Favorite poem?

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.

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

Yahoo!My Yahoo!Mail Make Y! your home pageYahoo! SearchSearch:Sign In
New User? Sign UpGroups Home -Help
PlanetCioran · Cioran - Emil Cioran - Emile Cioran
Home
Members Only
Messages
Post
Files
Photos
Links
Promote
Info
Settings

Group Information
Members: 650
Category: Spirituality
Founded: Feb 4, 2003
Language: English
Group Settings
Membership requires approval
Messages require approval
All members can post messages
Email attachments are not permitted
Members cannot hide email address
Listed in directory

Already a member? Sign in to Yahoo!
Yahoo! Groups Tips
Did you know...
Hear how Yahoo! Groups has changed the lives of others. Take me there.
Yahoo! 360°
Share your life through photos, blogs, more.
Home


Activity within 7 days:3 New Messages

Description

Life and Works of Cioran

www.Cioran.eu

Cioran, the most important Euro philosopher, spiritualitist and psychologist of the last century.

Related, influences:
Artaud, Baudelaire, Beckett, Bergson, Burke, Camus, Cau, Céline, Codreanu, Dickinson, Diogenes, Drieu La Rochelle, Le Bon, Eliade, Evola, Dostoevsky, Eckhart, Ortega y Gasset, Guénon, Hamsun, Hegel, Heidegger, Hesse, Huxley, Ionescu, Jung, Jünger, Klages, Lenz, London, Lorenz, Mabire, de Maistre, Mann, Maschke, Matzneff, Michaux, Michels, Mishima, Mohler, Montherlant, Mutti, Nagarjuna, Nietzsche, Orwell, Pareto, Pound, Pascal, Poulet, Raspail, de Saint-Exupéry, Sade, Saint-Loup, Saint-Simon, von Salomon, Schopenhauer, Socrates, Schmitt, Savater, Shockley, Spengler, van den Bruck, de Tocqueville, Tolkien

Key words:
Spirituality, Spiritualitist, Philosophy, Philosophers, Psychology, Mysticism, Religion, Traditionalism, Nihilism, Writers, Existentialism, Emile Cioran, Emil Cioran, E.M. Cioran, EM Cioran, Emil Mihai Cioran, Emile M. Cioran

Our site and this private list are unofficial and not linked either to Cioran's estate or to his publishers.

Project Cioran:
www.Cioran.eu

Message History
Jan Feb Mar Apr May Jun Jul Aug Sep Oct Nov Dec
2007 24 19 46 23 3 3
2006 59 27 32 12 12 10 30 23 11 7 4 16
2005 29 35 26 100 138 25 47 21 43 61 33 52
2004 52 52 21 52 57 25 46 19 134 35 18 70
2003 32 76 14 12 11 18 32 14 41


Group Email Addresses
Related Link: http://www.Cioran.eu
Post message: [email protected]
Subscribe: [email protected]
Unsubscribe: [email protected]
List owner: [email protected]




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

Copyright © 2007 Yahoo! Inc. All rights reserved.
Privacy Policy - Copyright/IP Policy - Terms of Service - Guidelines - Help

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

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

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

i love keats, Shelley, Eliot , Shakespeare's sonnet and lots more

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.

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.

[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.]

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."

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

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

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.

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