Favorite Poet?

[sf1818]

Recently I have been getting into Baudelaire (again).

What is your favorite poet (or poem)?

[Freewheeling Andy]

I've always had a problem with poetry. I just never really got it, most of the time, except in the comic-spoken form.

I guess in terms of "real" poetry my favourite poet is the rambling drug-crazed nonsense of Coleridge.

My favourite poem of all, though, the most moving of the lot, is Dulce Et Decorum Est

[Debbie]

I love the blood and guts poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson, such as Charge of the Light Brigade and Morte D'Arthur.

I don't go for the romantic poets much, too wuzzy!

Debbie

[lilmissmolly]

I'm not too much into poetry but my favorite poem is much madness is divinest sense, by emily dickenson

[CrustyGeek]

My favourite poet is probably one not well known.

She's called Joolz and is a performance poet, artist, author and general all round nice woman (I've met her a few times and she is very down to earth).

Her work is very gritty and real and her characterisation is superb.

You can read a few of her poems here:

http://www.joolz.net/

[Loricat]

I've never been big into poetry, but William Blake has a few I like. A Poison Tree comes to mind. Same thing with Robert Frost. The Road Not Taken is a particular favorite.

[Libertate]

Petöfi.

[Kell]

The only poem I've ever really loved is Jabberwocky which was in Through the Looking Glass & What Alice Found There by Lewis Carol. It's basically a nonsense poem, but it's such fun & filled with such drama that I always adored it & it's the only poem I've ever committed to memory. And if yuo ever want to know what the words mean, read the book - Humpty Dumpty expllains a lot of it to Alice personally!

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.

[PS It made a wonderful film too!]

[Kell]

Aha! I am little Miss Clever-puss - I have found the explaination & here it is:

'You seem very clever at explaining words, Sir,' said Alice.
'Would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem called Jabberwocky?'

'Lets hear it,' said Humpty Dumpty.

'I can explain all the poems that ever were invented - and a good many that haven't been invented just yet.'

This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse:

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe

'That's enough to begin with,' Humpty Dumpty interrupted: 'there are plenty of hard words there. Brillig means four o'clock in the afternoon - the time when you begin broiling things for dinner.

'That'll do very well,' said Alice: 'and slithy?'

'Well, slithy means 'lithe and slimy'. 'Lithe' is the same as 'active'. You see, its like a portmanteau - there are two meanings packed up into one word.'

'I see it now,' Alice remarked thoughtfully: 'and what are toves ?'

'Well', toves are something like badgers - they're something like lizards - and they're something like corkscrews.' 'They must be very curious-looking creatures.'

'They are that,' said Humpty Dumpty; 'also they make their nests under sun-dials - also they live on cheese.'

'And what's to gyre and to gimble?' 'To gyre is to go round and round like a gyroscope. To gimble is to make holes like a gimlet.'

And the wabe is the grass-plot round a sun-dial, I suppose?' said Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity. 'Of course it is. It's called wabe you know, because it goes a long way before it, and a long way behind it - 'And a long way beyond it on each side,' Alice added.

'Exactly so. Well then, mimsy is 'flimsy and miserable' (there's another portmanteau for you). And a borogove is a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round - something like a live mop.'

'And then mome raths ?' said Alice. 'I'm afraid I'm giving you a great deal of trouble.' 'Well, a rath is a sort of green pig: but mome I'm not certain about. I think it's short for 'from home' - meaning that they'd lost their way, you know.'

'And what does outgrabe mean?' 'Well, outgribing is something between bellowing and whistling, with a kind of sneeze in the middle: however, you'll hear it done, maybe - down in the wood yonder - and, when you've once heard it, you'll be quite content. Who's been repeating all that hard stuff to you?'

'I read it in a book,' said Alice

Taa-daaaa!

[poppy]

This is a beautiful poem Pontalba shared with us on another forum.( Hope you don't mind me borrowing it Pont :friends0:)

It was originally written by Li T'ai Po and loosely translated by Ezra Pound.
http://www.web-books.com/classics/Poetry/anthology/Corner_ru.gif
The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter



While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.


At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.


At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever, and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?


At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-Yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden,
They hurt me.
I grow older,
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you,
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
By Rihaku.

[Kylie]

My favourite poem is Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. I also love The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, whom we studied extensively in school.

I also like Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas and Howl by Allen Ginsberg.

Other than that, I'm not very well versed (pardon the pun!) in poetry, although I would like to change that. I must devote more reading time to poetry! I've downloaded plenty of poetry that is in the public domain...just got to read it!

[Mbwun_Lily]

I've never been much into poetry either. But I do hold a soft spot for the works of Robert Service.

Especially his poems "The Cremation of Sam McGee":

http://www.geocities.com/heartland/bluffs/8336/robertservice/sam.html

and "The Shooting of Dan McGrew":

http://www.geocities.com/heartland/bluffs/8336/robertservice/shooting.html

Here's the links page for those two where links to more of his poems can be found:

http://www.geocities.com/heartland/bluffs/8336/robert_service.html

[Echo]

I've always loved Emily Dickinson and Shakespeare. I'm not familiar with many other poets, but I would love to read Sylvia Plath's poetry.

[Icecream]

I am not familiar with many poets either. I have undoubtedly read many good poems for which I haven't noted the author. From school I liked Tennyson's The Charge of The Light Brigade, John Keats and Robert Browning and I love Shakespeare. I should pay more attention.

[supergran71]

The Highwayman by Mathew Arnold (I think) has always been my favourite

But I also like "If" by Robert Louis Stephenson

and "Leisure" by Walter de la Mare.

[Oblomov]

I am not much into poetry myself and the only book of the genre that I own is The Best of Robert Service; I like the sense of adventure imbibed in his poems, notably Spell of the Yukon.

The wife likes poems by Ogden Nash & Robert Frost.

[nicnic]

My ultimate favourite is Sylvia Plath and has been for a long time. I do love the imagery she uses and the passion I read in her poetry. Although perhaps I shouldn't, I do like Ted Hughes too, 'Birthday Letters' in particular is worth reading. I also love TS Eliot, WH Auden and Phillip Larkin.

[jenmck]

Emily Dickenson, Robert Service and Robert Frost are some of my favorites too.

I also love John Donne

[Oblomov]

I can't help but quote a verse from Robert Service's Spell of the Yukon. I think it superbly reflects the peculiarities of human nature:

There's gold and it's haunting and haunting
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace.

This way of looking at life is true with us in so many situations. We often do things not so much because of the ultimate reward, but for the thrill gleaned by searching for it high and low.

[Mbwun_Lily]

I can't help but quote a verse from Robert Service's Spell of the Yukon. I think it superbly reflects the peculiarities of human nature:

There's gold and it's haunting and haunting
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace.

This way of looking at life is true with us in so many situations. We often do things not so much because of the ultimate reward, but for the thrill gleaned by searching for it high and low.

I think the first verse sums up the human condition perfectly:

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it --
Came out with a fortune last fall, --
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.

But, having worked in the Yukon for three summers in the early to mid eighties, I'd have to say that the second verse just about sums up my experience with the North:

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth -- and I'm one.

One of these days, I've got to go back there.

[Oblomov]

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?

[Mbwun_Lily]

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?

[Oblomov]

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.

[Mbwun_Lily]

Oh :doh:... 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.:blush:

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

[Merflerher]

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.

[JudyB]

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.

[poppy]

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

[poppy]

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

[The Green Fairy]

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

[supergran71]

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.

[sib]

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.

[SteffieB]

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

[papillon]

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

[Icecream]

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.

[supergran71]

Those are good I like them IC

[ii]

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.

[Adam]

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 :D

[writeoff]

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

[Galactic Space Hamster]

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.

[ii]

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.

[Oblomov]

One of the most (in)famous pieces of verse must be Coleridge's incomplete opium induced dream of Kubla Khan. I have been fascinated by it since I was a kid.

[Tiger]

William Blake is my fave

[Roger53]

Billy Collins.

Easy to read, a bit of fun, and a poet who can make anything sound interesting.

There are some other favourites mentioned above though. I didn't realise Robert Service was so popular. Apart from his Yukon poems he has a couple of other books with more general type poetry which are very good. Later Poetry, and More Poetry of Robert Service. I missed the connection with Scrooge as a child. Hadn't heard of Robert Service then, but enjoyed the comics.

Of others above mentioned that I enjoy are John Bjeteman, WH Auden, Allen Ginsberg, Elizabeth Bishop, William Carlos Williams and Lewis Carroll. And lots more who I can't bring to mind just now. Mainly I like 20th century poetry most.

[poppy]

My favorite poem at primary school (I had a warped sense of humour even then) :blush:


Young Ethelred - Author unknown


Young Ethelred was only three
-Or somewhere thereabouts when he
Began to show in divers ways
The early stages of the craze
Of knowing the particulars
Of motor bikes and motor cars.

It started with a little book
To enter numbers which he took,
And though his mother often said
"Now do be careful Ethelred.
Oh dear, oh dear, what should I do
If anything ran over you?"
(Which Ethelred could hardly know
And sometimes crossly told her so)
It didn't check his zeal a bit
But rather seemed to foster it.
Indeed it would astonish you
To hear of all the things he knew;
He'd guess the make and get it right
Of every car that came in sight.
He knew as well its MPG
Its MPH and £sd,
What gears it had, what brakes and what;
In short he knew an awful lot.

Now when a boy thinks day and night
Of motor cars with all his might
He gets affected in the head
And so it was with Ethelred.
He took long drinks from mug and cup
To fill his radiator up.
And went about upon all fours
And usually, to get indoors
He pressed a button then reversed
And went in slowly back most first.
He called himself a Packford Eight
And wore a little number plate
Attached behind with bits of string
He looked just like the real thing.
He drove himself to school and tried
All day to park himself outside.
At which the head became irate
And caned him on his number plate.

And then one day an oily smell
Hung round him and he wasn't well.
"That's odd" he said, "I wonder what
Has caused this rumbling pain I've got?"
No car should get an aching tum
from taking in petroleum".
At that he cranked himself but no
He couldn't get himself to go.
He merely whirred a bit inside
A faint chug-chug, and then he died.

Now as his petrol tank was full,
They labelled him inflammable
And wisely saw to it that he
Was buried safely out at sea.
So if at any time your fish
Should taste a trifle oilyish
You'll know that fish has lately fed
On what remains of Ethelred.

[Laramie]

my favourite poet is my friend Codie :)
i really mean that btw

[finrod]

My favourite poem is Jabberwocky, but someone's already had that one. Next in line is The Jumblies, by Edward Lear (and I won't have a word said against him!) ;)



They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, 'You'll all be drowned!'
They called aloud, 'Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
'O won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, 'How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
'O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, 'How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, 'If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,---
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve

[poppy]

I love Jabberwocky too, my favorite nonsense poem. Another one of Edward Lear's is The Popple Who Has No Toes


THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES by Edward Lear


I.

The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink;
For she said, "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"


II.

The Pobble who has no toes,
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe--provided he minds his nose."


III.

The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side,--
"He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"


IV.

But before he touched the shore,--
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green Porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!


V.

And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away,
Nobody knew; and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!


VI.

The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast, at his earnest wish,
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;
And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes."

[Spooncat]

Philip Larkin - collection of poems entitled "The Whitsun Weddings" :mrgreen:

[wrathofkublakhan]

Thomas Carew.
1595?–1639?
The Unfading Beauty

HE that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay, 5 So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires. 10
Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

[poppy]

Wild Daisies

http://maaori.com/images/flow20.gif

by Bub Bridger (Ngati Kahungunu),

If you love me
Bring me flowers
Wild daisies
Clutched in your fist
Like a torch
No orchids or roses
Or carnations
No florist's bow
Just daisies
Steal them
Risk your life for them
Up the sharp hills
In the teeth of the wind
If you love me
Bring me daisies
That I will cram
In a bright vase
And marvel at

[poppy]

The NZ poet Hone Tuwhare died this week aged 85. I love this poem by him.

Rain
I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops

But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you

you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain

Hone Tuwhare

[shadow]

I love the poem 'Hope is the Thing With Feathers' by Emily Dickinson. Its a beautiful poem.


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.

[Brandy79]

Pablo Neruda

I do not love you-except because i love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you
my heart moves from the cold into

the fire. I love you only because it's you
I love; I hate you on end, and hating you
bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
is that i do not see you but love you

blindly. Maybe the January light will consume
my heart with its cruel
ray, stealing my key to true

calm. In this part of the story i am the one who
dies, the only one, and i will die of love because i love you,
because i love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

[Janet]

Does anyone know of a short poem - or even a few lines from a longer one - that might be appropriate to text to a friend who is feeling very depressed at the moment? Thanks in advance. :)

[ii]

It's not a poem, and I don't know if this is quite what you're looking for, but someone once sent me the following lines when I was feeling down: Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass; it's about learning to dance in the rain.

Then again, that's the same friend who wore a shirt with "'Gnome kicking says a lot about a man's character" written on it to a coctail party!

[Janet]

It's not a poem, and I don't know if this is quite what you're looking for, but someone once sent me the following lines when I was feeling down: Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass; it's about learning to dance in the rain.

Then again, that's the same friend who wore a shirt with "'Gnome kicking says a lot about a man's character" written on it to a coctail party!
LOL @ the gnome shirt!

Thanks - I think those lines are perfect for one of her 'down' LJ entries. I will save them for future use (which will probably be very soon as she's very down at the moment. Thanks. :)

[FishAndChips]

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass; it's about learning to dance in the rain.


Ooh I like that one ii.

Janet have you heard of the Desiderata (I think it's anonymous with Max Ehrman credited as recording it)

It's a bit long for a text message but you may get some good quotes from it, especially towards the end.

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 vexations 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.

[Janet]

Oh, that is absolutely perfect - thank you so much. I will PM her the following verses, I think. Thanks. :)


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.

[FishAndChips]

You're welcome :) I hope it helps your friend.

[prospero]

Absolutely, without question, beyond all measure, Wilfred Owen.

[NiceguyEddie]

Auden, Eliot, Yeats, Larkin.

I think that this is possibly my favourite poem:

As I Walked Out One Evening by W. H. Auden (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/120)
As I walked out one evening,

Walking down Bristol Street,

The crowds upon the pavement

Were fields of harvest wheat.



And down by the brimming river

I heard a lover sing

Under an arch of the railway:

'Love has no ending.



'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you

Till China and Africa meet,

And the river jumps over the mountain

And the salmon sing in the street,



'I'll love you till the ocean

Is folded and hung up to dry

And the seven stars go squawking

Like geese about the sky.



'The years shall run like rabbits,

For in my arms I hold

The Flower of the Ages,

And the first love of the world.'



But all the clocks in the city

Began to whirr and chime:

'O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.



'In the burrows of the Nightmare

Where Justice naked is,

Time watches from the shadow

And coughs when you would kiss.



'In headaches and in worry

Vaguely life leaks away,

And Time will have his fancy

To-morrow or to-day.



'Into many a green valley

Drifts the appalling snow;

Time breaks the threaded dances

And the diver's brilliant bow.



'O plunge your hands in water,

Plunge them in up to the wrist;

Stare, stare in the basin

And wonder what you've missed.



'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

The desert sighs in the bed,

And the crack in the tea-cup opens

A lane to the land of the dead.



'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes

And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,

And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,

And Jill goes down on her back.



'O look, look in the mirror,

O look in your distress:

Life remains a blessing

Although you cannot bless.



'O stand, stand at the window

As the tears scald and start;

You shall love your crooked neighbour

With your crooked heart.'



It was late, late in the evening,

The lovers they were gone;

The clocks had ceased their chiming,

And the deep river ran on.

[NiceguyEddie]

Or possibly this one:

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised 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 (http://www.coldbacon.com/flash/poems/prufrock1.html)
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 (http://www.coldbacon.com/words/assert.html) 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 (http://www.ubriaco.com/sounds/lvb-130-2.wav).
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 (http://www.coldbacon.com/pics/zombies.jpg),
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 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 (http://www.coldbacon.com/pics/art/lichtenstein/rlrathersink.gif).

[poppy]

I came across this war poem which really appeals to me.

NAMING OF PARTS by Henry Reed

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.

[Tiresias]

T. S. Eliot, S. T. Coleridge, Matthew Arnold, Keats, Pound (I try to remain cheerfully ignorant of his questionable politics), and of course Shakespeare.

[poppy]

One of my favourite poems is The River Merchant's Wife by Ezra Pound ( I know nothing about his questionable politics :blush:)

[Tiresias]

Some people, poppy, have used the word, "anti-Semitism" in connection with Pound (not to mention Louis-Ferdinand Celine and T. S. Eliot!)

[poppy]

Ah, I see. It's surprising how often anti-Semitic attitudes show up in older writing. Must admit, it lowers my opinion of the author, as does any form of rascist writing.

[Val on the road]

I love Beat Poets such as Ginsberg and Kerouac, and of course French poets : Rimbaud, Apolinaire... I've read their works in original language and it's fabulous to read...

[shelbel]

Song writer and poet Leonard Cohen.

[Stephanie2008]

I did William Blake's Song's of Innocence and Experience for A Level last year and really enjoyed analysing them. I don't know why but I liked trying to make sense out of the simpleness of the poems. For GCSE I looked at Carol Ann Duffy and Simon Armitage and can remember really enjoying them too.