love you,
It will not bring about your demise!

There are men and women who are genuine and true,
Who've been victims of lies and deceit,
So never give up on your dreams for happiness,
A true love is waiting just for you to meet!

----------


## mukta581

If Its Okay With You

You are the love of a lifetime
Ive always wanted as mine.
You are everything Ive ever wanted
and so much more than that,
and my heart tells me every second
of every minute
of every hour
of every day
that you are the special soul mate
I always hoped Id find.
You are the one perfect person in my life,
everything I always hoped for my secret
dream that swept me off my feet and really
did come true.
You have the warmth of the morning sun in
your spirit, and you have a gentle soul that
I always want to be close to. I deeply, dearly,
and happily love you, and I will until the end of time.
And there will never be a day when I will
take even one moment of that joy and that
sweetness for granted. You make a certain sense
of tranquility embed itself in my mind, and you
make me feel like a better person. I will never ask
for anything more from you, because you are the best
how you are, right here, right now. I know what a
gift you are and I want you to know it, too.
You have an amazing way of touching
my heart, and you have a way of turning
every day into a time and a place where
the nicest feelings and the deepest gratitude
all come together. I have such an immense
amount of thanks and appreciation for all this.
You are truly the best thing that has ever
happened to me, and I could never ask for
anything else, because there is nothing in the
entire world that could make me happier
than you do when Im around you.
You are the only one for me,
and if its okay with you,
Id love to go on loving you
forever.

----------


## quasimodo1

HYMN TO APOLLO
God of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer
Of the patient year,
Where---where slept thine ire,
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
Thy laurel, thy glory,
The light of thy story,
Or was I a worm---too low crawling for death?
O Delphic Apollo!

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
The eagle's feathery mane
For wrath became stiffen'd---the sound
Of breeding thunder
Went drowsily under,
Muttering to be unbound.
O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?
Why touch thy soft lute
Till the thunder was mute,
Why was I not crush'd---such a pitiful germ?
O Delphic Apollo!

The Pleiades were up,
Watching the silent air;
The seeds and roots in Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,
Was at his old labour,
When, who---who did dare
To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,
And grin and look proudly,
And blaspheme so loudly,
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?
O Delphic Apollo!

----------


## protagonist

my favourite poem is below and my favourite poet is Emily Dickenson 

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us?
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog – 
To tell one's name – the livelong June – 
To an admiring Bog!

----------


## Pensive

> my favourite poem is below and my favourite poet is Emily Dickenson 
> 
> I'm Nobody! Who are you?
> Are you  Nobody  too?
> Then there's a pair of us?
> Don't tell! they'd advertise  you know!
> 
> How dreary  to be  Somebody!
> How public  like a Frog  
> ...


I like this one.  :Smile:

----------


## mukta581

My haert is broken!!!!

My heart is broken 
and i am torn 
between my life 
between my all

my heart is broken 
my life is gone
all my dreams 
everything crushed

my heart is broken
in a million places
living alone
a lonely life

my heart is broken 
without you here
my heart is broken 
like never before

----------


## 1n50mn14

Fred Cogswell- The Butterfly

----------


## Dori

A pretty boy --- with an auctioneer. 
Bargaining there, I fancy.

 :FRlol:  Written by the Roman poet Catullus.

----------


## Igetanotion

Hi everyone, I'm new here! (I've been visiting the site for quite some time, but I've just now joined the forums)
This is my favorite
it is by Yousef Komunyakaa

"We Never Know"

He danced with tall grass
for a moment, like he was swaying
with a woman. Our gun barrels
glowed white-hot.
When I got to him,
a blue halo
of flies had already claimed him.
I pulled the crumbed photograph
from his fingers.
There's no other way
to say this: I fell in love.
The morning cleared again,
except for a distant mortar
& somewhere choppers taking off.
I slid the wallet into his pocket
& turned him over, so he wouldn't be
kissing the ground.

and also this one by Thomas Lux
"Refrigerator 1957"
More like a vault -- you pull the handle out
and on the shelves: not a lot,
and what there is (a boiled potato
in a bag, a chicken carcass
under foil) looking dispirited,
drained, mugged. This is not
a place to go in hope or hunger.
But, just to the right of the middle
of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red,
heart red, sexual red, wet neon red,
shining red in their liquid, exotic,
aloof, slumming
in such company: a jar
of maraschino cherries. Three-quarters
full, fiery globes, like strippers
at a church social. Maraschino cherries, maraschino,
the only foreign word I knew. Not once
did I see these cherries employed: not
in a drink, nor on top
of a glob of ice cream,
or just pop one in your mouth. Not once.
The same jar there through an entire
childhood of dull dinners -- bald meat,
pocked peas and, see above,
boiled potatoes. Maybe
they came over from the old country,
family heirlooms, or were status symbols
bought with a piece of the first paycheck
from a sweatshop,
which beat the pig farm in Bohemia,
handed down from my grandparents
to my parents
to be someday mine,
then my child's?
They were beautiful
and, if I never ate one,
it was because I knew it might be missed
or because I knew it would not be replaced
and because you do not eat
that which rips your heart with joy.

----------


## mukta581

Grace Of God!!!!!

Surround me Gods.
Gods are worshipped by me.
As I sit in a room.
Looking am at all the posters.
Posters of gods and goddesses.
Colourful being the posters.
As colourful is the colour of worshipping.
Different being the ways of worshipping.
Goal being the same.
Which is to impress through impressions created by us in the eyes of god.
Look us for ways to impress the almighty.
Use us prayers to pray.
So we can reach the gods.
Gods who are listeners of our needs.
Needs which need fulfillment.
As he is all we got.
Got as he is our guide.
Guide for our guidance.
Guidance required to help us.
Help us through rocky patches.
Patches patch as it is life.
Life being a blessing.
Of one who blessed us.
To live and survive.
As we are needed to learn from life.
Which is a blessing.
Given to us by the one known as creator.
Creator of creations.
Which surround me.

----------


## PaisteN'Pearl

Books and Thoughts - By Aldous Huxley

Old ghosts that death forgot to ferry
Across the Lethe of the years-
These are my friends, and at their tears
I weep and with their mirth am merry.
On a high tower, whose mattlements
Give me all heaven at a glance,
I lie long summer nights in trance,
Drowsed by the murmurs and the scents
That rise from the earth, while the sky above me
Merges its peace with my soul's peace,
Deep meeting deep. No stir can move me,
Nought break the quiet of my release:

In vain the windy sunlight raves
At the hush and gloom of polar caves.

----------


## PaisteN'Pearl

*battlements*....... my bad  :Smile:

----------


## Domer121

"There be none of Beauty's daughters 
with a Magic like thee.
And like Music on the water
is thy sweet voice to me."
Lord Byron

----------


## mukta581

Love

Love is like a lump of gold,
Hard to get, and hard to hold.
Of all the girls I've ever met,
You're the one I can't forget.
I do believe that God above,
Created you for me to love.
He chose you from all the rest,
Because he knew I would love you best.

----------


## mukta581

Have You?
Have You ever loved someone
But knew they didn't care?
Have You ever felt like crying
But Knew you'd get no where?

Have you ever looked into their eyes 
And said a little prayer?
Have you ever looked into their hearts
And wished that you were there?

Have you ever felt their heartbeat,
When the lights were turned down low?
Have you ever whispered "God, I love You"
But you'll never let me show?

Love is grand, yet it hurts so much.
The price you pay is high.
If I could choose between Love and Death,
I'd rather choose to die.

So do not fall in love, my friend,
It doesn't pay a dime.
It only causes broken hearts,
Yet it happens all the time.

So do not fall in love, my friend,
You'll hurt before it's through.
I ought to know, my friend -
I fell in love with you.

----------


## islandclimber

Pablo Neruda... "Ode With a Lament"

----------


## mukta581

If.. you ever need me...
If ever you need me,
I'll be right here,
To chase away the sadness,
And wipe away a tear.

If ever you need me,
I'll be two steps behind,
To follow in your footsteps,
And hear what's on your mind.

If ever you need me,
You'll never have to fear,
That your presence isn't important,
And your love isn't dear.

If ever you need me,
I'll always be around,
To bring back the laughter,
Where deep in your heart it's found.

You'll never have to worry,
For I'll always be here,
To chase away the sadness,
And wipe away a tear

----------


## musicman0000

longfellows "the tide rises the tide falls" 
thats why im an english 
he painted a picture in words as music can paint pictures

----------


## quasimodo1

Zone 
by Guillaume Apollinaire 
Translated by Donald Revell 


At last you're tired of this elderly world

Shepherdess O Eiffel Tower this morning the bridges are bleating

You're fed up living with antiquity

Even the automobiles are antiques
Religion alone remains entirely new religion
Remains as simple as an airport hangar

In all Europe only you O Christianism are not old
The most modem European Pope Pius X it's you
The windows watch and shame has sealed
The confessionals against you this morning
Flyers catalogs hoardings sing aloud
Here's poetry this morning and for prose you're reading the tabloids
Disposable paperbacks filled with crimes and police
Biographies of great men a thousand various titles

I saw a pretty street this morning I forgot the name
New and cleanly it was the sun's clarion
Executives laborers exquisite stenographers
Criss-cross Monday through Saturday four times daily
Three times every morning sirens groan
At the lunch hour a rabid bell barks
The lettering on the walls and billboards
the doorplates and posters twitters parakeet-style
I love the swank of that street
Situated in Paris between the rue Aumont-Thieville and the avenue des Ternes

Here's the young street and you're still a baby
Dressed by your mother in blue and white only
You're very pious and with your oldest friend Rene Dalize
Nothing is more fun than Masses and Litanies


It's nine o'clock the gaslight is low you leave your bed
You pray all night in the school chapel
Meanwhile an eternal adorable amethyst depth
Christ's flamboyant halo spins forever
Behold the beautiful lily of worship
Behold the red-haired torch inextinguishable
Behold the pale son and scarlet of the dolorous Mother
Behold the tree forever tufted with prayer
Behold the double gallows honor and eternity
Behold the six-pointed star
Behold the God who dies on Friday and rises on Sunday
Behold the Christ who flies higher than aviators
He holds the world's record for altitude

Christ pupil of the eye
Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff
And bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky
Devils in the abyss look up to watch
They say this century mimics Simon Magus in Judea
It takes a thief to catch a thief they cry
Angels flutter around the pretty trapeze act
Icarus Enoch Elijah Apollonius of Tyana
Hover as close to the airplane as they can
Sometimes they give way to other men hauling the Eucharist
Priests eternally climbing the elevating Host
The plane descends at last its wings unfolded
bursts into a million swallows
Full speed come the crows the owls and falcons
From Africa ibis storks flamingoes
The Roc-bird famous with writers and poets
Glides Adam's skull the original head in its talons
The horizon screams an eagle pouncing
And from America there comes a hummingbird
From China sinuous peehees
Who have only one wing and who fly in couples
And here's a dove immaculate spirit
Escorted by lyre-bird and shimmery peacock

Phoenix the pyre the self-resurrected
Obscures everything ardently briefly with ash
The sirens abandon their perilous channels
Each one singing more beautifully arrives
Everyone eagle Phoenix Chinese peehees
Eager to befriend a machine that flies

You are walking in Paris alone inside a crowd
Herds of buses bellow and come too close
Love-anguish clutches your throat
You must never again be loved
In the Dark Ages you would have entered a monastery
You are ashamed to overhear yourself praying
You laugh at yourself and the laughter crackles like hellfire
The sparks gild the ground and background of your life
Your life is a painting in a dark museum
And sometimes you examine it closely

You are walking in Paris the women are bloodsoaked
It was and I have no wish to remember it was the end of beauty

In Chartres from her entourage of flames Our Lady beamed at me
The blood of your Sacred Heart drenched me in Montmartre
I'm sick of hearing blissful promises
The love I feel is a venereal disease
And the image possessing you in your pain your insomnia
Vanishes and it is always near you

And now you are on the Riviera
Under lemon trees that never stop blooming
You are boating with friends
One is from Nice one is from Menton two from La Turbie
We are staring terrified at giant squid
At fish the symbols of Jesus swimming through seaweed

You are in the garden at an inn outside of Prague
You are completely happy a rose is on the table
And instead of getting on with your short-story
You watch the rosebug sleeping in the rose's heart

Appalled you see yourself reproduced in the agates of Saint Vitus
You were sad near to death to see yourself there
You looked as bewildered as Lazarus
In the Jewish ghetto the clock runs backwards
And you go backwards also through a slow life
Climbing the Hradchen listening at nightfall
To Bohemian songs in the singing taverns

You in Marseilles among the watermelons

Yu in Coblenz at the Hotel Gigantic

You in Rome beneath a Japanese tree

You in Amsterdam with a girl you find pretty who is ugly
She's engaged to marry a student from Leyden
Where you can rent rooms in Latin Cubicula locanda
I remember spending three days there and three in Gouda

You are in Paris hauled before the magistrate
You are under arrest you are a criminal now

You went on sorrowful and giddy travels
Ignorant still of dishonesty and old age
Love afflicted you at twenty and again at thirty
I've lived like a fool and I've wasted my time
You dare not look at your hands I want to weep all the time
On you on the one I love on everything that frightened you

And now you are crying at the sight of refugees
Who believe in God who pray whose women nurse babies
The hall of the train station is filled with the refugee-smell
Like the Magi refugees believe in their star
They expect to find silver mines in the Argentine
And to return like kings to their abandoned countries
One family carries a red eiderdown you carry your heart
Eiderdown and dreams are equally fantastic

Some of the refugees stay on in Paris settling
Into slums on the rue des Rosiers or the rue des Ecouffes
I have seen them often at dusk they breathe at their doorways
They budge from home as reluctantly as chessmen
They are chiefly Jewish the women wear wigs
And haunt backrooms of little shops in little chairs

You're standing at the metal counter of some dive
Drinking wretched coffee where the wretched live

You are in a cavernous restaurant at night

These women are not evil they are used-up regretful
Each has tormented someone even the ugliest

She is the daughter of a police sergeant from Jersey

Her hands I'd never noticed are hard and cracked

My pity aches along the seams of her belly

I humble my mouth to her grotesque laughter

You're alone when morning comes
The milkmen jingle bottles in the street

Night beautiful courtesan the night withdraws
Fraudulent Ferdine or careful Leah

And you drink an alcohol as caustic as your life
Your life you drink as alcohol

You walk to Auteuil you want to go on foot to sleep
At home among your South Sea and Guinean fetishes
Christs of another shape another faith
Subordinate Christs of uncertain hopes

Goodbye Goodbye

Sun cut throated

----------


## Xcape

The Darkling Thrush - Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate 
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky 
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh 
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be 
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy, 
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth 
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth 
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among 
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong 
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, 
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul 
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings 
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things 
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through 
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew 
And I was unaware.

----------


## Trekker114

If I had to pick one I would probably go with Keats' "To Autumn".

----------


## bravenewlife

*Paradise Lost* By John Milton  :Yawnb:

----------


## quasimodo1

Dedication to M.


Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what
invisible branch. Who, who gave you the push,
that you swung with me into the leaves?
How near I was to the exquisite fruits. But not-staying
is the essence of this motion. Only the nearness, only
toward the forever-too-high, all at once the possible
nearness. Vicinities, then
from an irresistibly swung-up-to place
-already, once again, lost-the new sight, the outlook.
And now: the commanded return
back and across and into equilbrium's arms.
Below, in between, hesitation, the pull of earth, the passage
through the turning-point of the heavy-, past it: and the
catapult stretches,
weighted with the heart's curiosity,
to the other side, opposite, upward.
Again how different, how new! How they envy each other
at the ends of the rope, these opposite halves of pleasure.


{first stanza}

----------


## kelby_lake

I like 'Neutral Tones' by Thomas Hardy
'On a Dead Child' by Richard Middleton
'The Tyger' by William Blake
'Sonnet' by Christina Rossetti
'Dulce et Decorem Est' by Wilfred Owen

Lots, I think

----------


## lakeside_girl

there are so many... and my taste changes depending on so many things...but coleridge "Duty surviving self love"
wordsworth "..tintern abbey"
tennyson "come to the garden, maude"
eliot "prufrock"
wally stevens..(my favorite poet) "13 ways of looking at a blackbird"
kipling for when i want to grin...but right now i'm "feverish" and so prone to being a bit romantic....*grin* when in england...
there a five million more...sorry!
thanks for letting me post here..it's great! ( sorry if this came up two times)

----------


## djy78usa

Brick by Ben Folds

_Shes a Brick and I'm Drowning slowly_

All about a guy that gets a girl pregnant, and then tries to talk her into an abortion... absolutley beautiful song!!!

----------


## detays

TS Eliot - The Wasteland

April is the cruellest month
Breeding lilacs out of the dead land
Mixing memory and desire
Stirring dull roots with spring rain

----------


## quasimodo1

Love For This Book 
by Pablo Neruda 
Translated by Clark Zlotchew and Dennis Maloney 


In these lonely regions I have been powerful
in the same way as a cheerful tool
or like untrammeled grass which lets loose its seed
or like a dog rolling around in the dew.
Matilde, time will pass wearing out and burning
another skin, other fingernails, other eyes, and then
the algae that lashed our wild rocks,
the waves that unceasingly construct their own whiteness,
all will be firm without us,
all will be ready for the new days,
which will not know our destiny.

What do we leave here but the lost cry
of the seabird, in the sand of winter, in the gusts of wind
that cut our faces and kept us
erect in the light of purity,
as in the heart of an illustrious star? {first half of this poem}

----------


## pjjr

Prufrock, TS Eliot
Stopping by Woods-Robert Frost
Be Still, My soul, be still-AE Houseman
On his Blindness-Milton
Dover Beach
My Heart leaps up with joy-Wordsworth
I like a lot of poems, but these I enjoy reading over and over and over.

----------


## Mintyblue

My favourites are-
Ode to Autumn, Keats
Written in early spring, Worsworth
In Memorium, Tennyson

----------


## Roivas

Definitely "Goblin Market" by Christina Rossetti.

I like "Leda and the Swan" by Yeats, as well.

----------


## GunslingerSnake

Gotta say 'Days' by Larkin is a favourite of mine:

''Days, what are days for?"

----------


## Rakthor

I must say the crunch, by Charles Bukowski.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

My favorite quote of all time.

----------


## Vincent Black

Prufrock by Eliot or The Raven by Poe

----------


## jikan myshkin

the raven

----------


## rajeevacklamon

one of my favourite poems is by Pablo Nerruda Tonight I can write the saddest lines..........

----------


## LaPléiade

One of my favourite poem is "Daffodils" by W.Wordsworth
I also like Shakespeare's sonnet "Dirge to Love" 
"The Moon" by Shelley

Nevertheless as a French people , I do not know a lot about English litterature but I am eager to learn

----------


## Statistic

The Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

----------


## bej6s

i like sylvia plath's "mirror" and also am a fan of Robert Frost.

----------


## Negar

Do we really need to read lines of words to get some feeling about something?! Just look at this :
old pond
a frog jumps
the sound of water
isn't haiku marvelous?

----------


## Negar

> One of my favourite poem is "Daffodils" by W.Wordsworth
> I also like Shakespeare's sonnet "Dirge to Love" 
> "The Moon" by Shelley
> 
> Nevertheless as a French people , I do not know a lot about English litterature but I am eager to learn


Dear LaPleiade,
I am interested in french and its literature.You can write poems in french here for us.( if u have the translation it'll be wonderful)

----------


## quasimodo1

In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 

Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had --- Ah ! Have I now? --- a friend ! 

To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow; 

I would remind him of my end: 

Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 

Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 

Yet dear to him my blighted name. 

'Tis strange --- he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled --- I then could smile --- 

When Prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn --- I reck'd not what --- the while: 

But now remembrance whisper o'er 

Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 

Say --- that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth: 

Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been, 

In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 

To bless his memory ere I died; 

But Heaven in wrath would turn away 

If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 

I do not ask him not to blame, 

Too gentle he to wound my name; 

And what have I to do with fame? 

I do not ask him not to mourn, 

Such cold request might sound like scorn; 

And what than friendship's manly tear 

May better grace a brother's bier? 

But bear this ring, his own of old, 

And tell him --- what thou dost behold ! 

The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 

The wrack by passion left behind, 

A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 

Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 


{excerpt from Lord Byron's long poem} -- THE GIAOUR 
A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE 

By 
Lord Byron 
1813 

http://readytogoebooks.com/LB-Giaour.htm

----------


## quasimodo1

Invitation to the Voyage


My child, my sister,
Think of the rapture
Of living together there! 
Of loving at will, 
Of loving till death,
In the land that is like you! 
The misty sunlight 
Of those cloudy skies
Has for my spirit the charms, 
So mysterious, 
Of your treacherous eyes,
Shining brightly through their tears.


There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.


Gleaming furniture,
Polished by the years,
Will ornament our bedroom;
The rarest flowers
Mingling their fragrance
With the faint scent of amber,
The ornate ceilings,
The limpid mirrors,
The oriental splendor,
All would whisper there
Secretly to the soul
In its soft, native language.


There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.


See on the canals 
Those vessels sleeping.
Their mood is adventurous;
It's to satisfy
Your slightest desire
That they come from the ends of the earth.
— The setting suns
Adorn the fields,
The canals, the whole city,
With hyacinth and gold;
The world falls asleep
In a warm glow of light.


There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.


— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


{I have no idea if this translation is the best, Antiquarian?}

----------


## alakungfu

Fern Hill 



Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the **** on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
 Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.


By Dylan Thomas

----------


## Xarlot

Almost Miss Scotland by Liz Lochhead

A little extract:

I was six-fit-six, I was slinky
(Yet nae skinnymalinky) -
My waist was nipped in wi elastic,
My powder and panstick were three inches thick
Nails? Long, blood-red and plastic.
So my smile'd come across, I'd larded oan lipgloss
And my false eyelashes were mink
With a sky blue crescent that was pure iridescent
When I lowered my eyelids to blink.

Well, I wiggled on tapselteerie, my heels were that peerie
While a kinna Jimmy Shrandish band
Played 'Flower of Scotland'
But it aw got droont oot wi wolf whistles -
And that's no countin' "For These Are My Mountains'
- See I'd tits like nuclear missiles.

Funny if you hear it in a Scottish accent  :Tongue:

----------


## Equality72521

My teacher read this poem to our group when I was in a Literary Criticism competition for practice one day. Oh my god, I fell in love with it immediately. He read it so well! This has been my favorite poem ever since.


La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats 1884



O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge has wither’d from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 
So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel’s granary is full, 
And the harvest’s done. 

I see a lily on thy brow 
With anguish moist and fever dew, 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 

I met a lady in the meads, 
Full beautiful—a faery’s child, 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 

I made a garland for her head, 
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
She look’d at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

I set her on my pacing steed, 
And nothing else saw all day long, 
For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A faery’s song. 

She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild, and manna dew, 
And sure in language strange she said— 
“I love thee true.” 

She took me to her elfin grot, 
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore, 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
With kisses four. 

And there she lulled me asleep, 
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide! 
The latest dream I ever dream’d 
On the cold hill’s side. 

I saw pale kings and princes too, 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall!” 

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 
And I awoke and found me here, 
On the cold hill’s side. 

And this is why I sojourn here, 
Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, 
And no birds sing.

----------


## quasimodo1

RED HANRAHAN'S SONG ABOUT IRELAND

THE old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand,
Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;
Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,
But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knock- narea,
And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.
Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;
But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,
For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;
Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;
But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood
Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

----------


## Equality72521

This one is funny. It's good to read, but if you actually hear Billy Collins reading it, it's hilarious. My entire class was cracking up. lol. It was one of the best weeks all year, we were going over contemporary american poetry. I my copy of the poem and my annotations...



Nostalgia
by Billy Collins

Remember the 1340s? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color of the decade,
and I was draped in one of thos caps that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.

Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of ston.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while you sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent, a badly broken code.

The 1790s will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down that they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or dead.

I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps.

or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees 
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.

----------


## wessexgirl

I love this thread, I have so many favourite poems. Here's one of my all-time favs.

To his Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell


Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run. 

I also love:


Ode to a Nightingale 

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 
But being too happy in thine happiness, 
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10 

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been 
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South! 15 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stainèd mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 25 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
Fled is that music:do I wake or sleep? 80 

And of course some of the greatest Shakespeare sonnets:


SONNET 116 
Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove: 
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come: 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun"


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; 
Coral is far more red than her lips' red: 
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, 
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight 
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 
I love to hear her speak,--yet well I know 
That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 
I grant I never saw a goddess go, 
My mistress when she walks, treads on the ground; 
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 
As any she belied with false compare. 


When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state, 
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least: 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state 
(Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; 
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'. 


They that have power to hurt and will do none, 
That do not do the thing they most do show, 
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow; 
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces 
And husband nature's riches from expense; 
They are the lords and owners of their faces, 
Others but stewards of their excellence. 
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, 
Though to itself it only live and die, 
But if that flower with base infection meet, 
The basest weed outbraves his dignity: 
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; 
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 


I'll be back with more when I have more time.  :Biggrin:

----------


## Nikola

*FAITH*
Here am I - breathing, 
Working, 
Living 
And writing my poetry 
(My best ti it giving). 
Life and I glower 
Across at each other, 
And with it I struggle 
With all my power. 
Life and I quarrel, 
But don't draw the moral 
That I despise it. 
No, just the opposite! 
Though I should perist, 
Life with its brutal 
Claws of steel 
Still would I cherish, 
Still would I cherish! 
Supose round my neck they tie fast 
The rope 
And they ask: 
"Would you like one more hour to live?" 
I would instantly cry: 
"Untie! 
Untie! 
Come, quickly untie 
The rope, you devils!" 
For Life there is nothing 
I would not dare. 
I would fly 
A prototype plane in the sky, 
I'd climb in a roaring 
Rocket, exploring 
Alone 
In space 
Distant 
Planets. 
Still would I feel 
A joyous thrill 
Gazing 
Up 
At the blue sky. 
Still would I feel 
A joyous thrill 
To be alive, 
To go on living. 
But look, suppose 
You took - how much? - 
A single grain 
From this my faith, 
Then would I rage, 
I would rage from pain 
Like a panter 
Pierced to the heart. 
For what of me 
Would there remain? 
After the theft 
I'd be distraught. 
To put it plainly 
And more directly - 
After the theft 
I would be naught. 
Maybe you wish 
You could erase 
My faith 
In happy days, 
My faith - 
That tomorrow 
Life will be finer, 
Life will be wiser? 
Pray, how will you smash it? 
With bullets? 
No! That is unless! 
Stop! It's not worth it! 
My faith has strong armour 
In my sturdy breast, 
And bullets able to shatter 
My faith 
Do not exist, 
Do not exist! 



This is from Nikola Vapcarov, one of the best bulgarian poets and this is one of my favourite !

----------


## wessexgirl

I've thought of some more:


When we two are parted
Lord Byron 

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears. 


Christina Rossetti 
Remember 

REMEMBER me when I am gone away, 
Gone far away into the silent land; 
When you can no more hold me by the hand, 
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. 
Remember me when no more day by day 
You tell me of our future that you plann'd: 
Only remember me; you understand 
It will be late to counsel then or pray. 
Yet if you should forget me for a while 
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave 
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, 
Better by far you should forget and smile 
Than that you should remember and be sad


W B Yeats 
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. 


'Timothy Winters'
Timothy Winters comes to school 
With eyes as wide as a football-pool, 
Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters: 
A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters. 

His belly is white, his neck is dark, 
And his hair is an exclamation-mark. 
His clothes are enough to scare a crow 
And through his britches the blue winds blow. 

When teacher talks he won't hear a word 
And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird, 
He licks the pattern off his plate 
And he's not even heard of the Welfare State. 

Timothy Winters has bloody feet 
And he lives in a house on Suez Street, 
He sleeps in a sack on the kithen floor 
And they say there aren't boys like him anymore. 

Old Man Winters likes his beer 
And his missus ran off with a bombardier, 
Grandma sits in the grate with a gin 
And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin. 

The welfare Worker lies awake 
But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake, 
So Timothy Winters drinks his cup 
And slowly goes on growing up. 

At Morning Prayers the Master helves 
for children less fortunate than ourselves, 
And the loudest response in the room is when 
Timothy Winters roars "Amen!" 

So come one angel, come on ten 
Timothy Winters says "Amen 
Amen amen amen amen." 
Timothy Winters, Lord. Amen 

Charles Causley

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
I love with a passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 


My Last Duchess
Robert Browning 

That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
"Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
"Must never hope to reproduce the faint
"Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men good! but thanked
Somehow I know not how as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech which I have not to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
"Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
"Or there exceed the mark" and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,
E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

----------


## lolacola

dulce et decorum est wilfred owen
and tyger tyger william blake and poison tree willaim blake

----------


## quasimodo1

From childhood's hour I have not been 
As others were; I have not seen 
As others saw; I could not bring 
My passions from a common spring. 
From the same source I have not taken 
My sorrow; I could not awaken 
My heart to joy at the same tone; 
And all I loved, I loved alone. 
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn 
Of a most stormy life- was drawn 
From every depth of good and ill 
The mystery which binds me still: 
From the torrent, or the fountain, 
From the red cliff of the mountain, 
From the sun that round me rolled 
In its autumn tint of gold, 
From the lightning in the sky 
As it passed me flying by, 
From the thunder and the storm, 
And the cloud that took the form 
(When the rest of Heaven was blue) 
Of a demon in my view. -- {"Alone" by Edgar Allen Poe}

----------


## quasimodo1

An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic


Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, 
The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire.
It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small,
And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all.
And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink,
And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think."
And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor,
The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more.
O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way
All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day,
And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom,
And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom.
And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, 
And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite,
My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine
Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line.
I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair,
They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air.
The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew,
O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew! 

Vachel Lindsay

----------


## Mr. Vandemar

Either "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe or "Tiger" by William Blake.

----------


## carino

Here something from Pablo Neruda	I find this poem extremely passionate as are some of his other love poems.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because 
then the little drops of anguish will all run together, 
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift 
into me, choking my lost heart. .

----------


## Guinivere

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of Circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of Chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

----------


## quasimodo1

Autumn Song 

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn. 


All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.


I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.


It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? --It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.

--Charles Baudelaire

----------


## quasimodo1

UNCONQUERABLE



OUT of the night that covers me, 
Black as the pit from pole to pole, 
I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud: 
Under the bludgeonings of chance 
My head is bloody, but unbow'd. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 
And yet the menace of the years 
Finds and shall find me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 
How charged with punishments the scroll, 
I am the master of my fate: 
I am the captain of my soul.

----------


## quasimodo1

CROQUIS

by: William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

THE beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, 
He groped and fiddled doggedly along, 
His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng 
The stony peevishness of sightless men. 
He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again, 
Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song, 
So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong, 
You hardly could distinguish one in ten. 
He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand, 
And, grasping wearily his bread-winner, 
Staring dim towards the blue immensity, 
Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand. 
He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir: 
His gesture spoke a vast despondency.

----------


## quasimodo1

Speed the Parting 



I shall not sprinkle with dust 
A creature so clearly lunar; 
You must diebut of course you must 
And better later than sooner. 
But if it should be in a year 
That year itself must perish; 
How dingy a thing is fear, 
And sorrow, how dull to cherish! 
And if it should be in a day 
That day would be dark by evening, 
But the morning might still be gay 
And the noon have golden leavening. 
And beautys a moonlight grist 
That comes to the mills of dying; 
The silver grain may be missed 
But theres no great good in crying. 
Though luminous things are mould 
They survive in a glance that crossed them, 
And its not very kind to scold 
The empty air that has lost them. 
The limpid blossom of youth 
Turns into a poison berry; 
Having perceived this truth 
I shall not weep but be merry. 
Therefore die when you please; 
Its not very wise to worry; 
I shall not shiver and freeze; 
I shall not even be sorry. 
Beautiful things are wild; 
They are gone, and you go after; 
Therefore I mean, my child, 
To charm your going with laughter. 
Love and pity are strong, 
But wisdom is happily greater; 
You will die, I suppose, before long, 
Oh, worser sooner than later!

----------


## Guinivere

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. 
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; 
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

W.H. Auden

----------


## AdoreroDio

My favorite poem is by Octavio Paz and was originally written in Spanish but Paz rewrote it in English as well. 

Here is both ( I personally like the Spanish sound better) :
LA LLAMA, EL HABLA 

En un poema leo:
conversar es divino
Pero los dioses no hablan 
hacen, deshacen mundos 
mientras los hombres hablan 
Los dioses, sin palabras, 
juegan juegos terribles. 

El espíritu baja 
y desata las lenguas 
pero no habla palabras: 
habla lumbre. El lenguaje, 
por el dios encendido, 
es una profecía 
de llamas y una torre 
de humo y un desplome 
de sílabas quemadas: 
ceniza sin sentido. 

La palabra del hombre 
es hija de la muerte. 
Hablamos porque somos 
mortales: las palabras 
no son signos, son años 
Al decir lo que dicen 
los nombres que decimos 
dicen tiempo: nos dicen. 
Somos nombres del tiempo. 

Mudos, también los muertos 
pronuncian las palabras 
que decimos los vivos. 
El lenguaje es la casa 
de todos en el flanco 
del abismo colgada. 
Conversar es humano . 

FLAME, SPEECH

I read in a poem: 
to talk is divine.
But the gods don't speak. 
while men do the talking. 
They play frightening games 
without words. 

The spirit descends, 
loosening tongues, 
but doesn't speak words: 
¡t speaks fire. 
by the ignited god, language becomes 
a prophecy 
of flames and a tower 
of smoke and a collapse 
of syllables burned: 
ash without meaning. 

The word of man 
is the daughter of death. 
We talk because we are mortal: 
words are not signs,
they are years. 
Saying what they say, 
the words we are saying 
say time: they name us. 
We are time's names. 
The dead are mute 
but they also say 
what we are saying.
Language is the house
of all, hanging over
the abyss.
To talk is human.

----------


## lolie

I love that poetry from Charles Baudelaire ( 19th century)

Reversibility


Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish, 
Shame, remorse, sobs, vexations, 
And the vague terrors of those frightful nights 
That compress the heart like a paper one crumples? 
Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish?


Angel full of kindness, do you know hatred, 
The clenched fists in the darkness and the tears of gall, 
When Vengeance beats out his hellish call to arms, 
And makes himself the captain of our faculties? 
Angel full of kindness, do you know hatred?


Angel full of health, do you know Fever, 
Walking like an exile, moving with dragging steps, 
Along the high, wan walls of the charity ward, 
And with muttering lips seeking the rare sunlight? 
Angel full of health, do you know Fever?


Angel full of beauty, do you know wrinkles, 
The fear of growing old, and the hideous torment 
Of reading in the eyes of her he once adored 
Horror at seeing love turning to devotion? 
Angel full of beauty, do you know wrinkles?


Angel full of happiness, of joy and of light,
David on his death-bed would have appealed for health
To the emanations of your enchanted flesh;
But of you, angel, I beg only prayers,
Angel full of happiness, of joy and of light!

----------


## quasimodo1

Chicago 



Hog Butcher for the World, 
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, 
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; 
Stormy, husky, brawling, 
City of the Big Shoulders: 


They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. 
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. 
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. 
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: 
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. 
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; 
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, ..... {excerpt}

----------


## quasimodo1

If by dull rhymes our English must be chaind...



If by dull rhymes our English must be chaind,

And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet

Fetterd, in spite of pained loveliness;

Let us find out, if we must be constraind,

Sandals more interwoven and complete

To fit the naked foot of poesy;

Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress

Of every chord, and see what may be gaind

By ear industrious, and attention meet:

Misers of sound and syllable, no less

Than Midas of his coinage, let us be

Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;

So, if we may not let the Muse be free,

She will be bound with garlands of her own.



(1818-1819)

----------


## quasimodo1

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight 


(In Springfield, Illinois)


It is portentous, and a thing of state 
That here at midnight, in our little town 
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, 
Near the old court-house pacing up and down. 


Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards 
He lingers where his children used to play, 
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones 
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. 


A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, 
A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl 
Make him the quaint great figure that men love, 
The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. 


He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. 
He is among us:as in times before! 
And we who toss and lie awake for long 
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. 


His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. 
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? 
Too many peasants fight, they know not why, 
Too many homesteads in black terror weep. ... {excerpt}

----------


## JoanS

many... today i cried hearing a not written poem... when shelley died with keats poems in the pocket... amazing...

----------


## DecemberSun

> Love and Friendship
> 
> Love is like a wild rose briar
> Friendship like the holly tree - 
> The holly is dark when the rose briar blooms
> But which will bloom more constantly?
> 
> The wild rose briar is sweet in spring, 
> It's summer blossoms scent the air,
> ...


That's a beautiful poem indeed

----------


## Emil Miller

There are certainly some very good poems in this thread, but I wonder if anyone can confirm who wrote the following. It might be by Keats or possibly Byron.

Give 'em Hell Liddel

The whitest man I ever knew was give 'em hell Liddel
A nom de guerre appropriate to those who knew him well
Our enemies on hearing it would stand with mouths agape
And tremble at that name renowned from Cairo to the Cape
The Kalahari bedouin and dark Senegalese
Would gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the pinkness of his knees
And whisky drinking Majors were sometimes heard to say
Britannia's rule was safe as long as Liddel chose to stay
But on shaded club verandahs at the setting of the sun
The Majors never realised that Britannia's course was run
For in contemplating empires, it is only true to say
They carry, each within them, the seeds of their decay
As time went by the word went round that all was not quite well
And rumours strange were sometimes heard of give 'em hell Liddel
T'was said that he had lost his nerve while hunting in the bush
Then beaten all his bearers and given them the push
A story ran that in Sudan he got drunk in his room
Then went and wrote four letter words on General Gordon's tomb
His brother officers began to speak of him with fear
They heard that he'd gone native and was carrying a spear
And one told how while on a trek across the open veldt
He'd seen him wearing nothing but a grubby Sam Browne belt
The Governor General hearing this and fearful for the flag
Dashed off a quick report to go by diplomatic bag
The whole of the apalling tale was known within the hour
By those who spend their days within the corridors of power
'Bring Liddel home' the cry went out 'and save the nation's name
Great men like these should never fall into the pit of shame'
They took away his Sam Browne belt, for pinstripe was the norm
In England where they sent him in the hope of his reform
Alas the whole thing was in vain for him there seemed no hope
Some said that drink would get him and others said the rope
Those critics and the Empire have long since passed from sight
But sometimes in the season when the sun is at its height
A wild and unkempt figure dressed in faded khaki drill
Frequents that part of London that is known as Gypsy Hill
By strangers to the region he's identified with ease
Not by his old pith helmet but the pinkness of his knees
There is warning deep within this cautionary tale
For those of you whose knees are of a hue that's rather pale
So if distraught on kneecaps wan you sometimes tend to dwell
Then give a thought to what was done to give 'em hell Liddel
For should your knees be pink as his or even pinker still
You may be led by fate to tread the road to Gypsy Hill

----------


## thedharmabum

Hymn to Lucifer

Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?
Without its climax, death, what savour hath
Life? an impeccable machine, exact
He paces an inane and pointless path
To glut brute appetites, his sole content
How tedious were he fit to comprehend
Himself! More, this our noble element
Of fire in nature, love in spirit, unkenned
Life hath no spring, no axle, and no end.

His body a bloody-ruby radiant
With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer
Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant
On Eden's imbecile perimeter.
He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience.

Aleister Crowley

----------


## jjohn488

I like pomes very much. friend ship and love friend ship means who helped to friend that is friend ship. love means when two heart closed to shared the problems that is love.
===================================
jjohn488

SuperBabyGuide

----------


## ntropyincarnate

Once there came a man
Who said,
"Range me all men of the world in rows."
And instantly
There was terrific clamour among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who staid in bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.

~Stephen Crane

----------


## Epistemophile

'Death Fugue' by Paul Celan

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Marguerite
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling
he whistles his hounds to come close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he orders us strike up and play for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margeurite
your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
He shouts jab this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play
he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margeurite
your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers
He shouts play death more sweetly Death is a master from Deutschland
he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise then in smoke to the sky
you'll have a grave then in the clouds there you won't lie too cramped

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland
we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink
this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue
he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete
he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air
he plays with his vipers and daydreams
der Tod is ein Meister aus Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Shulamith


(Translated by John Felstiner)

----------


## mmaria

When I am happy, when I am sad
poems are always around my head
to make me happier, sadness to quit,
and here are my favourite! 

Silver
Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.


Some One
Walter de la Mare

Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking;
I'm sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
at all, at all, at all.

----------


## alakungfu

This is my all-time favourite poem:

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
The Highwayman 

PART ONE 

I 

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, 
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, 
And the highwayman came riding— 
Riding—riding— 
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. 

II 

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, 
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; 
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! 
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, 
His pistol butts a-twinkle, 
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. 

III 

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, 
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; 
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there 
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. 

IV 

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked 
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; 
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, 
But he loved the landlord's daughter, 
The landlord's red-lipped daughter, 
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— 

V 

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, 
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; 
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, 
Then look for me by moonlight, 
Watch for me by moonlight, 
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." 

VI 

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, 
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand 
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; 
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, 
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) 
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West. 



PART TWO 

I 

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; 
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, 
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, 
A red-coat troop came marching— 
Marching—marching— 
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door. 

II 

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, 
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; 
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! 
There was death at every window; 
And hell at one dark window; 
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. 

III 

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; 
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! 
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her. 
She heard the dead man say— 
Look for me by moonlight; 
Watch for me by moonlight; 
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! 

IV 

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! 
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! 
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, 
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, 
Cold, on the stroke of midnight, 
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! 

V 

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! 
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, 
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; 
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; 
Blank and bare in the moonlight; 
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain . 

VI 

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; 
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? 
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, 
The highwayman came riding, 
Riding, riding! 
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still! 

VII 

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! 
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! 
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, 
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 
Her musket shattered the moonlight, 
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death. 

VIII 

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood 
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! 
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear 
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
The landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. 

IX 

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, 
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! 
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, 
When they shot him down on the highway, 
Down like a dog on the highway, 
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. 

* * * * * * 

X 

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, 
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, 
A highwayman comes riding— 
Riding—riding— 
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. 

XI 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; 
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; 
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there 
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

----------


## Serenity5815

I can't remember the author or the title, but I really enjoyed this cute one:

"Shake and shake the ketchup bottle.
None'll come and then alottle."

----------


## qspeechc

Hhhmmph, just thought I'd add this one, not so sure of my favourite poem of all time, but I really enjoy this one. Wilfred Owen "Greater Love", I really enjoy Owen.

RED lips are not so red 
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. 
Kindness of wooed and wooer 
Seems shame to their love pure. 
O Love, your eyes lose lure 
When I beheld eyes blinded in my stead! 

Your slender attitude 
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, 
Rolling and rolling there 
Where God seems not to care; 
Till the fierce love they bear 
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. 

Your voice sings not so soft,- 
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,- 
Your dear voice is not dear, 
Gentle, and evening clear, 
As theirs whom none now hear, 
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouthes that coughed. 

Heart, you were never hot 
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; 
And though your hand be pale, 
Paler are all which trail 
Your cross through flame and hail: 
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.

----------


## Domer121

"I Remember You As You Were"
By Pablo Neruda

I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes travelling, and the autumn is far off:
grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
towards which my deep longings migrated
and my kisses fell, happy as embers.

Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

----------


## PhilLFM

Anything by Poe, Yeats, Eliot and Lawrence is great. With poetry i tend to go with what relates to my life and i find most poetry does not. Howl by Ginsberg is probably my all time favourite poem as i can relate alot to it same goes with Bukowski poems maybe simple but they personally affect me due to the relation i have with the author. For instance the Shoelace by Bukowski. 
"It is not the big things that send a man to the mad house
death he is ready for,
or murder, incest, robbery, fires, floods. 
No, it is the continuing series of small tragedies that send a man to a mad house"

----------


## ichatfilipina

my favorite is my created poems.

----------


## prendrelemick

The Highwayman (a few posts above) is one of my all time faves as well. I love the irrepressible drama of the rhythm.

At this time of year ( that is Rememberance Week) I often think of Wilfred Owen's all too few poems.

Futility

Move him to the sun-
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,-
Woke, once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved - still warm- too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
-O what made fatuous sun beams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

----------


## hoope

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. 

by : Edgar Allan Poe

----------


## Janine

I have many favorite poems but this one always stands out to me; I first heard it quoted in the "Shakleton" mini-series movie and then after looking up the entire poem I found it to be quite compelling.

*Prospice* ~ Robert Browning 

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

While looking this up online; I found a site with an analysis of the poem. I hope to explore that further when I have time.
The line quoted in the miniseries is: "For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,"...this is my favorite line of the poem.

----------


## Janine

> This is my all-time favourite poem:


The Highwayman ~ Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

*alakungfu,*This poem was set to music by Loreena Mckennitt and it is one of my favorites of hers. I always get chills when I listen to the lyrics or read the poem. It is so beautiful.

----------


## prendrelemick

> The Highwayman ~ Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
> 
> *alakungfu,*This poem was set to music by Loreena Mckennitt and it is one of my favorites of hers. I always get chills when I listen to the lyrics or read the poem. It is so beautiful.



JANINE .Can you tell me the album it's on, I love the singer and the poem. They seem made for each other

----------


## weltanschauung

_parched with thirst am i, and dying.
nay, drink of me, the ever-flowing spring
where on the right is a fair cypress.
who are you? where are you?--i am the son
of earth and of star-filled heaven, but
from heaven alone is my house.



you will find to the left of the house of hades a spring,
and by the side thereof standing a white cypress.
to this spring approach not near.
but you shall find another, from the lake of memory
cold water flowing forth, and there are guardians before it.
say, "i am a child of Earth and starry heaven;
but my race is of heaven alone. this you know yourselves.
but i am parched with thirst and i perish. give me quickly
the cold water flowing forth from the lake of memory."
and of themselves they will give you to drink of the holy spring:
and thereafter you will have lordship among the other heroes._

----------


## Guinivere

Who's the poet ?

----------


## weltanschauung

> Who's the poet ?


its an ancient greek tomb prayer

----------


## weltanschauung

on topic:

_Tristesses de la lune


Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,


Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.


Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,


Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil._

 Charles Baudelaire

soundtrack included <3
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--OfNFi8GJw

----------


## adi_lcool_007

[LEFT]Sometimes you want to talk

about love and despair

and the ungratefulness of children

A man is no use whatever then .

You want then your mother

or your sister

or the girl with whom you went to through the school,

and your first love ,and her -

first child -a girl-

and your second.

You sit with them and talk .

She sews and you sit and sip

and speak of the rate of rice

and the price of tea

and the scarcity of cheese.

You know both that you 've spoken

of love,despair and ungratefulness of children.

----------


## Vintage34

Because I'm growing old and will not be here much longer, I like poetry about age, the past, death, people you loved who have died, etc. This is one that I especially like. 

*Rock Me To Sleep*, by Elizabeth Akers Allen

Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight;
Mother, come back from that echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore.

Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth all the silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years,
I am so weary of toil and of tears;
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain -
Take them, and give me my childhood again.
I have grown weary of dust and decay -
Weary of flinging my soul - wealth away,
Weary of sowing for others to reap -
Rock me to sleep, Mother rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue;
Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between.
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother-rock me to sleep.

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms over my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother-rock me to sleep.

Mother, dear Mother, the years been long,
Since I last listened to your lullaby song.
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.

Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;
Rock me to sleep, Mother-rock me to sleep.

----------


## Dr. Hill

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

-Wordsworth

----------


## mercy_mankind

*Qasida in praise of the Holy Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) 
When I saw his light shining forth,
In fear I covered my eyes with my palms,
Afraid for my sight because of the beauty of his form.
So I was scarcely able to look at him at all.
The lights from his light are drowned in his light
and his face shines out like the sun and moon in one.
A spirit of light lodged in a body like the moon,
a mantle made up of brilliant shining stars.
I bore it until I could bear it no longer.
I found the taste of patience to be like bitter aloes.
I could find no remedy to bring me relief
other than delighting in the sight of the one I love.
Even if he had not brought any clear signs with him,
the sight of him would dispense with the need for them.
Muhammad is a human being but not like other human beings.
Rather he is a flawless diamond and the rest of mankind is just stones.
Blessings be on him so that perhaps Allah may have mercy on us
on that burning Day when the Fire is roaring forth its sparks

-Hassan ibn Thabit.
[written 1400 years ago]*

----------


## Saladin

*Prometheus*

Shroud your heaven, Zeus,
With cloudy vapours,
And do as you will, like the boy
That knocks the heads off thistles,
With oak-trees and mountain-tops;
Now you must leave alone
My Earth for Me,
And my hut, which you did not build,
And my hearth,
The glowing whereof
You envy me.

I know of nothing poorer
Under the sun, than you, you Gods!
Your majesty
Is barely nourished
By sacrificial offerings
And prayerful exhalations,
And should starve
Were children and beggars not
Fools full of Hope.

When I was a child,
And did not know the in or out,
I turned my wandering eyes toward
The sun, as if, beyond, there were
An ear to hear my lament,
A heart, like mine,
To be moved to pity for the afflicted.

Who helped me
Against the pride of the Titans?
Who delivered me from Death,
From Slavery?
Did you not accomplish it all yourself,
My holy, burning Heart?
And shone, young and good,
Deceived, your thanks for salvation
To the sleeping one above?

Should I honour you? Why?
Have you softened the sufferings,
Ever, of the burdened?
Have you stilled the tears,
Ever, of the anguished?
Was I not forged as a Man
By almighty Time
And eternal Fate,
My masters and thine?

Do you somehow imagine
That I should hate Life,
Flee to the desert,
Because not every
Flowering dream should bloom?
Here I sit, I form humans
After my own image;
A race, to be like me,
To sorrow, to weep,
To enjoy and delight itself,
And to heed you not at all -
Like Me!

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

----------


## chasestalling

www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/forians.htm

at the site click on "news" (upper left), scroll down page 1, click on to page 2, scroll and search for orpheus/ballada by vladislav khodasevich as translated to english from the russian by frazier.

----------


## chasestalling

saladin: 

wunderbar und fantastiche. danke schoen.

----------


## backline

Dover Beach
by Mathew Arnold

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair.
Upon the straights;-on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!

Only, from the long line of spray
Where sea meets the moon-blanched sand,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then begin again,
With tremendous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the AEgaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear
Its meloncholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wild, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain,
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

-1848

----------


## Saladin

Elysium

Past the despairing wail--
And the bright banquets of the Elysian vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His merry west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May!
Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day.
And joy to-day and joy to-morrow,
But wafts the airy soul aloft;
The very name is lost to sorrow,
And pain is rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.

Here the pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,
And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim,
The load he shall bear never more;
Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams,
Lulled with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams,
The fields, when the harvest is o'er.
Here, he, whose ears drank in the battle roar,
Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind
A thunder-storm,--before whose thunder tread
The mountains trembled,--in soft sleep reclined,
By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed
In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore,
Hears the stern clangor of wild spears no more!
Here the true spouse the lost-beloved regains,
And on the enamelled couch of summer-plains
Mingles sweet kisses with the zephyr's breath.
Here, crowned at last, love never knows decay,
Living through ages its one bridal day,
Safe from the stroke of death! 


- Friedrich von Schiller

----------


## prendrelemick

> [LEFT]Sometimes you want to talk
> 
> about love and despair
> 
> and the ungratefulness of children
> 
> A man is no use whatever then .
> 
> You want then your mother
> ...



Love it!

It answers Iago's; "To suckle fools and chronicle small beer." jibe, better than Desdemona's retort.

----------


## Shadow Poet

I enjoy the Promethean bard Percy Bysshe Shelley. One of my favorite verses by him is lines 147 to 159 in the poetical achievement Epipsychidion:

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wrecked.
I never was attached to that great sect,
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select 
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion, though it is in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread, 
Who travel to their home among the dead
By the broad highway of the world, and so
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.

----------


## Lady Marian

I like the poem "Bells" by Poe. The man was a genius, whether or not you go for morbid stories about crazy people. I don't have it with me at the moment, but he used repetition, euphony, and cacaphony so that you could literally hear the beat of wedding bells and alarm bells. The first are joyful, the second are compared to a demon king dancing "in a happy runic rhyme."

----------


## Pecksie

> I enjoy the Promethean bard Percy Bysshe Shelley. One of my favorite verses by him is lines 147 to 159 in the poetical achievement Epipsychidion:
> 
> Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare
> Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wrecked.
> I never was attached to that great sect,
> Whose doctrine is, that each one should select 
> Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,
> And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
> To cold oblivion, though it is in the code
> ...


This fragment is read and mused upon by Freddie, the main character of E. M. Forster's "The Longest Journey" (guess where he got the title!), who reaches some interesting conclusions...

I like "Epipsychidion" too... there are some quite moving passages, such as the one in which he refers to the Moon, the Planet and the Comet...

----------


## Silas Thorne

I love 'The Mask' by W.B. Yeats.

----------


## Peggy-O

There's too many, my favourite poets are Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg, Arthur Rimbaud and Charles Baudelaire though.

----------


## Cat_Brenners

I have always enjoyed The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe.
Cat

----------


## semi-fly

*Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night*

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

....

- _Dylan Thomas_

----------


## dafydd manton

I think that one of the best poets of all time was Idris Davies, a Valley poet from Rhymney, in South Wales. Some of his work is actually in Welsh, the best of the bunch being "Cwm Rhymni", which tells if a youn Silurian poet returning to the coal-minig town in which he grew up. His best work ever, in my humble opinion, was the series Gwalia Deserta, the history of the hardships in the South Wales coalfiele from 1926 to about 1935. Superb

----------


## lotus_flower123

A Poem that touches my heart and the one i can think of right now is "Is My Team Ploughing" by A. E. Houseman
It is simple but it touches upon the everlasting question of death and mortality...

'Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?' 

Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
The land you used to plough. 

'Is football playing
Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
Now I stand up no more?' 

Ay, the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal. 

'Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
As she lies down at eve?' 

Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep. 

'Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?' 

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.

----------


## jasicasth

I like this poem very much

A special world for you and me
A special bond one cannot see
It wraps us up in its cocoon
And holds us fiercely in its womb.

Its fingers spread like fine spun gold
Gently nestling us to the fold
Like silken thread it holds us fast
Bonds like this are meant to last.

And though at times a thread may break
A new one forms in its wake
To bind us closer and keep us strong
In a special world, where we belog

World Connect

----------


## jasicasth

i like this poem
A special world for you and me
A special bond one cannot see
It wraps us up in its cocoon
And holds us fiercely in its womb.

Its fingers spread like fine spun gold
Gently nestling us to the fold
Like silken thread it holds us fast
Bonds like this are meant to last.

And though at times a thread may break
A new one forms in its wake
To bind us closer and keep us strong
In a special world, where we belong.



World Connect

----------


## PoeticPassions

I have a lot of favorite poems and so many poets are amazing: Pablo Neruda, William Blake, Shakespeare, Federico Garcia Lorca, Mak Dizdar, Dylan Thomas, John Updike, T.S. Eliot, Yeats, Keats, Byron, Khalil Gibran... 

But here are a few poems that I really like:

Clown in the Moon

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

Dylan Thomas 

****

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Pablo Neruda 

***

The Gypsy and the Wind

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure erect
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skirt
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breathing and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!
Or the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear,
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.

Federico García Lorca 

***

On Pain

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses
your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its
heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the
daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem
less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that
pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the
winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within
you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy
in silence and tranquillity:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by
the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has
been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has
moistened with His own sacred tears.

Khalil Gibran

----------


## wsww

I like this poem.its really nice!
Fire & Ice - Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

----------


## wsww

Then, this too, its lovely!

A Farewell to False Love 
a poem by Sir Walter Raleigh

Farewell false love, the oracle of lies, 
A mortal foe and enemy to rest, 
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, 
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, 
A way of error, a temple full of treason, 
In all effects contrary unto reason. 

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, 
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, 
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers 
As moisture lend to every grief that grows; 
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, 
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait. 

A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, 
A siren song, a fever of the mind, 
A maze wherein affection finds no end, 
A raging cloud that runs before the wind, 
A substance like the shadow of the sun, 
A goal of grief for which the wisest run. 

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, 
A path that leads to peril and mishap, 
A true retreat of sorrow and despair, 
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, 
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, 
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems. 

Sith* then thy trains my younger years betrayed,[since] 
And for my faith ingratitude I find; 
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed*,[revealed] 
Whose course was ever contrary to kind*:[nature] 
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu. 
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

----------


## rozreads

I love so much poetry I could never pick one. But I do especially love Poe's 'Dream Within a Dream' and W.H. Auden's 'Funeral Blues' (Stop All the Clocks).

----------


## Fellow

I have to go with _Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno cynarae_ by Ernest Dowson When I first came across it online I couldn't get some verses out of my head. So I ended up copying it out by hand(for want of a printer) and committing it to memory. Now it's all there to stay (hopefully) . _Morning_ By Rimbaud comes in at a close second. Of course these are likely to change. I will have to update when the time comes.

----------


## Jeremiah Jazzz

Shakespeare's Sonnet 116
Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind'
and this lovely poem by Heather McHugh:

*What He Thought*
_For Fabbio Doplicher_

We were supposed to do a job in Italy
and, full of our feeling for
ourselves (our sense of being
Poets from America) we went
from Rome to Fano, met
the Mayor, mulled a couple
matters over. The Italian literati seemed
bewildered by the language of America: they asked us
what does "flat drink" mean? and the mysterious
"cheap date" (no explanation lessened
this one's mystery). Among Italian writers we

could recognize our counterparts: the academic,
the apologist, the arrogant, the amorous,
the brazen and the glib. And there was one
administrator (The Conservative), in suit
of regulation gray, who like a good tour guide
with measured pace and uninflected tone
narrated sights and histories
the hired van hauled us past.
Of all he was most politic--
and least poetic-- so
it seemed. Our last
few days in Rome 
I found a book of poems this
unprepossessing one had written: it was there
in the pensione room (a room he'd recommended)
where it must have been abandoned by
the German visitor (was there a bus of them?) to whom
he had inscribed and dated it a month before. I couldn't
read Italian either, so I put the book
back in the wardrobe's dark. We last Americans

were due to leave
tomorrow. For our parting evening then
our host chose something in a family restaurant,
and there we sat and chatted, sat and chewed, till,
sensible it was our last big chance to be Poetic, make
our mark, one of us asked

"What's poetry?
Is it the fruits and vegetables
and marketplace at Campo dei Fiori

or the statue there?" Because I was
the glib one, I identified the answer
instantly, I didn't have to think-- "The truth
is both, it's both!" I blurted out. But that
was easy. That was easiest
to say. What followed taught me something
about difficulty, 

for our underestimated host spoke out
all of a sudden, with a rising passion, and he said:

The statue represents
Giordano Bruno, brought
to be burned in the public square
because of his offence against authority, which was to say
the Church. His crime was his belief
the universe does not revolve around
the human being: God is no
fixed point or central government
but rather is poured in waves, through
all things: all things
move. "If God is not the soul itself,
he is the soul OF THE SOUL of the world." Such was
his heresy. The day they brought him forth to die

they feared he might incite the crowd (the man
was famous for his eloquence). And so his captors
placed upon his face
an iron mask
in which he could not speak.

That is how they burned him.
That is how he died, 
without a word,
in front of everyone. And poetry--

(we'd all put down our forks by now, to listen to
the man in gray; he went on softly)-- poetry

is what he thought, but did not say.

----------


## Jassica

I love poetry of Sergei Yesenin... for example, such poem (translated fron Russian to English). But, of course, in Russian it sounds better


No sorrow, no calls, no tears.
Now it's gone, white foam from apple-tree.
Faded, seized by tarnished golden flares,
I will not feel youthful. Never me.

Now you slow down, that's the matter,
You, my heart, that suffered a cold jet.
And the land of calico birch pattern
Hardly tempts my feet to walk o'er that.

Hobo spirit! You're so rare, rare,
Waking flame in mouth. It's now tense.
Oh, my freshness, that I couldn't spare.
Brawling eyes and overflowing sence!

I've become too greedy for desires.
Life of mine? Perhaps, it was a dream?
Me, alone, in early vernal hours
Riding a pink horse, as it cood seem.

We are mortal. In this world none's ever.
Copper leaves are floating. Let them fly.
Be you blest, you beautiful forever
That has come to blossom and to die.

----------


## bazarov

Oh yes, Yesenin is great! Who am I, what am I?, Black men, Farewell my dear...

----------


## Jassica

> Oh yes, Yesenin is great! Who am I, what am I?, Black men, Farewell my dear...


And "Hooligan's confession", "To the Kachalov's dog", "A letter to mother", "The golden grove has ceased to speak...", "The unspoken, blue, tender..."

----------


## bazarov

''Don't shout at me...'' It's above my bed.

I hate translate name of poems  :FRlol:

----------


## Jassica

> I hate translate name of poems


I support you)

----------


## iCherry

I like everything by Pushkin 'cause his poems arouse so many feelings in me. Love and sadness, laughter and tears... "I loved you once" is amasing. "I loved you so sincerely and so mildly,/As, God permit, may love you someone else" though in Russian it sounds much better: "Я Вас любил так искренно, так нежно/Как дай Вам Бог любимой быть другим".

Also Love Lermontov, especially "the death of the Poet" and "Prophet". Here are the last 12 lines of " The death of the Poet":
And you, oh, vainglory decedents
Of famous fathers, so mean and base,
Who've trod with ushers' feet the remnants
Of clans, offended by the fortune's plays!
In greedy crowd standing by the throne,
The foes of Freedom, Genius, and Repute --
You're hid in shadow of a law-stone,
For you, and truth and justice must be mute! ...

But there is Court of God, you, evil manifold! --
The terrible court: it waits;
It's not reached by a ring of gold,
It knows, in advance, all thoughts' and actions' weights.
Then you, in vain, will try to bring your evil voice on:
It will not help you to be right,
And you will not wash of with all your bloody poison,
The Poet's righteous blood!

Unforgettable. I really was crying while reading them.

----------


## appearances

I would like to share a favorite of mine by Donald Justice:

FROM

Incident in a Rose Garden


Gardener
Sir, I encountered Death 
Just now among our roses
Thin as a scythe he stood there.

I knew him by his pictures
He had on his black coat
Black gloves, and broad black hat.

I think he would have spoken,
Seeing his mouth stood open.
Big it was, with white teeth.

As soon as he beckoned, I ran.
I ran untill I found you.
Sir, I'm quitting my job.

....

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/arch....html?id=80787

There is something about it I just seem to love. There have been some great pieces posted so far that I enjoy as well.

----------


## ~Sophia~

I can't narrow down a favorite (there are so many fabulous works) but this one is up there. Also not sure if it's been posted before. Apologies if it has. 

*The Cinnamon Peeler*  
by Michael Ondaatje


If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under the rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.

----------


## Sapphire

Wow... there are so many! It's impossible to choose a favourite!

I'd like to post here though, as I see that nobody mentioned a work of Stephen Crane - and I think he deserves to be mentioned  :Wink: 

Amongst my favourites (and one of the few poems I know by heart): 

The ocean said to me once,
"Look!
Yonder on the shore
Is a woman, weeping.
I have watched her.
Go you and tell her this -
Her lover I have laid
In cool green hall.
There is wealth of golden sand
And pillars, coral-red;
Two white fish stand guard at his bier.

"Tell her this
And more -
That the king of the seas
Weeps too, old, helpless man.
The bustling fates
Heap his hands with corpses
Until he stands like a child
With a surplus of toys."

In the end, everybody is helpless... even the ones who seem so mighty.

----------


## blithe_spirit

I have lots of favourite poems but one that never fails to move me is by 
W. B.Yeats:


*He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven*


Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

----------


## Pryderi Agni

Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gently Into the Good Night", and Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" and "Stopping by Woods..." are the poems closest to my heart.

----------


## Desolation

'Howl' by Allen Ginsberg changed my life, and the way I view poetry. 

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving,
hysterical naked,
Dragging themselves through the negro street at dawn looking for 
an angry fix,
Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"

----------


## greenfroggsplat

Love Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnet 35. It was the first poem of hers that I appreciated  :Smile: 

If I leave all for thee wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessings and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn nor count it strange,
When I look up to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors...another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled with dead eyes to tender to know change?
That's hardest if to conquer love has tried,
To conquer grief tries more...as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas! I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.

----------


## Dubliner

I suppose it's a bit of an old guy's poem, really, but as I 'mature', a favourite short poem of mine is W B Yeats' 'Politics', which was written towards the end of his life, at which time, although an important political figure of the day, he reflected on what he considered to be the true significance of the situations he was encountering. 

HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

----------


## dmm

:Yawnb: Pessoa is a must for everyone who loves poetry:


"Autopsychography" 

The poet is a fake.
His faking seems so real
That he will fake the ache
Which he can really feel.


And those who read his cries
Feel in the paper tears
Not two aches that are his
But one that is not theirs.


And so in its ring
Giving the mind a game
Goes this train on a string
And the heart is its name.


(translation by Keith Bosley)

This is one of his most notable and known poems. But to have the slightest idea about the difficulty to translate poetry, you may visit http://www.disquiet.com/thirteen.html, where there are thirteen versions of this poem in english.
By the way, thank you, Fontainhas. I was very, very worried before reading ten forum-pages without finding any mention about Pessoa. How it comes? His poems are so beautiful, so real:
(i have a spanish laptop, so forget the grammar)

Vem dos lados da montanha
una cançao que me diz
que, por mais que a alma tenha,
sempre há-de ser infeliz.

O mundo nao é seu lar
e todo que ele lhe der
sao coisas que estao a dar
a quem nao quer receber.

diz isto? Nao sei. Nem voz
ouço, música, à janela
onde me medito a sós
como o luzir de uma estrela.

here it comes my terrible translation:

From the side of the mountain
comes a song saying to me
that, as much as the soul has got
unhappy always has to be

this world is not its home,
and everything offered to it,
are things given 
to one who wants not to receive

does it says this? Neither voice
nor music
comes to my open window,
where i meditate alone,
like the shine of a star

Does this translation means something for english readers? I missed both rime and rhythm. Please, let it me know if so. :Confused: 

One last thing: Has anyone here read "Itaca" (C. Cavafis)?











> Okay.... here it goes:
> 
> Onda que enrolada tornas, pequena
> Ao mar que te trouxe.
> E ao recuar te transtornas
> Como se o mar nada fosse.
> 
> Porque é que levas contigo
> só a tua cessação?
> ...

----------


## dmm

dont you like Marina Tsvietáieva (sorry, translated name in spanish :FRlol:  her "letter to the horsewoman (and other french writings)" is one of the best poetic-prose texts i have ever read! 








> And "Hooligan's confession", "To the Kachalov's dog", "A letter to mother", "The golden grove has ceased to speak...", "The unspoken, blue, tender..."

----------


## dmm

i didnt know this poem, which is very beautiful, and reminds me of a couple Pessoa´s poems, although i only have the spanish version. But if you like this poem, ill recommend you to read "Alberto Caeiro´s poems" (one of Pessoa´s pseodonyms) 








> I suppose it's a bit of an old guy's poem, really, but as I 'mature', a favourite short poem of mine is W B Yeats' 'Politics', which was written towards the end of his life, at which time, although an important political figure of the day, he reflected on what he considered to be the true significance of the situations he was encountering. 
> 
> HOW can I, that girl standing there,
> My attention fix
> On Roman or on Russian
> Or on Spanish politics?
> Yet here's a travelled man that knows
> What he talks about,
> And there's a politician
> ...

----------


## Kayrose

I think one of my favoite poets right now is Carol Ann Duffy. I like the fact that almost all of her poems are sexual in nature....but that it's a more classy kind of sexualness. My favoite from her right now is

Stuffed!

I put two yellow peepers in an owl.
Wow. I fix the grin of Crocodile.
Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel. 
I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.
Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.
Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.

I screw a tight snarl to a weasel.
Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal.
Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail.

I like her to be naked and to kneel.
Tame. My motionless, my living doll.
Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.

----------


## Silas Thorne

Yes, that is an excellent poem, and the imagery in it is very erotic. I must admit, I was at first disturbed by the last stanza. I didn't realise that the speaker in the poem was also a woman. 

I love this one, among others: 
Dylan Thomas, 'The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower'

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower 
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees 
Is my destroyer. 
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose 
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. 
The force that drives the water through the rocks 
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams 
Turns mine to wax. 
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins 
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. 

The hand that whirls the water in the pool 
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind 
Hauls my shroud sail. 
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man 
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime. 

The lips of time leech to the fountain head; 
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood 
Shall calm her sores. 
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind 
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars. 

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb 
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm. 

from http://www.fen.bilkent.edu.tr/~tanatar/theforce.htm

----------


## Kayrose

Yeah almost all of her poems are like that in nature... I like the poem you posted by the way.

----------


## Moshu

My favorite right now is by Edna St Vincent Millay... "The Dirge Without Music." Although, my favorite changes quite often and drastically. I have such a love for classic poetry.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. 
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost. 

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. 

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

I think that says so much; and her words are so enchandting to read aloud.

----------


## Stargazer86

My very favorite poem is Ryme of the Ancient Mariner by S.T. Coleridge
But for more modern works, I enjoy the works of Allen Ginsberg.

"A Supermarket in California"

"What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --- and you,
Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel
absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?"

----------


## kelby_lake

http://englishhistory.net/byron/poems/dead.html

----------


## pokefreak

My favorite poem is one by T.S. Eliot called "Whispers of Immortality"


Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

Grishkin is nice: her
Russian eye is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.

----------


## Nightshade

I have anew favourite poem, and ok I only know it from a beer ad ( maybe they wrote it? ) but its a GOOD poem or maybe I just like it?anyone copyright being what it is, Im not posting it sepratley but rather linking straight to the ad on youtube.  :Nod: 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7fKmx0Fhfk

----------


## amarna

maggie and milly and molly and mae

e.e. cummings

maggie and milly and molly and mae
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

mae came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

----------


## Skipetyboo

II

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year's bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go, — so with his memory they brim.

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, "There is no memory of him here!"

And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

- Edna St Vincent Millay

----------


## Seraphina

probably my favourite poem is Whoso List To Hunt? by Thomas Wyatt, because some of the imagery is beautiful.

Whoso list to hunt? I know where is an hind!
But as for me, alas! I may no more,
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore;
I am of them that furthest come behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer; but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow; I leave off therefore,
For in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt
As well as I, may spend his time in vain!
And graven with diamonds in letters plain,
There is written her fair neck round about;
'Noli me tangere; for Caeser's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.'

----------


## Beyle

*You Men* (English)

Silly, you men-so very adept
at wrongly faulting womankind,
not seeing you're alone to blame
for faults you plant in woman's mind.

After you've won by urgent plea
the right to tarnish her good name,
you still expect her to behave--
you, that coaxed her into shame.


....



http://www.sappho.com/poetry/j_ines.html#Death

----------


## NovemberGuest

I love Frost...his melencholy voice really draws you in. When you read his poems, you realize the beauty is everywhere. I like "My November Guest" (hence my name).

Poe is another favorite...I'm a peppy sort of person, but when it comes to literature I love his eldrich style. 

Tennysson.
Wilde.

"The Wasteland" has a very moving fist line "April is the cruelist month, breeding lilacs from the dead land, mixing memory with desire..." I love it!

----------


## Nick Capozzoli

This short medieval lyric is haunting:

I have labored sore and suffered death
And now I rest and draw my breath;
But I shall come and call right soon
Heaven and Earth and Hell to doom;
And then shall know, both devil and man
What I was and what I am.

----------


## kilted exile

It Is Later Than You Think



Lone amid the cafe's cheer,
Sad of heart am I to-night;
Dolefully I drink my beer,
But no single line I write.
There's the wretched rent to pay,
Yet I glower at pen and ink:
Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,
~It is later than you think!~

Hello! there's a pregnant phrase.
Bravo! let me write it down;
Hold it with a hopeful gaze,
Gauge it with a fretful frown;
Tune it to my lyric lyre . . .
Ah! upon starvation's brink,
How the words are dark and dire:
It is later than you think.

Weigh them well. . . . Behold yon band,
Students drinking by the door,
Madly merry, ~bock~ in hand,
Saucers stacked to mark their score.
Get you gone, you jolly scamps;
Let your parting glasses clink;
Seek your long neglected lamps:
It is later than you think.

Look again: yon dainty blonde,
All allure and golden grace,
Oh so willing to respond
Should you turn a smiling face.
Play your part, poor pretty doll;
Feast and frolic, pose and prink;
There's the Morgue to end it all,
And it's later than you think.

Yon's a playwright -- mark his face,
Puffed and purple, tense and tired;
Pasha-like he holds his place,
Hated, envied and admired.
How you gobble life, my friend;
Wine, and woman soft and pink!
Well, each tether has its end:
Sir, it's later than you think.

See yon living scarecrow pass
With a wild and wolfish stare
At each empty absinthe glass,
As if he saw Heaven there.
Poor damned wretch, to end your pain
There is still the Greater Drink.
Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . . .
It is later than you think.

Lastly, you who read; aye, you
Who this very line may scan:
Think of all you planned to do . . .
Have you done the best you can?
See! the tavern lights are low;
Black's the night, and how you shrink!
God! and is it time to go?
Ah! the clock is always slow;
It is later than you think;
Sadly later than you think;
Far, far later than you think.


by Robert Service

----------


## DanielleMarie

Several Donne fans i see...hehe....I have to admit i do love metaphysical poetry, especially Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" simply because I feel it could be put into a modern context....now I have to be careful how i put this....but there is a general sense in todays culture that men gain respect for luring women into bed with them....I'm not saying thats true of every man!!! But i feel Marvell's poem reflects this crudeness! little lines in it make me giggle and I don't know why, it really does emphasise how we are all getting older so quickly! make the most of life! haha!

Then again, I do also like Elliot's "Prufrock". I think this reflects the complexity of our social fears! maybe its just a reflction of my own bizarre mind but i think most people can relate to that poem in some sense and plus its a good one to pick out all the little references to other literature  :Smile:  xxxxx

----------


## acdouglas92

Ah! Shel Silverstein?! That brings back some memories. I should pick up one of his anthologies sometime...Anyways, these days I'm into some heavy stuff (or so I'd like to think!):

Percy Shelley
T.S. Eliot
Lord Byron
Robert Frost
the occasional Wordsworth
Maya Angelou 

Anybody know of any good poets that follow in the styles of those above? Much thanks in advance!

----------


## acdouglas92

> Then again, I do also like Elliot's "Prufrock". I think this reflects the complexity of our social fears! maybe its just a reflction of my own bizarre mind but i think most people can relate to that poem in some sense and plus its a good one to pick out all the little references to other literature  xxxxx


Sorry for another post, but I completely agree. His diction is so impressive in "Prufrock", though I don't really understand the mermaid reference. His ideas on social fears are all the more intriguing though!

----------


## UFO420

One of my favorite poems is one I wrote myself. I know that sound conceited but it was a 150 line poem in iambic pentameter about Shaq saving his neighborhood and Lil Kim from Christopher Walken. Hilarious.

But my real favorite poem is Greater Love by Wilfred Owen:

_Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce Love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude._

_Your voice sings not so soft,
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

Heart, you were never hot,
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not._

----------


## alakungfu

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud---and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
`Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
>From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shall learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

----------


## Silenced Chaos

Right now, it must be:

'To Autumn'

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

by John Keats


A pleasure for the senses and the intellect. Many poems suggest a mood, but not many actually create an atmosphere as this magnificent piece does.

----------


## PoeticPassions

There are so many... and amongst the ones I have already posted, I re-read this on the other night and fell in love with it again:

THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER
by William Blake

A little black thing in the snow, 
Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe! 
"Where are thy father and mother? Say!" 
"They are both gone up to the church to pray. 
"Because I was happy upon the heath, 
And smiled among the winter's snow, 
They clothed me in the clothes of death, 
And taught me to sing the notes of woe. 

"And because I am happy and dance and sing, 
They think they have done me no injury, 
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king, 
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

----------


## rozreads

love this as well

----------


## angel92

My Favorite Poem is

Cinderellaby Sylvia Plath

The Prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span

The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like 
wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the
prince

As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.

Read this poem when we had to do presentation on a poem using new critical anylisis.

----------


## PoeticPassions

Another favorite by someone so sublime, Pablo Neruda:

A SONG OF DESPAIR

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilots dread, fury of a blind diver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only the tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one.

ORIGINAL VERSION:

LA CANCIÓN DESESPERADA

Emerge tu recuerdo de la noche en que estoy. 
El río anuda al mar su lamento obstinado. 

Abandonado como los muelles en el alba. 
Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado! 

Sobre mi corazón llueven frías corolas. 
Oh sentina de escombros, feroz cueva de náufragos! 

En ti se acumularon las guerras y los vuelos. 
De ti alzaron las alas los pájaros del canto. 

Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejanía. 
Como el mar, como el tiempo. Todo en ti fue naufragio! 

Era la alegre hora del asalto y el beso. 
La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro. 

Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego, 
turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio! 

En la infancia de niebla mi alma alada y herida. 
Descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio! 

Te ceñiste al dolor, te agarraste al deseo. 
Te tumbó la tristeza, todo en ti fue naufragio! 

Hice retroceder la muralla de sombra, 
anduve más allá del deseo y del acto. 

Oh carne, carne mía, mujer que amé y perdí, 
a ti en esta hora húmeda, evoco y hago canto. 

Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura, 
y el infinito olvido te trizó como a un vaso. 

Era la negra, negra soledad de las islas, 
y allí, mujer de amor, me acogieron tus brazos. 

Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta. 
Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro. 

Ah mujer, no sé cómo pudiste contenerme 
en la tierra de tu alma, y en la cruz de tus brazos! 

Mi deseo de ti fue el más terrible y corto, 
el más revuelto y ebrio, el más tirante y ávido. 

Cementerio de besos, aún hay fuego en tus tumbas, 
aún los racimos arden picoteados de pájaros. 

Oh la boca mordida, oh los besados miembros, 
oh los hambrientos dientes, oh los cuerpos trenzados. 

Oh la cópula loca de esperanza y esfuerzo 
en que nos anudamos y nos desesperamos. 

Y la ternura, leve como el agua y la harina. 
Y la palabra apenas comenzada en los labios. 

Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo, 
y en él cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio! 

Oh, sentina de escombros, en ti todo caía, 
qué dolor no exprimiste, qué olas no te ahogaron! 

De tumbo en tumbo aún llameaste y cantaste. 
De pie como un marino en la proa de un barco. 

Aún floreciste en cantos, aún rompiste en corrientes. 
Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo. 

Pálido buzo ciego, desventurado hondero, 
descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio! 

Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora 
que la noche sujeta a todo horario. 

El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa. 
Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros. 

Abandonado como los muelles en el alba. 
Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos. 

Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo. 

Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado!

----------


## PoeticPassions

Neruda's Poem 20... Tonight I write the saddest lines... is stunning as well!

----------


## Amarilis

I like a lot of poems... I think I can´t choose just one  :FRlol:  I don´t know whether you all know a Spanish poet who lived in the 19the century, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer. He is one of our most knowns writers... Here you have a little poem by him...


What is poetry? you say while you pierce
in my pupil your blue pupil.
What is poetry! You are asking me?
Poetry is you.

----------


## Beautifull

the awesomest poem i ever read?! ugh, can't pick! _The Road Not Taken_ by Robert Frost is one of the goodies though!

----------


## Mr. Dark

_Stopping By Woods Ona Snowy Evening_ - Robert Frost
_Through a Glass, Darkly_ - George S. Patton
_Auguries of Innocence_ - William Blake


a few others I'm forgetting

----------


## dara.cv

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

----------


## Ivan_Karamazov

Favorite poems are hard to pick, aren't they? I'd probably say that, while there are a lot of old poets whose works I love, there's something about Dylan Thomas that really gets me.

_Find Meat On Bones_ - Dylan Thomas
_And Death Shall Have No Dominion_ - Dylan Thomas

----------


## David R

Who Goes With Fergus by W.B. Yeats

Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep woods woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

----------


## LMK

To Make a Prairie
by Emily Dickenson

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

----------


## JuniperWoolf

Ophelia by Rimbaud made me cry and stare into space for a good long while the first time that I ever read it, but you have to get the right English translation which I can't find on the internet and I can't find my book to copy it right now. I remember that the one that I like starts off:

Where the stars sleep in the calm black stream,
like some great lily, pale Ophelia floats,
slowly floats, wrapped in her veils like a dream.
Half heard from the woods, halloo's from distant throats.

----------


## David R

Hi guys,

I've just been reading Keats' Ode to a Nightingale, one of my favourite poems. I like the second stanza especially - it is like an Ode to drink!

Here it is: 

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep delved earth,
Tasting of flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunbirth mirth!
O, for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.

I don't think any poet could best that, except maybe Rimbaud? What do you think, Juniperwoolf? 

David

----------


## Angry Young Man

_El Pueblo_ by Pablo Neruda. When I was 16 I was looking for some left-wing poetry and picked up the _Fully Empowered_ collection. I love all of the poems in that collection, but in particular the more political poems. I have a particular affection for Neruda because he was a poet believing in Marxism rather than a Marxist writing poetry. It's defeating that so much left-wing poetry is just Politburo-approved toss.

Another favourite is Shelley's _Sensitive Plant._ I can't quite explain why exept that I adore Shelley.

----------


## DanielBenoit

T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land has always been a personal favorite.

I love John Milton's Lycidas for its sound and rhythm, though its multiple references to Greek myths and Christain symbols has left me a bit overwhelmed the first or second time reading.

Anything by Wallace Stevens mezmorizes me.

Lets see. . . . .

Recently I've discovered Tennyson's Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal which I find so elegant and natural:

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

----------


## white camellia

This one...from Emily Dickinson:


There's a certain Slant of light
Winter Afternoons - 
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes - 

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us - 
We can find no scar
But internal difference
Where the Meanings, are - 

None may teach it - Any -
'T is the Seal Despair -
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air -

When it comes, the Landscape listens -
Shadows - hold their breath -
When it goes, 't is like the Distance
On the look of Death -

----------


## Virgil

> This one...from Emily Dickinson:
> 
> 
> There's a certain Slant of light
> Winter Afternoons - 
> That oppresses, like the Heft
> Of Cathedral Tunes - 
> 
> Heavenly Hurt, it gives us - 
> ...


That is a great one Camelia. 

I came across this little poem by Denise Levertov that just sparkeled:

The Avowal 
by Denise Levertov 

As swimmers dare 
to lie face to the sky 
and water bears them, 
as hawks rest upon air 
and air sustains them, 
so would I learn to attain 
freefall, and float 
into Creator Spirit's deep embrace, 
knowing no effort earns 
that all-surrounding grace.

----------


## white camellia

Glad you like it, Virgil.

As swimmers dare 
to lie face to the sky 
and water bears them, 
as hawks rest upon air 
and air sustains them,


How beautiful. : --)

----------


## Dry_Snail

its difficult to pick one facourite poem...but Death of a Poet by rainer Marial Rilke is one of them for sure...this is how it starts..

He Lay.
His high-propped face could only peer
in pale rejection at the silent cover,
now that the world an all this knowledge of her,
torn from the senses of her lover,
had fallen back to the unfeeling year.

----------


## Albion

I am reminded of the pianist, Arthur Rubinstein's, reply to a journalist who asked him to name his favourite piece. "Favourites are for amateurs", he replied dismissively.

One ought to be reticent in blazoning any particular poet or writer because ones knowledge, even in today's literate society, cannot embrace the totality of all literature. Furthermore, one may choose a poet or writer as one's favourite but one should not necessarily assume that he or she wrote one's favourite work. It is possible that a minor poet or writer has, exceptionally, written a work exceeding any of those in the favourite's canon.

Nonetheless, I confess to being an unrepentant amateur and have my favourites. In poetry, it is Tennyson, whose 200th anniversary it is this year, 2009. Unfortunately, with such a huge output as his, I cannot maintain that I like all his works; but I admire him for his facility with words and his ability to conjure mood and atmosphere from imagination. However, my favourite poem must be Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind". What lyrical flights does that portray! What limitations to mankind!

My favourite author is George Eliot. I am reasonably well read (but only in European literature and with many gaps) but consider even Tolstoy's "War and Peace", often proclaimed as the worlds greatest novel, inferior to her "Middlemarch" (a case of my favourite author writing my favourite book). This is a novel weaving at least four stories into one with deep psychological insight together with love, death and resolution. 

I would also like to nominate Richard Wagner. He is known as one of the greatest composers but the fact that he set texts written by himself is often overlooked. Many disparage his efforts but I suspect they have not read his works as poetry. Each music drama offers huge lengths of great poetic text far beyond the achievement of most poets. Even great playwrights such as Shakespeare (another favourite) were not always able to write poetry throughout their plays; and Wagner not only wrote consistently throughout a particular work but also varied his style to suit each piece.

These are personal choices which may be disparaged by others, particularly since I prefer 19th century works to any others. But, in accordance with my observation above, I do not claim that other periods or continents cannot offer better examples. Indeed, I recommend absorbing modern writers: we cannot live constantly in the past but should look forward to new creations. In particular, we cannot be forever immersed in 19th century music, much as I love it: but that is matter for another forum.

----------


## Natalia Andria

Thanks for this fantastic idea , it makes me read several poems for the first time .
Really my favorite poem is " There is a certain slant of light " by Emilly Dickinson :

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That opresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the meanings are--

None may teach it--Any--
'Tis the Seal Despair--
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air--

When it comes, the Landscape listens--
Shadows--hold their breath--
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death--

-- Emily Dickinson

----------


## Pryderi Agni

> Thanks for this fantastic idea , it makes me read several poems for the first time .
> Really my favorite poem is " There is a certain slant of light " by Emilly Dickinson :
> 
> There's a certain Slant of light,
> Winter Afternoons--
> That opresses, like the Heft
> Of Cathedral Tunes--
> 
> Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--
> ...


WOW. That is inspirational, not to mention wonderful. Dickinson is just the best for these kinds of poems.

----------


## The Comedian

I listen to Edward Hirsch's "Wild Gratitude" almost daily, like a favorite song, on my way to work.

----------


## rimbaud

> Ophelia by Rimbaud made me cry and stare into space for a good long while the first time that I ever read it, but you have to get the right English translation which I can't find on the internet and I can't find my book to copy it right now. I remember that the one that I like starts off:
> 
> Where the stars sleep in the calm black stream,
> like some great lily, pale Ophelia floats,
> slowly floats, wrapped in her veils like a dream.
> Half heard from the woods, halloo's from distant throats.


i love that one, it's definitely one of my favorites 
also you can find every poem by Rimbaud on www.mag4.net in both english and french

----------


## isidro

I confess myself far more interested in "that Latin stuff" than in Pound. 

Browning "My Last Duchess" and "Porphyria's Lover" are definitely up there as well as anything by William Blake and am currently studying Dante in the original tongue and terza rima. Good stuff.

----------


## D.P.Trottier

personally Ill always be a fan of Arthur Rimbaud:

*Departure*

Enough seen. The vision has been met in every air.
Enough had. Distant sounds of cities, in the evening,
and in the sun, and always.
Enough known. Life's injunctions. O sounds and visions!
Departure in new affection and new noise.

----------


## Hurricane

_Invictus
_
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

-William Ernest Henley

Simple, but says it all.

----------


## soundofmusic

I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

 :Nod: Thank you for the reminder of this wonderful poem; a favorite of mine since childhood.

----------


## sadparadise

Do not go gentle into that good night by. Dylan Thomas

The first time I encountered this poem was while listening to a radio program. The program was a live to air from Toronto a day or so after the assassination of John Lennon. It was a candlelight vigil. One of the readers was Long John Baldry and he read the best version that I have ever heard of Do not go gentle into that good night. It was fantastic! I wish I could get a copy of that.


Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I also loved Ode to a mouse by Robbie Burns. My grandfather use to recite it to me when I was a wee lad . I thought it was a horror story! I guess I was too young to understand the language e.g Wee sleekit cowrin tim'rous beastie. Too funny!!!

----------


## Olympia

There are great the poets that I like, especially Spanish speakers, since still I can´t read well in other languages and believe that the poetry ... loses with the translations. 

Between the poets of my country, Spain, that I recommend... the great Lorca, Miguel Hernández, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Leopoldo Maria Panero, Pedro Salinas...

Out of my Language I give up myself to Poe, Rilke, Paul Valery, Rimbaud and Baudelaire among different many...

A Francisco
Suave como el peligro atravesaste un día
con tu mano imposible la frágil medianoche
y tu mano valía mi vida, y muchas vidas
y tus labios casi mudos decían lo que era el pensamiento.
Pasé una noche a ti pegado como a un árbol de vida
porque eras suave como el peligro,
como el peligro de vivir de nuevo.

L. Mª Panero

Posesión del miedo

¿A qué fuerza convoco, yo que un tiempo hice brotar
los tallos con mi aliento y ahuyenté las sombras?
Hoy esta sal en los labios, ¿de qué mar la traigo?
¿De dónde este temblor que me desarma?
Conozco tu perfil: eres el miedo
que vive agazapado en la quimera.

Y llamo al amor, a sus huestes de plata, a sus naves
de fuego que surcan seguras
las aguas encrespadas de un espejo.
Voy a hacer el amor con mi miedo,
a inventarle un cuerpo firme, a penetrarlo
a hacerle gemir de deseo.

Quiero al miedo desnudo, rendido, tendido en el suelo,
excitado, sudoroso, imberbe.
Quiero una fiesta de carne con el espíritu aterido,
el intruso que ciega las ventanas.
Que se vuelva boca abajo y se ofrezca
rogando fuerza en su flaqueza.
Entrar y salir. Dentro y fuera. Dar y amagar con quitar
y que la auténtica paz sea la guerra.
Y liberar mi alma prisionera
con gritos de placer en sus entrañas.

De "La posesión del miedo" 1996

I´m sorry, I suppose that is difficult to many of you to read spanish

----------


## isidro

Me gusta espanol! LOL! And Dylan Thomas is awesome!

----------


## Dr Jekyll

I am a big fan of Thomas Dylan  :Smile: 

"Never and never, my girl riding far and near
In the land of the hearthstone tales, and spelled asleep,
Fear or believe that the wolf in the sleepwhite hood
Loping and bleathing roughly and blithely shall leap, 
My dear, my dear
Out of a lair in the flocked leaves in the dew dipped year
To eat your heart in the house in the rosy wood.

Sleep good, for ever, slow and deep, spelled rare and wise,
My girl ranging the night in the rose and shire
Of the hobnail tails: no gooseherd or swine will turn
Into a homestall king or hamlet of fire
And prince of ice
To court the honeyed heart from your side before sunrise
In a spinney of ringed boys and ganders, spike and burn,

Nor the innocent lie in the rooting dingle wooed
And staved, and riven among plumes my rider weep.
From the broomed witch's spume you are shielded by fern
And flower of country sleep and the greenwood keep.
Lie fast and soothed,
Safe be and smooth from the bellows of the rushy brood."

----------


## bsbdesja

Tintern Abbey is one of my favourite poems as well! It's so powerfully emotional, even now having read it many times and memorised it, I can still feel its pull.

I also really like Yeat's 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree' (it reminds me a little of Thoreau's philosophy of life in 'Walden' which I have just finished); Thomas Hardy's 'The Darkling Thrush' which always cheers me up; 'Ode to a Nightingale' by Keats; and another of Wordsworth's which makes me ache in sympathy with his grief--'Surprised by Joy'.

----------


## Arwenstar

_Not thou but I_ by Philip Bourke
Anyone likes this poem? Or has anyone got an opinion- positive or negative- about that?

----------


## olegro

Between Destiny and Circumstance
the Human Voice speaks ...
and when it is muted 
the Fingers speak ....
and when they are lamed 
the Eyes speak ...
and when they are blinded 
the Heart speaks ...
in Ice ... and in Flames
until the last Beat

a prosa poem by a danish poet .. in my translation

Olegro

----------


## metamorphoser

*A Hymn to Venus*
_by Sappho_

O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles;
O goddess, from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferred,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
A gentle goddess, hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confessed.

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they winged their way
I saw their quivering pinions play.

The birds dismissed (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again:
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And asked what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid?

What frenzy in my bosom raged,
And by what cure to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?

Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freezes, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.

Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore.
In pity come, and ease my grief,
Bring my distempered soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.

----------


## JulieC

anything that edgar allen poe does.

----------


## OrphanPip

I think this one by Matthew Arnold is one of my favorites.

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.


Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

----------


## Daphne

Because I Could Not Stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Emily Dickinson

----------


## Angelasutton

> I love poems by Poe, but there's also one by Lermontov I really find amusing
> "Gratitude"
> For all, for all! I thank you, o my dear:
> For passions' deeply hidden pledge,
> For poison of a kiss, and stinging of a tear,
> Abuse by friends, and enemies' revenge;
> For soul's light, extinguished in a prison,
> For things by which I was deceived before.
> But do not give me any real reason
> To give you thanks from now any more.


This is great! I have never read this one before!

----------


## Return Journey

I really cant say that I have a favorite poem that I would put over others. As one comes to mind so do many others. 
The following poems I enjoy equally for different reasons. 

Resolution and Independence by William Wordsworth
Do not go Gentle into that Goodnight by Dylan Thomas
Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot
A Hymn to God the Father by John Donne
And 
The Great Lover by Rupert Brooke

These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such --
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .
Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me!

----------


## bluesun777

Check out Taylor Mali. He is most awesome.

----------


## Dinkleberry2010

to a young child


Margaret, are you grieving
Over goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
with your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! As the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

----------


## MarkC

Hi,


My favorite poem is, A moments Indulgence by Rabindranath Tagore.

A Moments Indulgence

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,
and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and
the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing
dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Rabindranath Tagore 

MarkC

----------


## Pryderi Agni

Currently, it's:

*If You Are a Man*
_D.H. Lawrence_

If you are a man, and believe in the destiny of mankind
then say to yourself: we will cease to care 
about property and money and mechanical devices,
and open our consciousness to the deep, mysterious life
that we are now cut off from.

The machine shall be abolished from the earth again;
it is a mistake that mankind has made;
money shall cease to be, and property shall cease to perplex
and we will find the way to immediate contact with life
and with one another.

To know the moon as we have never known
yet she is knowable.
To know a man as we have never known
a man, as never yet a man was knowable, yet still shall be.

----------


## MGK

e.e. cummings - the bigness of cannon

the bigness of cannon
is skilful,

but i have seen
deaths clever enormous voice
which hides in a fragility
of poppies.

i say that sometimes
on these long talkative animals
are laid fists of huger silence.

I have seen all the silence
full of vivid noiseless boys

at Roupy
i have seen
between barrages,

the night utter ripe unspeaking girls.

----------


## sadparadise

I would like to add a new favorite poem, Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

----------


## thetinkris

I ran across this poem while playing the "let's pick random books off the shelves" game at my university's library. I fell in love. 

_
Rob Loewinsohn_- *Pastoral*

Death. 
The death of a million
honeydew melons 
festering in the fields 
east of Tracy. 
The scent of death
narcotic in its sweetness
which we mistook for the smell
of fresh-churned butter
until I ran across the road
into the field 
& was attacked by flies,
Later
on another road, I smelled myself
the fetor of the living
like locker rooms & loving beds.
& thought about the mutilated melons
which from a distance looked like
a field of wild buttercups.

----------


## wlz

The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot.

----------


## MarkBastable

...just one? Well, I might go for _Prufrock_, or some cummings, a Frost or a Graves, or one of Harsent's _Punch_ sequence.

But today - and tomorrow it might be different - I'll choose this...
_
Musee des Beaux Arts - Auden

About suffering they were never wrong, 
The Old Masters; how well, they understood 
Its human position; how it takes place 
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; 
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting 
For the miraculous birth, there always must be 
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating 
On a pond at the edge of the wood: 
They never forgot 
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course 
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot 
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse 
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. 
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away 
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may 
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, 
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone 
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green 
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen 
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, 
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on_

----------


## GypsyDream

One of my favorite poems is a fairly simple one (but I think it is better for that) It is by Leigh Hunt:

_Jenny Kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me._

I have many other poems that I love, but for some reason this one has stayed with me.

----------


## JackieGinger

why, this thread is addictive...

----------


## Pensive

> One of my favorite poems is a fairly simple one (but I think it is better for that) It is by Leigh Hunt:
> 
> _Jenny Kiss'd me when we met,
> Jumping from the chair she sat in;
> Time, you thief, who love to get
> Sweets into your list, put that in!
> Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
> Say that health and wealth have miss'd me
> Say I'm growing old, but add,
> ...


A beautiful poem indeed, I must add.  :Smile:

----------


## wlz

Sestina: Altaforte by Ezra Pound

LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell
for that he was a stirrer up of strife. Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug
him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his
jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer I have great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightning from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His long might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

----------


## sammyuk

This might have already been posted in this thread, but I'm not going through 45 pages, so I'll just post it anyway  :Smile:  
I haven't really read that much poetry to be honest, but my favourite I've read so far is Ted Hughes' Thistles, as you may be able to tell from my signature. The poem in full:




> Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
> Thistles spike the summer air
> And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
> 
> Every one a revengeful burst
> Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
> Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up
> 
> From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
> ...

----------


## boomin0024

I like Stopping by Woods on A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost....

----------


## Armand2u

Don't know much on poetry,lol.Rhime Of The Ancient Mariner,Beowulf,the Robert Frost poem I quoted from below,The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus,Casey At The Bat,Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven and To Helen.That's about my limit.Oh and Four Ruthless Rhymes,but I only remember three of them

Making toast by the fireside Nurse fell in the grate and died
But what makes it ten times worse All the toast was burnt with nurse.

There's been an accident they said Your servant's cut in half,He's dead
Oh that is terrible but please Send me the half that's got my keys.

Billy in one of his nice new sashes Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes
Now although the room groes chilly I haven't the heart to poke up Billy.

----------


## alexar

Oh yes - I remember scraps - 

Always hold on tight to nurse
For fear of finding Something Worse

good advice.

----------


## LeavesOfGrass

Keats' Ode To A Nightingale is one that I'm fond of, but also, Whitman's Crossing Brooklyn Ferry. Someone referenced William Carlos Williams earlier, but I never could enjoy his work. Another antiquated and overlooked poem is Timor Mortis Conturbat Me. I suggest everyone check it out.

----------


## Babyguile

*Blackberrying* by _Sylvia Plath_

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal

----------


## yunxin

It Is the Hour 此刻 --George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour -- when lover's vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the Heaven that clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
That follows the decline of day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

----------


## L.M. The Third

Great thread! Can't figure out why my computer won't let me get to the last page here :Crash: 
I have so many favorites, but here are two Milton poems that I've been obsessed with lately, and I bet no one has posted. Very religious, I know, but they are so packed with meaning on music, poetry, and humanity. And besides that, I just love the flow and choice of words. You can judge if they deserve the attention I'm giving them. 

At A Solemn Music

Blest pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce,
And to our high-raised fantasy present 
That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne
To him that sits thereon,
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow,
And the cherubic host in thousand choirs
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly.

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportioned sin
Jarred against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song, 
And keep in tune with heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light.

----------


## idnami

Has anyone put this one up yet? Sailing to Byzantium by W.B. Yeats.
My favorite bit is the first half on the second stanza.

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come

----------


## woody247

this has always been a personal favourite. 
it is exceptionally beautiful in its simplicity.

*On a Discovered Curl of Hair*

When your soft welcomings were said,
This curl was waving on your head,
And when we walked where breakers dinned
It sported in the sun and wind,
And when I had won your words of grace
It brushed and clung about my face.
Then, to abate the misery
Of absentness, you gave it me.

Where are its fellows now? Ah, they
For brightest brown have donned a gray,
And gone into a caverned ark,
Ever unopened, always dark!

Yet this one curl, untouched of time,
Beams with live brown as in its prime,
So that it seems I even could now
Restore it to the living brow
By bearing down the western road
Till I had reached your old abode.

February 1913.

By Thomas Hardy, in memory of his darling Emma

----------


## Emmaline

Elizabeth Bishop - One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster : places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (_Write it!_) like disaster.

----------


## Emmaline

I carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is doneby only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

I carry your heart with me - EE Cummings

----------


## Emmaline

Love is always patient and kind; it is never jealous. Love
is never boastful or conceited...
It is never rude or selfish...It does not take offense, and it
is not resentful.

Love takes no pleasure in other people's sins but
delights in truth. It is always ready to excuse, to trust, to
hope, and to endure whatever comes.

----------


## Emmaline

I feel like I've known you forever
Although I only met you sometime this past year
But our friendship will remain forever
No matter what shall cross our paths and hearts

The best thing that's happened to me
Is finding a forever friend like you
You're there to listen, help, and talk to
And best of all, I know I can confide in you

Some say the best love is one sprung from friendship
So I feel this is why we should try
Time leads us in this direction
Should we follow on down the line?

Friendship and love are always intertwined
Too close which sometimes causes confusion
But if we don't try, we will never know if it was meant to be
But forever you will remain my friend

I don't know if this is going to work
I'm not totally sure we should try
But I have all these mixed feelings
Bottled up inside

I love you both inside and out as my best friend
And I know that you love me that way too
So when I say "best friends forever"
That even means when I'm saying" Goodbye, I love you, too."

----------


## Emmaline

The Highwayman--Alfred Noyes 

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

----------


## ConstantReader

*If*
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!

–Rudyard Kipling 

*Tonight I can write the saddest lines.*

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her. 
-Pablo Neruda

*The Prophet, Joy and Sorrow*
Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."

And he answered:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
-Khalil Gibran

Each of these has touched my soul and influenced my life at one point or another in my life.
Now I have shared them with you! Comments welcome!
ConstantReader

----------


## jet.thursday

__________
Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
Lift me up in your love as a light wing lifts a swallow,
Let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain--
But what if I heard my first love calling me again?

Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,
Take me far away to the hills that hide your home:
Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door--
But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?

----------


## Il Dante

Choosing an all-time favorite poem is extremely difficult. But I can say with certitude that the following is my favorite romantic era poem:

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

----------


## rondon9898

I have two favourites, which may have been mentioned before. Either Browning's 'My Last Duchess', or perhaps even better, Charles Baudelaire's 'Hymne à la Beauté'. if you haven't read it, PLEASE do so one day - it's utterly wonderful. Certainly worth learning French for.

De Satan ou de Dieu, qu'importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu'importe, si tu rends, — fée aux yeux de velours,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine! —
L'univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?


CJ

----------


## Revolte

I have a bit of a bias on this one, it was the poem that got me heavy into poetry.

Edgar Allan Poe - The Happiest Day

I. The happiest day--the happiest hour
My seared and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

II. Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been--
But let them pass.

III. And pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev'n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me--
Be still my spirit!

IV. The happiest day--the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
The brightest glance of pride and power
I feel have been:

V. But were that hope of pride and power
 Now offered with the pain
Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour
I would not live again:

VI. For on its wing was dark alloy
And as it fluttered--fell
An essence--powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

----------


## MUMUKSHA

> The Highwayman--Alfred Noyes 
> 
> The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
> The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
> The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
> And the highwayman came riding--
> Riding--riding--
> The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
> 
> ...


I had loved it when we read it in school. It still has a special place in my heart. :Nod:  But, now there others too. :Biggrin5:  Esp. in the ballad form I love The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

----------


## Lost_Souls

*Double Post*

----------


## Lost_Souls

I agree with _The Waste Land_. There are many ways of reading it, but once you figure out the network of allusions you just have to stand back and marvel at the 'fragments he has shored against his ruin'

On a lighter note, Emily Dickinson's release of supressed passion is quite powerful:




> Wild nights! Wild nights!
> Were I with thee,
> Wild nights should be
> Our luxury!
> 
> Futile the winds
> To a heart in port,
> Done with the compass,
> Done with the chart.
> ...

----------


## Perscors

> I turned to speak to God
> About the world's despair:
> But to make matters worse
> I found He wasn't there.
> 
> God turned to speak to me
> (don't anybody laugh)
> God found I wasn't there _ 
> At least not over half.
> ...


I hadn't read this before, great poem! I love many Frost poems, particularly Design which I always read to my fundie Creationist or rather "Intelligent Design" friends:

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth --
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth --
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.

----------


## Darkling

'Ode to a Nightingale' by Keats.

Ode to a Nightingale 

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 
But being too happy in thine happiness, 
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10 

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been 
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South! 15 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stainèd mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 25 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
Fled is that music:do I wake or sleep?

----------


## Wilde woman

A few people have mentioned my favorite poet - Gerard Manley Hopkins - so I'm going to post my two favorites by him.



*Carrion Comfort*

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist - slack they may be - these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry _I can no more_. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, or choose not to be.

But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlamb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God. 



*The Windhover*

Caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on a swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend; the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

----------


## kittypaws

Heres my two cents.....

Nothing Gold Can Stay
By Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

 Robert Frost

Canis Major
By Robert Frost

The great Overdog 
That heavenly beast 
With a star in one eye 
Gives a leap in the east. 

He dances upright 
All the way to the west 
And never once drops 
On his forefeet to rest. 

I'm a poor underdog, 
But to-night I will bark 
With the great Overdog 
That romps through the dark.
- Robert Frost

I am a huge admirer of Robert Frost and am glad to see I am in good company here at LitNet! These two are my favorite and I have read many different interpretations of both. The best ever was the one on Canis Major I stumbled upon on a site called MxxXxxxxxx.....gotta luv it!

"The whole poem is, to put it bluntly, quite obviously a masturbation fantasy put into verse." By Berlepsch. 

Kittypaws

----------


## Whistle

I don't know why but for some reason I LOVE Shel Silverstein

Rain 

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the sli****y-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

----------


## sonia1234

I like Catullus, Mike and Shel Silverstein poems a lot......

----------


## Alexander III

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever,
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle;--
Why not I with thine?

See! the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven,
If it disdained it's brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?


Percy Bysshe Shelley

----------


## Gregory Samsa

Tomas Tranströmer

*Allegro*

I play Haydn after a black day
and feel a simple warmth in my hands.

The keys are willing. Soft hammers strike.
The resonance green, lively, and calm.

The music says freedom exists
and someone doesn't pay the emperor tax.

I push down my hands in my Haydnpockets
and imitate a person looking on world calmly.

I hoist the Haydnflag––it signifies:
"We don't give in. But want peace."

The music is a glass-house on the slope
where the stones fly, the stones roll.

And the stones roll right through
but each pane stays whole.



*Madrigal* 

I inherited a dark wood where I seldom go. But a day will come when the dead and the living change places. The wood will be set in motion. We are not without hope. The most serious crimes will remain unsolved in spite of the efforts of many policemen. In the same way there is somewhere in our lives a great unsolved love. I inherited a dark wood, but today I’m walking in the other wood, the light one. All the living creatures that sing, wriggle, wag and crawl! It’s spring and the air is very strong. I have graduated from the university of oblivion and am as empty-handed as the shirt on the washing-line.


------------------------------------------------------------

Czeslaw Milosz

*So Little*

I said so little.
Days were short.

Short days.
Short nights.
Short years.

I said so little.
I couldn't keep up.

My heart grew weary
From joy,
Despair,
Ardor,
Hope.

The jaws of Leviathan
Were closing upon me.

Naked, I lay on the shores
Of desert islands.

The white whale of the world
Hauled me down to its pit.

And now I don't know
What in all that was real.

----------


## Pryderi Agni

> Czeslaw Milosz
> 
> *So Little*
> 
> I said so little.
> Days were short.
> 
> Short days.
> Short nights.
> ...


It's interesting that you should quote Milosz, as I was just reading about his _Captive Minds_ in the New York Review of Books blog. A link, if you wanna follow it.

----------


## Sebas. Melmoth

Baudelaire's 'A Carrion' from _The Flowers of Evil_:

Une Charogne
Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux:
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit semé de cailloux,
Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique,
Brûlante et suant les poisons,
Ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et cynique
Son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.
Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture,
Comme afin de la cuire à point,
Et de rendre au centuple à la grande Nature
Tout ce qu'ensemble elle avait joint;
Et le ciel regardait la carcasse superbe
Comme une fleur s'épanouir.
La puanteur était si forte, que sur l'herbe
Vous crûtes vous évanouir.
Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride,
D'où sortaient de noirs bataillons
De larves, qui coulaient comme un épais liquide
Le long de ces vivants haillons.
Tout cela descendait, montait comme une vague
Ou s'élançait en pétillant;
On eût dit que le corps, enflé d'un souffle vague,
Vivait en se multipliant.
Et ce monde rendait une étrange musique,
Comme l'eau courante et le vent,
Ou le grain qu'un vanneur d'un mouvement rythmique
Agite et tourne dans son van.
Les formes s'effaçaient et n'étaient plus qu'un rêve,
Une ébauche lente à venir
Sur la toile oubliée, et que l'artiste achève
Seulement par le souvenir.
Derrière les rochers une chienne inquiète
Nous regardait d'un oeil fâché, 
Epiant le moment de reprendre au squelette
Le morceau qu'elle avait lâché.
— Et pourtant vous serez semblable à cette ordure,
À cette horrible infection, 
Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,
Vous, mon ange et ma passion!
Oui! telle vous serez, ô la reine des grâces,
Apres les derniers sacrements,
Quand vous irez, sous l'herbe et les floraisons grasses,
Moisir parmi les ossements.
Alors, ô ma beauté! dites à la vermine
Qui vous mangera de baisers,
Que j'ai gardé la forme et l'essence divine
De mes amours décomposés!

======================

A Carrion
Do you remember the thing we saw, my soul,
That summer morning, so beautiful, so soft:
At a turning in the path, a filthy carrion,
On a bed sown with stones,
Legs in the air, like a lascivious woman,
Burning and sweating poisons,
Opened carelessly, cynically,
Its great fetid belly.
The sun shone on this fester,
As though to cook it to a turn,
And to return a hundredfold to great Nature
What she had joined in one;
And the sky saw the superb carcass
Open like a flower.
The stench was so strong, that you might think
To swoon away upon the grass.
The flies swarmed on that rotten belly,
Whence came out black battalions
Of spawn, flowing like a thick liquid
Along its living tatters.
All this rose and fell like a wave,
Or rustled in jerks;
One would have said that the body, fun of a loose breath,
Lived in this its procreation.
And this world gave out a strange music,
Like flowing water and wind,
Or a winnower's grain that he shakes and turns
With rhythmical grace in his basket.
The forms fade and are no more than a dream, 
A sketch slow to come
On the forgotten canvas, and that the artist completes 
Only by memory.
Behind the boulders an anxious b!+ch
Watched us with angry eyes,
Spying the moment to regain in the skeleton 
The morsel she had dropped.
— And yet you will be like this excrement,
This horrible stench,
O star of my eyes, sun of my being, 
You, my angel, my passion.
Yes, such you will be, queen of gracefulness, 
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath the grasses and fat flowers,
Moldering amongst the bones.
Then, my beauty, say to the vermin
Which will eat you with kisses,
That I have kept the shape and the divine substance 
Of my decomposed loves!

----------


## Gregory Samsa

> It's interesting that you should quote Milosz, as I was just reading about his _Captive Minds_ in the New York Review of Books blog. A link, if you wanna follow it.



I really like Milosz. Thank you for the interesting link.

----------


## Zothar

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.

----------


## pandorama

What You Should Know to be a Poet

all you can know about animals as persons.
the names of trees and flowers and weeds.
the names of stars and the movements of planets
and the moon.
your own six senses, with a watchful elegant mind.
at least one kind of traditional magic:
divination, astrology, the book of changes, the tarot;

dreams.
the illusory demons and the illusory shining gods.
kiss the *** of the devil and eat sh*t;
**** his horny barbed ****,
**** the hag,
and all the celestial angels
and maidens perfumd and golden-

& then love the human: wives husbands and friends
childrens games, comic books, bubble-gum,
the weirdness of television and advertising.

work long, dry hours of dull work swallowed and accepted
and lived with and finally lovd. exhaustion,
hunger, rest.

the wild freedom of the dance, extasy
silent solitary illumination, entasy

real danger. gambles and the edge of death.

- Gary Snyder

----------


## ladderandbucket

Robinson Jeffers is my favourite poet. I don't know how he is regarded by the literary establishment. I suspect he is deeply unfashionable. His poems can be depressing but I see a kind of joy in his view of the world and the insignificance of human beings within it. 

_From_ The Bloody Sire

What but the wolfs tooth whittled so fine
The fleet limbs of the antelope?
What but fear winged the birds, and hunger
Jewelled with such eyes the great goshawks head?
Violence has been the sire of all the worlds values.

Who would remember Helens face
Lacking the terrible halo of spears?
Who formed Christ but Herod and Caesar,
The cruel and bloody victories of Caesar?
Violence, the bloody sire of all the worlds values.

----------


## iamnobody

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
"It is futile," I said,
" You will never-"

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.
-Stephen Crane

----------


## iamnobody

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance fo their doubting too
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies
Or being hated, don't give way to hating
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise
If you can Dream and not make dreams your master
If you can Think and not make thouhgts your aim
If you can meet wih Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken
And stoop, and build 'em up with worn out tools
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch and toss
And lose and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss
If you can force all your heart, and nerve, and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone
And so hold on, when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them,"Hold on"
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run
Yours is the Earth, and everything thats in it
And, which is more, you will be a man my son

----------


## LostNBrevity

Anabelle Lee by Edgar Allen Poe. I love how he talks about a topic that can be almost gruesome in a way that makes it sound like a nursery rhyme. Its fascinating how the style contrasts so starkly with the content.

----------


## Sine_lege

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe and
Five o' Clock Shadow by John Betjeman

----------


## Jassy Melson

Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas

----------


## MUMUKSHA

_I don't know how many souls I have..._ by Fernando Pessoa

and

_A Dream Within A Dream_ by Edgar Allan Poe

----------


## Verisimilitude

The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel and
Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

----------


## The Ol' Man

A Coat by W.B. Yeats 


I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.



Whatever You Say, Say Nothing by Seamus Heaney 


I
I'm writing this just after an encounter
With an English journalist in search of 'views
On the Irish thing.' I'm back in winter
Quarters where the bad news is no longer news,

Where media-men and stringers sniff and point,
Where zoom lenses, recorders and coiled leads
Litter the hotels. The times are out of joint
But I incline as much to rosary beads

As to the jottings and analyses
Of politicians and newspapermen
Who've scribbled down the long campaign from gas
And protest to gelignite and Sten,

Who proved upon their pulses 'escalate,'
'Backlash' and 'crack down,' 'the provisional wing,'
'Polarization' and 'long-standing hate.'
Yet I live here, I live here too, I sing,

Expertly civil-tongued with civil neighbours
On the high wires of first wireless reports,
Sucking the fake taste, the stony flavours
Of those sanctioned, old, elaborate retorts:

'Oh, it's disgraceful, surely, I agree.'
'Where's it going to end?' 'It's getting worse.'
'They're murderers,' 'Internment, understandably...'
The 'voice of sanity' is getting hoarse.

III
'Religion's never mentioned here,' of course.
'You know them by their eyes,' and hold your tongue.
'One side's as bad as the other,' never worse.
Christ, it's near time some small leak was sprung

In the great dykes the Dutchman made
To dam the dangerous tide that followed Seamus.
Yet for all this art and sedentary trade
I am incapable. The famous

Northern reticence, the tight gag of place
And times: yes, yes. Of the 'wee six' I sing
Where to be saved you only must save face
And whatever you say, you say nothing.

Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed compared with us:
Manoeuvrings to find out name and school,
Subtle discrimination by addresses
With hardly an exception to the rule

That Norman, Ken and Sidney signalled Prod
And Seamus (call me Sean) was sure-fire Pape.
O land of password, handgrip, wink and nod,
Of open minds as open as a trap,

Where tongues lie coiled, as under flames lie wicks,
Where half of us, as in a wooden horse,
Were cabin'd and confined like wily Greeks,
Besieged within the siege, whispering morse.

IV
This morning from a dewy motorway
I saw the new camp for the internees:
A bomb had left a crater of fresh clay
In the roadside, and over in the trees

Machine-gun posts defined a real stockade.
There was that white mist you get on a low ground
And it was deja-vu, some film made
Of Stalag 17, a bad dream with no sound.

Is there a life before death? That's chalked up
In Ballymurphy. Competence with pain,
Coherent miseries, a bite and sup:
We hug our little destiny again.




A dream of jealousy and punishment, by Heaney, are good poems.
Eliot's work is profound, as is Auden's, who, to my consternation, I haven't
seen mentioned on the thread. 



Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. 
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; 
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 


In Praise Of Limestone by W.H. Auden 


If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,
Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes
With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,
A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs
That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,
Each filling a private pool for its fish and carving
Its own little ravine whose cliffs entertain
The butterfly and the lizard; examine this region
 Of short distances and definite places:
What could be more like Mother or a fitter background
For her son, the flirtatious male who lounges
Against a rock in the sunlight, never doubting
That for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but
Extensions of his power to charm? From weathered outcrop
To hill-top temple, from appearing waters to
Conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard,
Are ingenious but short steps that a child's wish
To receive more attention than his brothers, whether
By pleasing or teasing, can easily take.

Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
Their steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times
Arm in arm, but never, thank God, in step; or engaged
On the shady side of a square at midday in
Voluble discourse, knowing each other too well to think
There are any important secrets, unable
To conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral
And not to be pacified by a clever line
Or a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that responds,
They have never had to veil their faces in awe
Of a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed;
Adjusted to the local needs of valleys
Where everything can be touched or reached by walking,
Their eyes have never looked into infinite space
Through the lattice-work of a nomad's comb; born lucky,
Their legs have never encountered the fungi
And insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives
With which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common.
So, when one of them goes to the bad, the way his mind works
Remains incomprehensible: to become a pimp
Or deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine tenor voice
For effects that bring down the house, could happen to all
But the best and the worst of us...
That is why, I suppose,
The best and worst never stayed here long but sought
Immoderate soils where the beauty was not so external,
The light less public and the meaning of life
Something more than a mad camp. 'Come!' cried the granite wastes,
"How evasive is your humour, how accidental
Your kindest kiss, how permanent is death." (Saints-to-be
Slipped away sighing.) "Come!" purred the clays and gravels,
"On our plains there is room for armies to drill; rivers
Wait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a tomb
In the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and both
Need to be altered." (Intendant Caesars rose and
Left, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were fetched
By an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper:
"I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
That is how I shall set you free. There is no love;
There are only the various envies, all of them sad."

They were right, my dear, all those voices were right
And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,
Nor its peace the historical calm of a site
Where something was settled once and for all: A back ward
And dilapidated province, connected
To the big busy world by a tunnel, with a certain
Seedy appeal, is that all it is now? Not quite:
It has a worldy duty which in spite of itself
It does not neglect, but calls into question
All the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet,
Admired for his earnest habit of calling
The sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is made uneasy
By these marble statues which so obviously doubt
His antimythological myth; and these gamins,
Pursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade
With such lively offers, rebuke his concern for Nature's
Remotest aspects: I, too, am reproached, for what
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught,
Not to be left behind, not, please! to resemble
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted, these
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible,
And does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward
To death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
Sins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead,
These modifications of matter into
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point:
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from,
Having nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.

----------


## Feddie

I hate to admit that I'm not very widely read when it comes to poetry, but this would have to be the most beautiful poem I have ever read.

*Desiderata* by Max Ehrmann

_Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy._

----------


## Gizlam

My favourite poem.... oh what a question.

In my mind Larkin and Duffy are having a rather epic tooth and nail fight. And although Duffy fights an interesting if not a little unfeminine battle Larkin comes out on top.

Nevermind Duffy. She fought well.

Larkin you are the winner with the poem.... This be the verse.

However much this poem enchants me I dont think I'll write it out. Being relatively new I dont know the forums guide of the naughty words. So I'll leave it to you to do the research.

It is just fascinating

Goodbye world... See you further down the path

----------


## rosenoir

When it comes to poetry, the Romantic poets are the best! Namely, William Wordsworth with his childhood nostalgia; John Keats with his piercing melancholy; and William Blake, with his superb observations of good, evil and nature in his cryptic poetry. I love William Blake! Oh, and of course, William Shakespeare. It is so hard to choose only one!

----------


## Truth teller

Dream within a dream - Poe

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty - Shelley

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell - Blake

----------


## Revolte

I've had a new favorite poem for a while now. Hawkman wrote it  :Smile:  "The Anarchist And The Cat".

----------


## tonywalt

Charles Bukowski
I Met A Genius
I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train 
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd 
realized 
that.

----------


## Lod Nael

Great poem Monica

----------

