Who Is Your Favorite Poet and What Is Your Favorite Poem By Them?

[The Comedian]

There are a lot of poets and poetry that I really enjoy. But if I had to narrow it down, I'd probably say "Tintern Abbey" by Wordsworth. But I'm a sucker for all of the English romantics -- Blake, Byron, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelly. . . . But "Tintern Abbey" is the poem that I return to several times a year just to sink into it. I mumble it to myself. Hell, I nearly have is memorized.

[Carolie86]

Robert ·Frost

[Babyguile]

Including epic poetry, the choice for me is easy: Dante's Comedia. If we are speaking of shorter (lyrical) poetry, then my favorites are too numerous to even begin to name and my answers would change from day to day. At the moment, I could live with saying that I can't think of any poem I like more than Spenser's Epithalamion.

Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time;
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed, 75
All ready to her silver coche to clyme;
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies
And carroll of Loves praise.
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft; 80
The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes;
The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this dayes merriment.
Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long? 85
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
T' awayt the comming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds love-learnèd song,
The deawy leaves among!
Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 90
That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreames,
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmèd were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. 95
Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight:
But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot
In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot, 100
And al, that ever in this world is fayre,
Doe make and still repayre:
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride: 105
And, as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene;
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring.

http://www.bartleby.com/101/82.html

Do you like this poem purely for aesthetic reasons? Silly question really.

No comtemporary poets, a whole lot of dinosaurs in this thread though.

[MorpheusSandman]

John Milton
Lycidas

That was really the first poem I read where I became conscious of the power of poetry as a unique art-form. After many years, many poets, a great many more poems, I still return to Lycidas and marvel at its perfection on every level. In many ways, it's the poem I've been trying to write, and constantly failing to, since I started writing poetry.

[igc27]

I have to say, I have been studying Emily Dickinson in class (and meant to be revising right now) and have reluctantly come to enjoy and like her. I think it may be after great analysis and deep evaluation of her poems I realise they have so much depth and am astounded by them! Can't stop thinking about some of the ideas!

[Vogelweide]

At the time i am reading Georg Trakl a lot,
He is really awesome poet

[tonywalt]

Yeats 'The Second Coming' is strangely powerful, the first and last part in particular.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

[Alexander III]

As of right now my choice is a tie between Byron and Leopardi, but it changes everyday -

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

- Byron, Child Harold's Pilgrimage IV Canto



Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
dell'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
silenzi, e profondissima quïete
io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
infinito silenzio a questa voce
vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
e le morte stagioni, e la presente
e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
immensità s'annega il pensier mio:
e il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare

- L'infinito Leopradi

Here is a translation

I always loved this solitary hill,
This hedge as well, which takes so large a share
Of the far-flung horizon from my view;
But seated here, in contemplation lost,
My thought discovers vaster space beyond,
Supernal silence and unfathomed peace;
Almost I am afraid; then, since I hear
The murmur of the wind among the leaves,
I match that infinite calm unto this sound
And with my mind embrace eternity,
The vivid, speaking present and dead past;
In such immensity my spirit drowns,
And sweet to me is shipwreck in this sea.


But I have yet to find an english translation which is not ugly and plain compared to the original.

[The Truth]

My favorite is probably Rimbaud although it's nearly impossible to choose a favorite piece...

Either The Drunken Boat or "The Savior Bumped Upon His Heavy Butt".

[Delta40]

Robert Burns -

A Man's a Man for A' That


Is there for honesty poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave - we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A price can mak a belted knight,
A marquise, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Picking among the small lot I am familier with, It would be a toss up between Sir Edwar Dyer's My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is or Oliver Goldsmith's The Deserted Village

Here is Dyer's:

"My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find
That it excels all other bliss
Which God or nature hath assign'd.
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,
No force to win a victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to win a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,--
For why? my mind despise them all.

I see that plenty surfeit oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see that such as are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all.
These get with toil and keep with fear;
Such cares my mind can never bear.

I press to bear no haughty sway,
I wish no more than may suffice,
I do no more than well I may,
Look, what I want my mind supplies.
Lo ! thus I triumph like a king,
My mind content with anything.

I laugh not at another's loss,
Nor grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's bane.
I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend,
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,
And conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence.
Thus do I live, thus will I die,--
Would all did so as well as I!"

Sir Edward Dyer

[Heteronym]

A difficult choice, of course.

Perhaps Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen:

FURIES

Banished from sin and the sacred
Now they inhabit the humble intimacy
Of daily life. They are
The leaky faucet the late bus
The soup that boils over
The lost pen the vacuum that doesn’t vacuum
The taxi that doesn’t come the mislaid receipt
Shoving pushing waiting
Bureaucratic madness

Without shouting or staring
Without bristly serpent hair
With the meticulous hands of the day-to-day
They undo us

They’re the peculiar wonder of the modern world
Faceless and maskless
Nameless and breathless
The thousand-headed hydras of efficiency gone haywire

They no longer pursue desecrators and parricides
They prefer innocent victims
Who did nothing to provoke them
Thanks to them the day loses its smooth expanses
Its juice of ripe fruits
Its fragrance of flowers
Its high-sea passion
And time is transformed
Into toil and the rush
Against time

Or Alexandre O'Neill:

AN UNORIGINAL POEM ABOUT FEAR

Fear will have everything
legs
ambulances
and the armored luxury
of a few cars

It will have eyes no one sees
cautious little hands
almost innocent schemes
ears not only in the walls
but also in the floor
in the ceiling
in the gurgle of drainpipes
and perhaps even (caution!)
ears in your ears

Fear will have everything
phantoms at the opera
ongoing séances
miracles
processions
courageous words
model daughters
honest pawnshops
naughty brothels
various conferences
numerous congresses
excellent jobs
original poems
and poems like this one
utterly sordid projects
heroes
(fear will have heroes!)
real and unreal dressmakers
factory workers
(more or less)
office clerks
(lots)
intellectuals
(what you’d expect)
perhaps your voice
perhaps mine
undoubtedly theirs

It will have capitals
countries
suspicions like everybody
countless friends
kisses
green sweethearts
silent
passionate
anguished lovers

Yes fear will have everything
everything

(I think about what fear will have
and I’m afraid
that’s exactly
what fear wants)

*

Fear will have everything
almost everything
and all of us in our different ways
are bound to come
almost all of us
to rats

Yes
to rats

(Translations by Richard Zenith)

[Mojtaba-Iraqi]

I think the Victorian poets are different. I personally really enjoy reading their works. If I want to choose one of them, I would not choose other than Robert Browning. I think his masterpiece is "The Last Ride Together". I've read it many times, and I want to read it again.

[louisgeorge]

my favorite poet is John Keats and favorite poem is Ode to a Nightingale