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Favorite Poet?

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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.

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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:






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

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  • 1 month later...

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

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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."

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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

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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

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My favourite ever poem is 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 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.

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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.

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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 o

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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.

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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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  • 2 weeks later...

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.

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  • 2 weeks later...

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



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.

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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!) :readingtwo:




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

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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

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!"





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."





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!"





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!





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!





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."

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  • 3 weeks later...

Wild Daisies




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
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