Favorite poem?

Wow... there are so many! It's impossible to choose a favourite!

I'd like to post here though, as I see that nobody mentioned a work of Stephen Crane - and I think he deserves to be mentioned ;)

Amongst my favourites (and one of the few poems I know by heart):

The ocean said to me once,
"Look!
Yonder on the shore
Is a woman, weeping.
I have watched her.
Go you and tell her this -
Her lover I have laid
In cool green hall.
There is wealth of golden sand
And pillars, coral-red;
Two white fish stand guard at his bier.

"Tell her this
And more -
That the king of the seas
Weeps too, old, helpless man.
The bustling fates
Heap his hands with corpses
Until he stands like a child
With a surplus of toys."

In the end, everybody is helpless... even the ones who seem so mighty.

I have lots of favourite poems but one that never fails to move me is by
W. B.Yeats:


He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven


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.

Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gently Into the Good Night", and Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" and "Stopping by Woods..." are the poems closest to my heart.

'Howl' by Allen Ginsberg changed my life, and the way I view poetry.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving,
hysterical naked,
Dragging themselves through the negro street at dawn looking for
an angry fix,
Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"

Love Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnet 35. It was the first poem of hers that I appreciated :)

If I leave all for thee wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessings and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn nor count it strange,
When I look up to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors...another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled with dead eyes to tender to know change?
That's hardest if to conquer love has tried,
To conquer grief tries more...as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas! I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.

I suppose it's a bit of an old guy's poem, really, but as I 'mature', a favourite short poem of mine is W B Yeats' 'Politics', which was written towards the end of his life, at which time, although an important political figure of the day, he reflected on what he considered to be the true significance of the situations he was encountering.

HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

:yawnb:Pessoa is a must for everyone who loves poetry:


"Autopsychography"

The poet is a fake.
His faking seems so real
That he will fake the ache
Which he can really feel.


And those who read his cries
Feel in the paper tears
Not two aches that are his
But one that is not theirs.


And so in its ring
Giving the mind a game
Goes this train on a string
And the heart is its name.


(translation by Keith Bosley)

This is one of his most notable and known poems. But to have the slightest idea about the difficulty to translate poetry, you may visit http://www.disquiet.com/thirteen.html, where there are thirteen versions of this poem in english.
By the way, thank you, Fontainhas. I was very, very worried before reading ten forum-pages without finding any mention about Pessoa. How it comes? His poems are so beautiful, so real:
(i have a spanish laptop, so forget the grammar)

Vem dos lados da montanha
una cançao que me diz
que, por mais que a alma tenha,
sempre há-de ser infeliz.

O mundo nao é seu lar
e todo que ele lhe der
sao coisas que estao a dar
a quem nao quer receber.

diz isto? Nao sei. Nem voz
ouço, música, à janela
onde me medito a sós
como o luzir de uma estrela.

here it comes my terrible translation:

From the side of the mountain
comes a song saying to me
that, as much as the soul has got
unhappy always has to be

this world is not its home,
and everything offered to it,
are things given
to one who wants not to receive

does it says this? Neither voice
nor music
comes to my open window,
where i meditate alone,
like the shine of a star

Does this translation means something for english readers? I missed both rime and rhythm. Please, let it me know if so.:confused:

One last thing: Has anyone here read "Itaca" (C. Cavafis)?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Fontainhas

Okay.... here it goes:

Onda que enrolada tornas, pequena
Ao mar que te trouxe.
E ao recuar te transtornas
Como se o mar nada fosse.

Porque é que levas contigo
só a tua cessação?
E ao voltar ao mar antigo
não levas meu coração?

Á tanto tempo que o tenho
que me pesa de o sentir
Leva-o no som sem tamanho
Com que te oiço fugir!

You're going to have to wait awhile until I get this translated though.

---

dont you like Marina Tsvietáieva (sorry, translated name in spanish:lol: her "letter to the horsewoman (and other french writings)" is one of the best poetic-prose texts i have ever read!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Jassica

And "Hooligan's confession", "To the Kachalov's dog", "A letter to mother", "The golden grove has ceased to speak...", "The unspoken, blue, tender..."

---

i didnt know this poem, which is very beautiful, and reminds me of a couple Pessoa´s poems, although i only have the spanish version. But if you like this poem, ill recommend you to read "Alberto Caeiro´s poems" (one of Pessoa´s pseodonyms)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Dubliner

I suppose it's a bit of an old guy's poem, really, but as I 'mature', a favourite short poem of mine is W B Yeats' 'Politics', which was written towards the end of his life, at which time, although an important political figure of the day, he reflected on what he considered to be the true significance of the situations he was encountering.

HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

---

I think one of my favoite poets right now is Carol Ann Duffy. I like the fact that almost all of her poems are sexual in nature....but that it's a more classy kind of sexualness. My favoite from her right now is

Stuffed!

I put two yellow peepers in an owl.
Wow. I fix the grin of Crocodile.
Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel.
I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.
Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.
Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.

I screw a tight snarl to a weasel.
Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal.
Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail.

I like her to be naked and to kneel.
Tame. My motionless, my living doll.
Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.

Yes, that is an excellent poem, and the imagery in it is very erotic. I must admit, I was at first disturbed by the last stanza. I didn't realise that the speaker in the poem was also a woman.

I love this one, among others:
Dylan Thomas, 'The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower'

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

from http://www.fen.bilkent.edu.tr/~tanatar/theforce.htm

Yeah almost all of her poems are like that in nature... I like the poem you posted by the way.

My favorite right now is by Edna St Vincent Millay... "The Dirge Without Music." Although, my favorite changes quite often and drastically. I have such a love for classic poetry.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

I think that says so much; and her words are so enchandting to read aloud.

My very favorite poem is Ryme of the Ancient Mariner by S.T. Coleridge
But for more modern works, I enjoy the works of Allen Ginsberg.

"A Supermarket in California"

"What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --- and you,
Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel
absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?"

http://englishhistory.net/byron/poems/dead.html