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Favorite Poet?


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#21 Oblomov

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Posted 04 September 2007 - 05:01 PM

But, having worked in the Yukon for three summers in the early to mid eighties, One of these days, I've got to go back there.


Long shot, but tell me Lily, are you familiar with Uncle $crooge comics?

#22 Mbwun_Lily

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Posted 04 September 2007 - 05:23 PM

Long shot, but tell me Lily, are you familiar with Uncle $crooge comics?


No I'm not, Oblomov, do they have some kind of significance with the Yukon?

#23 Oblomov

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Posted 04 September 2007 - 05:39 PM

No I'm not, Oblomov, do they have some kind of significance with the Yukon?


Yes, very much so. The great American cartoonist Carl Barks created $crooge McDuck, a Scotland born American tycoon who made his fortune in the Yukon gold rush. But Don Rosa, a Berks student and contemporary writer/cartoonist, greatly expanded this theme into a complete life history. $crooge was also a fan of Robert Service's poems.

But unless you have been 'into' comics in general and the Disney Ducks in particular from an early age, the $crooge saga will have little significance.

#24 Mbwun_Lily

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Posted 04 September 2007 - 05:51 PM

Oh :)... I am familiar with the Uncle $crooge character from the Disney cartoons, but I can't say as I ever paid enough attention to them to notice his being a fan of Robert Service.:smile2:

That's rather interesting. Thanks for clueing me in! :)

#25 Merflerher

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Posted 05 September 2007 - 07:40 PM

I love poetry, I used to carry a copy of Palgrave's Treasury around with me when I was in my teens, you know, one of those books with the very very thin paper and very close print? My favourite poets are Blake, Keats and Gerard Manley Hopkins, who was a Jesuit priest who invented a new system called 'sprung rhythm'. His poems are difficult to read because his style is very odd, but one of his best poems is Pied Beauty:

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

All things counter, original, spáre, strange;
Whatever is fickle, frecklèd (who knows how?)
With swíft, slów; sweet, sóur; adázzle, dím;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is pást change:

Práise hím.

I'm not a Christian but I love this poem.

#26 JudyB

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Posted 05 September 2007 - 07:59 PM

I also love John Donne



I love John Donne also 'The Sun Rising' is a particular favourite - I think of that poem when I see the morning sun come through my bedroom window. We were so lucky to have a fantastic English teacher at A level who brought his poems to life.

#27 poppy

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Posted 05 September 2007 - 09:20 PM

I love poetry, I used to carry a copy of Palgrave's Treasury around with me when I was in my teens, you know, one of those books with the very very thin paper and very close print? My favourite poets are Blake, Keats and Gerard Manley Hopkins, who was a Jesuit priest who invented a new system called 'sprung rhythm'. His poems are difficult to read because his style is very odd, but one of his best poems is Pied Beauty:

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

All things counter, original, spáre, strange;
Whatever is fickle, frecklèd (who knows how?)
With swíft, slów; sweet, sóur; adázzle, dím;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is pást change:

Práise hím.

I'm not a Christian but I love this poem.


I love that poem too Merflerher. Wonderful use of words. Another of his I really like is:



Inversnaid

THIS darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness?
Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

#28 poppy

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Posted 05 November 2007 - 07:33 AM

I found this poem copied into an old note-book of mine recently.




On the Dunes

If there is any life when death is over,
These tawny beaches will know much of me,
I shall come back, as constant and as changeful
As the unchanging, many-colored sea.

If life was small, if it has made me scornful,
Forgive me; I shall straighten like a flame
In the great calm of death, and if you want me
Stand on the sea-ward dunes and call my name.

- Sara Teasdale

#29 The Green Fairy

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Posted 05 November 2007 - 11:25 AM

William McGonagall is one of my favourite poets and I attach his masterpiece 'The Christmas Goose' for you to savour.
:lol:
The Christmas Goose

Mr. SMIGGS was a gentleman,
And he lived in London town;
His wife she was a good kind soul,
And seldom known to frown.

'Twas on Christmas eve,
And Smiggs and his wife lay cosy in bed,
When the thought of buying a goose
Came into his head.

So the next morning,
Just as the sun rose,
He jump'd out of bed,
And he donn'd his clothes,
Saying, "Peggy, my dear.
You need not frown,
For I'll buy you the best goose
In all London town."

So away to the poultry shop he goes,
And bought the goose, as he did propose,
And for it he paid one crown,
The finest, he thought, in London town.

When Smiggs bought the goose
He suspected no harm,
But a naughty boy stole it
From under his arm.

Then Smiggs he cried, "Stop, thief!
Come back with my goose!"
But the naughty boy laugh'd at him,
And gave him much abuse.

But a policeman captur'd the naughty boy,
And gave the goose to Smiggs,
And said he was greatly bother'd
By a set of juvenile prigs.
So the naughty boy was put in prison
For stealing the goose.,
And got ten days' confinement
Before he got loose.

So Smiggs ran home to his dear Peggy,
Saying, "Hurry, and get this fat goose ready,
That I have bought for one crown;
So, my darling, you need not frown."

"Dear Mr Smiggs, I will not frown:
I'm sure 'tis cheap for one crown,
Especially at Christmas time --
Oh! Mr Smiggs, it's really fine."
"Peggy. it is Christmas time,
So let us drive dull care away,
For we have got a Christmas goose,
So cook it well, I pray.
"No matter how the poor are clothed,
Or if they starve at home,
We'll drink our wine, and eat our goose,
Aye, and pick it to the bone."

#30 supergran71

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Posted 05 November 2007 - 03:00 PM

My favourite poem is The Highwayman by Alfred Noys

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 shuters, 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.


Its wonderful when it is read out by someone who can lend drama to its delivery.

#31 sib

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Posted 05 November 2007 - 07:06 PM

I quite like John Betjemann´s poems, because he´s got quite a down-to-earth style. Some of the other poets I can´t understand what they´re talking about.
Here´s one of Betjeman´s...

Seaside Golf

How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear´d the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker´s back-
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp'd it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I'd find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most securely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere.

#32 SteffieB

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Posted 05 November 2007 - 08:48 PM

I have often thought I'm not into poetry, but I've lately begun to realize that just isn't true. I just haven't been exposed to enough:smile2: This is one I keep on my desk top to cheer me up, and I think of it as a symbol and inspiration that we really can make a difference. It speaks to me!


Cherries (Cerezas)

It happened this month, in this country.

Unexpectedly: nevertheless all
came to pass as I tell it: day after day
the country brimmed over with cherries.

It was stubborn,
that masculine weather with its impudent
kiss of the pole: no one could foretell
the bounty I bore in the shadows
(dead metals, the bones of volcanoes)
(stillnesses so remote
they bandaged the eyes of the islands):
then, between boulders and rubble
that labyrinth diminishing little by little
till nothing could force its way forward but snow –
when without any hint of its coming –
a breath from those honeycombs, bearing
the color a flag might search out of its folds.

And cherry by cherry, change was wrought in the world.

If anyone doubts this,
I say to all comers: look into
my will, at my heart’s true transparency,
for though wind swept the summer away
I have cherries enough for you all, hidden cherries.




From Late and Posthumous Poems, 1968-1974
Pablo Neruda, translated by Ben Belitt


#33 papillon

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Posted 05 November 2007 - 09:09 PM

I love poetry and have so many favourties. At the moment I'm reading Madison Cawein and this is one I love...

There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,
Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;
That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf
Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief;
Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,
Vague, whispering' touches, gleams and twitterings,
Dews and cool shadows--that the mystic soul
Of Nature permeates with suave control,
And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole.
There lies the road, they say--
Come away! come away!

From "Field and Forest Call"
M. Cawein

#34 Icecream

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Posted 05 November 2007 - 10:23 PM

My favourite ever poem is Footprints

Footprints
One night a man had a dream that he was walking along the beach with the lord.
Across the sky flashed scenes from his life.
For each scene he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand,
One belonging to him, the other belonging to the Lord.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in the sand.
He notice that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints,
and that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times of his life...

This really bothered him and he questioned the Lord about it
"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way,
But during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why when I needed you most, you would leave me."

The Lord replied, "My precious, precious child. I love you, and I would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you."

And this is one that I keep on a cupboard in the kitchen. I have had it for about seven years. It is great.

Smiling
Smiling is infectious
You can catch it like the flu
When someone smiled at me today
I started smiling too

I turned around the corner
And someone saw me grin
When he smiled I realised
I'd passed it on to him

I thought about the smile
And realised its worth
A single smile like mine
Could travel round the Earth

So when you feel a smile begin
Don't leave it undetected
Let's start an epidemic quick
And get the world infected.

#35 supergran71

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Posted 06 November 2007 - 07:11 PM

Those are good I like them IC

#36 ii

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Posted 07 November 2007 - 10:07 AM

I love poetry! One of my all-time favourites is Victor Hugo. He's my go-to guy, I might leave him for some time, but eventually I return to him, and he always has something to say that I find right for the moment. If I had to pick one poem by him, it would be "Je marchais au hasard..."

Je marchais au hasard, devant moi, n'importe où;
Et je ne sais pourquoi je songeais à Coustou
Dont la blanche bergère, au seuil des Tuileries,
Faite pour tant d'amour, a vu tant de furies.

Que de crimes commis dans ce palais! hélas!

Les sculpteurs font voler marbre et pierre en éclats,
Et font sortir des blocs dieux et déesses nues
Qui peuplent des jardins les longues avenues.
O fantômes sacrés! ô spectres radieux!
Leur front serein contemple et la terre et les cieux;
Le temps n'altère pas leurs traits indélébiles;
Ils ont cet air profond des choses immobiles;
Ils ont la nudité, le calme et la beauté;
La nature en secret sent leur divinité;
Les pleurs mystérioux de l'aube les arrosent.
Et je ne comprends pas comment les hommes osent,
Eux dont l'esprit n'a rein que d'obscures lueurs,
Montrer leur coeur difforme à ces marbres rêveurs.

The English translation: (by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore)

"I walked at random, went forward..."

I walked at random, went forward, though where I scarcely knew,
And, for no very good reason, I thought of Coustou,
Of his white shepherdess at the Tuileries gate,
Who, made for so much love, has witnessed so much hate.

So many crimes, alas! committed in that palace!

Sculptors cause stone and marble to shatter in pieces,
Bring out from the masses nakes gods and goddesses
To people the long avenues in the gardens.
O sacred phantoms! O radiant spirits!
Their serene brows are contemplating heaven and earth alike;
Time never degrades their indelible features;
They have the profound air that motionless things have,
They have nudity, peace, and beauty;
Nature secretly senses their deity;
The dawn's mysterious tears are watering them.
And I do not understand how human beings,
Whose minds contain nothing but feeble glimmers,
Dare expose their misshapen souls to these marble dreamers.

#37 Adam

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Posted 07 November 2007 - 10:09 AM

I love poetry! One of my all-time favourites is Victor Hugo. He's my go-to guy, I might leave him for some time, but eventually I return to him, and he always has something to say that I find right for the moment. If I had to pick one poem by him, it would be "Je marchais au hasard..."

Je marchais au hasard, devant moi, n'importe où;
Et je ne sais pourquoi je songeais à Coustou
Dont la blanche bergère, au seuil des Tuileries,
Faite pour tant d'amour, a vu tant de furies.

Que de crimes commis dans ce palais! hélas!

Les sculpteurs font voler marbre et pierre en éclats,
Et font sortir des blocs dieux et déesses nues
Qui peuplent des jardins les longues avenues.
O fantômes sacrés! ô spectres radieux!
Leur front serein contemple et la terre et les cieux;
Le temps n'altère pas leurs traits indélébiles;
Ils ont cet air profond des choses immobiles;
Ils ont la nudité, le calme et la beauté;
La nature en secret sent leur divinité;
Les pleurs mystérioux de l'aube les arrosent.
Et je ne comprends pas comment les hommes osent,
Eux dont l'esprit n'a rein que d'obscures lueurs,
Montrer leur coeur difforme à ces marbres rêveurs.

The English translation: (by E. H. and A. M. Blackmore)

"I walked at random, went forward..."

I walked at random, went forward, though where I scarcely knew,
And, for no very good reason, I thought of Coustou,
Of his white shepherdess at the Tuileries gate,
Who, made for so much love, has witnessed so much hate.

So many crimes, alas! committed in that palace!

Sculptors cause stone and marble to shatter in pieces,
Bring out from the masses nakes gods and goddesses
To people the long avenues in the gardens.
O sacred phantoms! O radiant spirits!
Their serene brows are contemplating heaven and earth alike;
Time never degrades their indelible features;
They have the profound air that motionless things have,
They have nudity, peace, and beauty;
Nature secretly senses their deity;
The dawn's mysterious tears are watering them.
And I do not understand how human beings,
Whose minds contain nothing but feeble glimmers,
Dare expose their misshapen souls to these marble dreamers.



Nice poem big-sis, I like this one alot :censored:

#38 writeoff

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Posted 08 November 2007 - 04:08 PM

One of my favourites is Wordsworth's 'Composed on Westminster Bridge'. My favourite poet nowadays would be Seamus Heaney.

#39 Galactic Space Hamster

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Posted 09 November 2007 - 02:38 PM

I tend to like many different poems by many different poets. However, a few that I like the best are: Pablo Neruda, W H Auden, Shelly, Byron, and Dillon Thomas. There are

There are probably some that I have forgotten. I used to love to sit and read ( sometimes write ) poetry but it's not something I have done for a long time.

#40 ii

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Posted 10 November 2007 - 06:23 AM

I completely forgot a poem I've had on display for years! Shakespeare, sonnet 148.

O me, what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgement fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'

How can it - O, how can love's eye be true,
That is so wex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, thought I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.

O cunning love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.


Needless to say, BF always frowns when he sees that on the bulletin board of my walk-in closet, poor guy.




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