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Thread: Favorite poem?

  1. #331
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    There are so many poems I love that it's hard to pick a favourite, but at the moment I'm loving 'He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by W B Yeats which goes:

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

  2. #332
    Registered User tinustijger's Avatar
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    This is my favourite,, it's just so touching,.


    Funeral Blues

    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
    Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
    Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
    Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
    Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

    He was my North, my South, my East and West,
    My working week and my Sunday rest,
    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
    I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

    The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
    For nothing now can ever come to any good.

    – W.H. Auden

  3. #333
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    reply of sorts

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  4. #334
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    Cioran quote

    The beauty of flames lies in their strange play, beyond all proportion and harmony. Their diaphanous flare symbolizes at once grace and tragedy, innocence and despair, sadness and voluptuousness. The burning transcendence has something of the lightness of great purifications. I wish the fiery transcendence would carry me up and throw me into a sea of flames, where, consumed by their delicate and insidious tongues, I would die an ecstatic death. The beauty of flames creates the illusion of a pure, sublime death similar to the light of dawn. Immaterial, death in flames is like a burning of light, graceful wings. Do only butterflies die in flames? What about those devoured by the flames within them?”
    sixsixsick Emile M. Cioran quote

  5. #335
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    Alan Ginsberg's Aunt Rose is one of my favourite poems. I was lucky enough to see and hear him preform this. I find it very moving and even more so since my mother's death. I hope it's not a problem to quote it here in its entirety:

    TO AUNT ROSE

    Aunt Rose—now—might I see you
    with your thin face and buck tooth smile and pain
    of rheumatism—and a long black heavy shoe
    for your bony left leg
    limping down the long hall in Newark on the running carpet
    past the black grand piano
    in the day room
    where the parties were
    and I sang Spanish loyalist songs
    in a high squeaky voice
    (hysterical) the committee listening
    while you limped around the room
    collected the money—
    Aunt Honey, Uncle Sam, a stranger with a cloth arm
    in his pocket
    and huge young bald head
    of Abraham Lincoln Brigade

    —your long sad face
    your tears of sexual frustration
    (what smothered sobs and bony hips
    under the pillows of Osborne Terrace)
    —the time I stood on the toilet sear naked
    and you powered my thighs with calamine
    against the poison ivy—my tender
    and shamed first black curled hairs
    what were you thinking in secret heart then
    knowing me a man already—
    and I an ignorant girl of family silence on the thin pedestal
    of my legs in the bathroom—Museum of Newark.

    Aunt Rose
    Hitler is dead, Hitler is in Eternity; Hitler is with
    Tamburlane and Emily Brontë

    Though I see you walking still, a ghost on Osborne Terrace
    down the long dark hall to the front door
    limping a little with a pinched smile
    in what must have been a silken
    flower dress
    welcoming my father, the Poet, on his visit to Newark
    —see you arriving in the living room
    dancing on your crippled leg
    and clapping hands his book
    had been accepted by Liveright

    Hitler is dead and Liveright’s gone out of business
    The Attic of the Past and Everlasting Minute are out of print
    Uncle Harry sold his last silk stocking
    Claire quite interpretive dancing school
    Buba sits a wrinkled monument in Old
    Ladies Home blinking at new babies

    last time I saw you was the hospital
    pale skull protruding under ashen skin
    blue veined unconscious girl
    in an oxygen tent
    the war in Spain has ended long ago
    Aunt Rose

    Paris, June 1958

    "Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places." H. P. Lovecraft

    The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies

    http://irishgothichorrorjournal.homestead.com/

    A Free On-Line Journal

  6. #336
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    I look across the distant sky, staring with curiosity
    wondering about who was it that led you to me
    There are millions of people, it doesn't make any sense that we met
    From a person that believes in nothing, I finally question myself
    So, is it really destiny that let us be?
    So, we are destined for each other, then could I ask for something?
    Please don't ever let us part, let us love one another till death do us part
    Can I ask for this?
    Back then, I thought my breath was for myself
    But when I met you, I just realized that my breath is for you
    There are millions of people, it doesn't make any sense that we met
    From a person that believes in nothing, finally I have to question myself again
    There are still millions of people, there's no reason that I'm the one
    From a person that believes in nothing, finally I have to question myself again

    please visit my blog about poem
    http://poeminlove.blogspot.com
    Last edited by anochapr; 06-08-2007 at 04:55 AM.

  7. #337
    tuly tulysg1982's Avatar
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    i love keats, Shelley, Eliot , Shakespeare's sonnet and lots more

  8. #338
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    Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Search on this Page:

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


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

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

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

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

  9. #339
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    yay Kenniki, you have great taste! As do all of the other posters. "Cut" used to be my favorite poem, I'm curious why it's yours. I'm also a huge fan of Auden, Yeats, and Cummings. Great picks!

    My favorite of late is "The Journey of the Magi," by Eliot. Incredible.

    "A cold coming we had of it,
    Just the worst time of the year
    For a journey, and such a long journey:
    The was deep and the weather sharp,
    The very dead of winter."
    And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
    Lying down in the melting snow.
    There were times we regretted
    The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
    And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
    Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
    And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
    And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters,
    And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
    And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.:
    A hard time we had of it.
    At the end we preferred to travel all night,
    Sleeping in snatches,
    With the voices singing in our ears, saying
    That this was all folly.

    Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
    Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
    With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
    And three trees on the low sky,
    And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
    Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
    Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
    And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
    But there was no information, and so we continued
    And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
    Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

    All this was a long time ago, I remember,
    And I would do it again, but set down
    This set down
    This: were we lead all that way for
    Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
    We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
    But had thought they were different; this Birth was
    Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
    We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
    But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
    With an alien people clutching their gods.
    I should be glad of another death.

  10. #340
    annabellee
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    [Text: Edgar Allan Poe, "Annabel Lee" (A), "Griswold" manuscript, about May of 1849.]
    Annabel Lee.
    By Edgar A. Poe.

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

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love —
    I and my Annabel Lee —
    With a love that the wingéd seraphs in Heaven
    Coveted her and me.

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

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

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

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


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

    [This is probably the last poem Poe wrote. In 1850, Frances S. Osgood identified Poe's wife, Virginia, as the real Annabel Lee, an attribution that has meet with much agreement. In contrast, T. O. Mabbott and other scholars have pointed out that although perhaps inspired, in part, by Virginia, Annabel Lee is a fictional character and need not truly represent any real person. Elmira Shelton, Poe's childhood sweetheart, considered herself as Annabel Lee, even though she outlived the author by many years.]

  11. #341
    The Dude Abides... BlueSkyGB's Avatar
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    Thanks for that one by Poe...
    which brings to mind, one of my favs...by Poe also
    The Bells...

    ..."To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
    From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells."

  12. #342
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    I could never choose just one so here is my list.

    Tulips, Daddy, Insomniac by Sylvia Plath
    Night Mail, Funeral Blues by WH Auden
    Composed upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth
    Howl, Kaddish, A Supermarket in California, America by Allen Ginsberg
    Dawn by Federico Garcia Lorca
    Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
    In my craft or art (I think that is the right title) Dylan Thomas
    Crow by Ted Hughes

  13. #343
    Ou est ma chatte? _JadeRain_'s Avatar
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    maggie and milly and molly and may
    went down to the beach (to play one day)
    and maggie discovered a shell that sang
    so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

    milly befriended a stranded star
    whose rays five languid fingers were;

    and molly was chased by a horrible thing
    which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and

    may came home with a smooth round stone
    as small as a world and as large as alone.

    For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
    it's always ourselves we find in the sea

    ee cummings
    FRANCISCO
    For this relief much thanks: 'tis bitter cold,
    And I am sick at heart.


    Hamlet Act I Scene I

  14. #344
    U2aholic
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    This poem was in the film "21 Grams".

    The Earth Turned to Bring Us Closer

    by Eugenio Montejo
    translated by Peter Boyle

    The earth turned to bring us closer,
    it spun on itself and within us,
    and finally joined us together in this dream
    as written in the Symposium.
    Nights passed by, snowfalls and solstices;
    time passed in minutes and millennia.
    An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveh
    arrived in Nebraska.
    A rooster was singing some distance from the world,
    in one of the thousand pre-lives of our fathers.
    The earth was spinning with its music
    carrying us on board;
    it didn't stop turning a single moment
    as if so much love, so much that's miraculous
    was only an adagio written long ago
    in the Symposium's score.
    In dreams begin responsibilities.

  15. #345
    Registered User quasimodo1's Avatar
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    To Monica:

    Eugenio Montejo is a new name for me. This poem is great; what language (Spanish, Portuguese) does he write in? Also have no idea about the movie. How about a clue? quasimodo1

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