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this is one I found recently and I keep returning to. like your's, Whifflingpin, it's haunting me. I don't know if I'd consider it a favorite though.
The Blackboard of His Eyelid
by Michael Bassett
If he had Becky Wilson here,
he'd make her confess that she had lied
about how his parents make him drink
from the toilet and sleep
in a rabbit cage. A pale and skinny
clump of literature, always out past
the curfew of acceptance, behind
enemy lines of imagination, he plays
torturer of the inquisition,
brandishing the garden shears.
On the playground, while he practices
impossible contortions
of introspection, they bloody his nose,
hating the secrets hidden
in the scriptorium of his oddness.
They crack his sharp ribs, desperate
for the futures he reads
on the blackboard of his eyelid.
They shake from his green satchel
two dung beetles, most of a Mabel
Garden Spider, a scab from his skinned
knee, a sliver of bailing wire,
a cat's eye marble, and a quart
of Quick Start lighter fluid.
He's a Chihuahua-eyed chicken boy
with hundreds of freckles
his mother swears are seeds
from the pumpkin they carved
him out of. But he knows where
babies come from. He knows the darkness
of the closet, where he listens
to his mother's crying. He learns, under
the henhouse, the weasel's way.
He can't stop thinking about apricots
shriveling, paint belching, tiny frogs
dripping above matches. Outside
his secret fort, yellowing
sycamore leaves crackle.
http://www.uidaho.edu/fugue/The_Blac...His_Eyelid.htm
i read this when i was 16, and was convinced that i was in love with yeats after reading it. :D
when you are old
by william butler yeats
when you are old and grey and full of sleep,
and nodding by the fire, take down this book,
and slowly read, and dream of the soft look
your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
how many loved your moments of glad grace,
and loved your beauty with love false or true,
but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
and loved the sorrows of your changing face;
and bending down beside the glowing bars,
murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
and paced upon the mountains overhead
and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
So many poets inspire and illuminate me. Shakespeare, Yoko Ono, Dylan Thomas, Marty Gervais..and the list goes on. I find I like the work sometimes over the author. I go for the words, more so than who wrote the words. And on an honest level, my favourites would include me:-)
I love all of Shakespeare's Sonnets.
And most of all :
"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought...." for a marvellous fusion
of language,thought, rhythm and mood. I like the lines
"Then can I drown an eye,unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night "
"The Wasteland," "...Prufrock," by Eliot, "The Cantos" and others by Pound aside, some of the most moving and accessible poetry I have ever had the pleasure of reading has been Charles Bukowski's. Visceral, blue-collar and nochalant in exposing itself to readers, he focuses on work, debauchery and suffering--pertinent to most of us, I think.
Two favourites, one modern and one Shakespeare.
Before You Were Mine
I’m ten years away from the corner you laugh on
with your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff.
The three of you bend from the waist, holding
each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement.
Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs. Marilyn.
I’m not here yet. The thought of me doesn’t occur
in the ballroom with the thousand eyes, the fizzy, movie tomorrows
the right walk home could bring. I knew you would dance
like that. Before you were mine, your Ma stands at the close
with a hiding for the late one. You reckon it’s worth it.
The decade ahead of my loud, possessive yell was the best one eh?
I remember my hands in those high-heeled red shoes, relics,
And now your ghost clatters toward me over George Square
till I see you, clear as scent, under the tree,
with its lights, and whose small bites on your neck, sweetheart?
Cha Cha Cha! You’d teach me the steps on the way home from mass,
stamping stars from the wrong pavement. Even then
I wanted the bold girl winking in Portobello, somewhere
in Scotland, before I was born. That glamorous love lasts
where you sparkle and waltz and laugh before you were mine.
I love this poem by Carol Ann Duffy because it's a stunningly unusual way of describing a mother-daughter relationship... it's not often the child describes itself as having a "loud, possessive yell". It's also got breathtaking imagery and metaphors; the "ballroom with the thousand eyes", the "fizzy, movie tomorrows", "clear as scent" and "stamping stars on the wrong pavement". I love the warmth within this poem.
Sonnet 130
MY mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
I love this because it's so unpretentious, even for Shakespeare, and evokes an image of genuine love.
I don't really have a favourite poem. There's too many. Here's one called 'First Fight'. I like the energetic movement and the mimicry of the boxers rhythm.
I
Tonight, then, is the night;
Stretched on the massage table,
Wrapped in his robe, he breathes
Liniment and sweat
And tries to close his ears
To the roaring of the crowd,
A mirky sea of noise
That bears upon its tide
The frail sound of the bell
And brings the cunning fear
That he might not do well,
Not fear of bodily pain
But that his tight-lipped pride
Might be sent crashing down,
His white ambition slain,
Knocked spinning the glittering crown.
How could his spirit bear
That ignominious fall?
Not hero but a clown
Spurned or scorned by all.
The thought appals, and he
Feels sudden envy for
The roaring crowd outside
And wishes he were there
Anonymous and safe,
Calm in the tolerant air,
Would almost choose to be
Anywhere but here.
II
The door blares open suddenly,
The room is sluiced with row;
His second says, ‘We’re on the next fight,
We’d better get going now.
You got your gumshield, haven’t you?
Just loosen up – that’s right –
Don’t worry, Boy, you’ll be okay
Once you start to fight.’
Out of the dressing-room, along,
The neutral passage to
The yelling cavern where the ring
Through the haze of blue
Tobacco smoke is whitewashed by
The aching glare of light:
Geometric ropes are stretched as taut
As this boy’s nerves are tight.
And now he’s in his corner where
He tries to look at ease;
He feels the crowd’s sharp eyes as they
Prick and pry and tease;
He hears them murmur like the sea
Or some great dynamo:
They are not hostile yet they wish
To see his lifeblood flow.
His adversary enters now;
The Boy risks one quick glance;
He does not see an enemy
But something there by chance,
Not human even, but a cold
Abstraction to defeat,
A problem to be solved by guile,
Quick hands and knowing feet.
The fighters’ names are shouted out;
They leave their corners for
The touch of gloves and brief commands;
The disciplines of war.
Back in their corners, stripped of robes,
They hear the bell clang one
Brazen syllable which says
The battle has begun.
III
Bite on gumshield,
Guard held high,
The crowd are silenced,
All sounds die.
Lead with the left,
Again, again;
Watch for the opening,
Feint and then
Hook to the body
But he’s blocked it and
Slammed you back
With a fierce right hand.
Hang on grimly,
The fog will clear,
Sweat in your nostrils,
Grease and fear.
You’re hurt and staggering,
Shocked to know
That the story’s altered:
He’s the hero!
But the mist is clearing,
The referee snaps
A rapid warning
And he smartly taps
Your hugging elbow
And then you step back
Ready to counter
The next attack,
But the first round finishes
Without mishap.
You suck in the air
From the towel’s skilled flap.
A voice speaks urgently
Close to your ear:
‘Keep your left going, Boy,
Stop him getting near.
He wants to get close to you,
So jab him off hard;
When he tries to slip below,
Never mind your guard,
Crack him with a solid right,
Hit him on the chin,
A couple downstairs
And then he’ll pack it in.’
Slip in the gumshield
Bite on it hard,
Keep him off with your left,
Never drop your guard.
Try a left hook,
But he crosses with a right
Smack on your jaw
And Guy Fawkes’ Night
Flashes and dazzles
Inside your skull,
Your knees go bandy
And you almost fall.
Keep the left jabbing,
Move around the ring,
Don’t let him catch you with
Another hook or swing.
Keep your left working,
Keep it up high,
Stab it out straight and hard,
Again – above the eye.
Sweat in the nostrils,
But nothing now of fear,
You’re moving smooth and confident
In comfortable gear.
Jab with the left again,
Quickly move away;
Feint and stab another in,
See him duck and sway.
Now for the pay-off punch,
Smash it hard inside;
It thuds against his jaw, he falls,
Limbs spread wide.
And suddenly you hear the roar,
Hoarse music of the crowd,
Voicing your hot ecstasy,
Triumphant, male and proud.
IV
Now, in the sleepless darkness of his room
The Boy, in bed, remembers. Suddenly
The victory tastes sour. The man he fought
Was not a thing, as lifeless as a broom,
He was a man who hoped and trembled too;
What of him now? What was he going through?
And then the Boy bites hard on resolution:
Fighters can’t pack pity with their gear,
And yet a bitter taste stays with the notion;
He’s forced to swallow down one treacherous tear.
But that’s the last. He is a boy no longer;
He is a man, a fighter, such as jeer
At those who make salt beads with melting eyes,
Whatever might cry out, is hurt, or dies.
Vernon Scannell
And although it's long there is so much in this that I reckon it repays the effort. The poet spent a long time on it.
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
By Thomas Gray (1716-1721)
1. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
2. The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea ,
3. The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
4. And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
.
5. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
6. And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
7. Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
8. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds .
9. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
10. The moping owl does to the moon complain
11. Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r ,
12. Molest her ancient solitary reign.
.
13. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
14. Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
15. Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
16. The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
17. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
18. The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
19. The ****'s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
20. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
.
21. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
22. Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
23. No children run to lisp their sire's return,
24. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
25. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
26. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
27. How jocund did they drive their team afield!
28. How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
29. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
30. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
31. Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
32. The short and simple annals of the poor.
33. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
34. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
35. Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
36. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
37. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
38. If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
39. Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
40. The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
41. Can storied urn or animated bust
42. Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
43. Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
44. Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
45. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
46. Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;
47. Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
48. Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
49. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
50. Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
51. Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
52. And froze the genial current of the soul.
53. Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
54. The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
55. Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
56. And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
57. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
58. The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
59. Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
60. Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
61. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
62. The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
63. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
64. And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes ,
65. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
66. Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
67. Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
68. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ),
69. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
70. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
71. Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
72. With incense kindled at the Muse's flame .
73. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
74. Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
75. Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
76. They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
77. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
78. Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
79. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
80. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
81. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse ,
82. The place of fame and elegy supply:
83. And many a holy text around she strews,
84. That teach the rustic moralist to die.
85. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
86. This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
87. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
88. Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
89. On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
90. Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
91. Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
92. Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
93. For thee , who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
94. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
95. If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
96. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ,
97. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
98. "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
99. Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
100. To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
101. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
102. That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
103. His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
104. And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
105. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
106. Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
107. Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
108. Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
109. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
110. Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
111. Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
112. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
113. "The next with dirges due in sad array
114. Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
115. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
116. Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
THE EPITAPH
117. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
118. A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
119. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
120. And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
121. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
122. Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
123. He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
124. He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
125. No farther seek his merits to disclose,
126. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
127. (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
128. The bosom of his Father and his God.
And this ballad.
The Unquiet Grave
1 ‘THE wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.
2 ‘I’ll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.’
3 The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
‘Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?’
4 ‘’Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.’
5 ‘You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.
6 ‘’Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that ere was seen
Is withered to a stalk.
7 ‘The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.’
And just to show you that I like short amusing poetry too.
The Diatonic Dittymunch
The Diatonic Dittymunch plucked music from the air,
He swallowed scores of symphonies and still had space to spare.
Sonatas and cantatas slithered sweetly down his throat;
He made ballads into salads and consumed them note by note.
He ate marches and mazurkas; he ate rhapsodies and reels,
Minuets and tarantellas were the staples of his meals.
But the Diatonic Dittymunch outdid himself one day:
He ate a three-act opera --
And LOUDLY passed away.
Jack Prelutsky
I like the following poem by Theodore Rothke.
I remember the neck curls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her,
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.
Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her;
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.
My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spring shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.
If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over the damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.
who knew poems in China
I AM A STUDENT IN CHINA MY ENGLISH IN NOT VERY WELL
[email protected]
Very quietly I take my leave
As quietly as I came here;
Quietly I wave good-bye
To the rosy clouds in the western sky.
The golden willows by the riverside
Are young brides in the setting sun;
Their reflections on the shimmering waves
Always linger in the depth of my heart.
The floatingheart growing in the sludge
Sways leisurely under the water;
In the gentle waves of Cambridge
I would be a water plant!
That pool under the shade of elm trees
Holds not water but the rainbow from the sky;
Shattered to pieces among the duckweeds
Is the sediment of a rainbow-like dream?
To seek a dream? Just to pole a boat upstream
To where the green grass is more verdant;
Or to have the boat fully loaded with starlight
And sing aloud in the splendour of starlight.
But I cannot sing aloud
Quietness is my farewell music;
Even summer insects heep silence for me
Silent is Cambridge tonight!
Very quietly I take my leave
As quietly as I came here;
Gently I flick my sleeves
Not even a wisp of cloud will I bring away
This has to equally be one of my favourite shorter poems that I can still recite by heart.
I Am in Need of Music by Elizabeth Bishop
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
I generally love all poems that talk about nature and the great outdoors. Here are a couple of my favourites that keep coming to my mind. The former, in particular, takes me away to a fairyland of distant dreams. (I usually judge poems by how emotionally drawn I feel to them)
1.Ode to a Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth.
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: -do I wake or sleep?
John Keats
And here's the second one:
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
Search on this Page:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth
To Riesa:
I love Sylvia Plath. Have you read "Two Lovers and A Beachcomber by the Real Sea?"
My favorite poem is T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." I apologize if someone already posted it.
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Im so glad you like that poem too Arania! It is one of my favorites, definetly in my top 3 poems.
My favorite part is:
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Absolutely brilliant
Here's my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson:
Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree—
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—
I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
He never saw me—in this life—
I might surprise his eye!
I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains—
Just his face—nothing more!
We talk in careless—and it toss—
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly—
Just—how—deep—
The other’s one—had been—
We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tender—thoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—
Alone—if Angels are “alone”—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those “veiled faces”—be—
We cannot count—on High!
I’d give—to live that hour—again—
The purple—in my Vein—
But He must count the drops—himself—
My price for every stain!
That's a nice choice, Yelena. Though, I, myself consider hundreds of her poems among my favorites. She makes me so sad when she speaks of instances so amplified in importance to her, but of little meaning to the other in her poem.Quote:
Originally Posted by Yelena
I don`t have a particular one, if it`s right to say "paticular ones".
I love all of Poe`s and Emily Dickinson`s.
First of all, I was growing very fond of William Blake and William Wordsworth.
I like the figurative language and scenes of "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth;
I don`t have enough of reading "The World Is Too Much with Us" by Wordsworth, too, which shows how and what`s wrong with out modern world.
"In the sonnet "The World Is Too Much with Us" the poet contrasts Nature with the world of materialism and "making it." Because we are insensitive to the richness of Nature, we may be forfeiting our souls. To us there is nothing wonderful or mysterious about the natural world, but ancients who were pagans created a colorful mythology out of their awe of Nature."
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; (1)
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, (2)
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus (3) rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton (4) blow his wreathed horn.
Apart from that:
Acquainted with the Night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Robert Frost
.............................................
"I Am Not Yours"
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
Sarah Teasdale
What about Poe´s For Annie? It was my first ¨favorite poem.¨ I love the meter. It is beautiful. I´m going to post it. I promise it´s worth the read.
THANK Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called 'Living' 5
Is conquer'd at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length: 10
But no matter—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder 15
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing, 20
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea— 25
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That madden'd my brain—
With the fever called 'Living'
That burn'd in my brain. 30
And O! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river 35
Of Passion accurst—
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst.
—Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound, 40
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never 45
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy,
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed— 50
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never 55
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies 60
A holier odour
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odour,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful 65
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie— 70
Drown'd in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kiss'd me,
She fondly caress'd,
And then I fell gently 75
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguish'd,
She cover'd me warm, 80
And she pray'd to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly, 85
Now, in my bed
(Knowing her love),
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed 90
(With her love at my breast),
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter 95
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie— 100
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
Just saw this poem on Poets' Corner and thought it was appropriate to the site:
Fragment
What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.
Amy Lowell
Poetess, I love this poem by Sarah Teasdale, have for many years now. I love her poetry so much; I have a book of her collection, but cannot presently find it...hidden somewhere in the deepest recesses of my bookshelves. :(Quote:
Originally Posted by Poetess
I enjoyed the other poems you posted very much. Loved the Frost poem about night...never heard it before. Janine
Whether hot or cold march on,
There is no time to rest
Lest you fail to find your beloved`s track
O sleeper awake arise sleep no so,
Royal affection can not be achieved by sleeping more.
T. S. Eliot's Prufrock;
Robert Frost's Fire and Ice;
Alexander Pope's stuff, including Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot;
Robert Browning's My Last Duchess;
John Donne's The Tripple Fool;
...so many... so many! :/
In Tagalong
Isangmahol means one love
One word
To express one thing
Where the English language
Imposes separation.
How could one not mean love?
And how could love not mean one?
I know I'm being simple
But I don't have time
For complicated line breaks
Or confusing word structures.
Basically,
I don't have time for bull****.
Love may leave me soon.
So I must embrace it
While I've got it.
And you've got to flaunt what you've got
'cuz
if there's one thing I've learned
from the immigrant experience
it's that a silenced heart
is one that never loves.
The quiet of a hardship never shared
In songs or hugs
Is death.
And the sins of the father unresolved
Fall onto the sun.
And so I yell from stage to stage
On page
And in person.
"I love you."
And mean it.
And back it up.
And have two fists and two fast ****ing kung-fu kicking legs to take down
Anyone
Who says otherwise of me.
'cuz I will not doubt love
in a rough skinned world
of helpless angles clipped
because they feel isolated.
Beautiful creatures broken by
Systems and cultures and wars
Who leave homelands searching
Instead of reaching out for home in others
Through shared experience.
You'll be amazed at what a common childhood will do
For two who have always felt alone.
And what holding that person will be like
For the rest of your life on.
I must live love always.
I don't write these words
To make it easy.
I write them to remind myself
How much work I have left,
How many layers I must melt,
How many more people
I have to quit excluding.
I'm not noble.
My anger and hate occupy spaces
Only love should.
But I'd rather acknowledge something
That I can work on
Than deny something
That will later consume me.
That's right.
I'm talking about you.
I'm calling you out.
All uncomfortable people
At this point are marked.
Be warned.
Shape up.
Or else you'll be loved
When you least expect it.
You want to be loved, now don't you?
But don't think love it just
A hug and a smile,
A good **** and duty,
A phase and a poem.
Love
is none of these things solely
but all of these things plus.
Plus I got your back when tears exhaust.
Plus I got your back when they come for us.
Plus
I got you
So I'll check ego
In return for us.
This is a call to arms.
A first step in a revolution long overdue.
This is a war, people.
Do you want to die with regret?
Do you want to die holding back?
Do you want to die alone?
Live love always
And I will love you
As long as I live.
Isangmahol.
Isangmahol.
Isangmahol.
Isangmahol by Beau Sia.
--------------------------------------
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
Spring and Fall, to a Young Child by Gerard Manley Hopkins
when i was a boy, some 15 years ago, i had watched a film about WW2 pilots....Memphis Belle, if i'm not mistaken. somewhere in the film....a line caught my attention and had since lodged in my mind.
Those that i fight i do not hate,
those that i guard i do not love . . .
it created some sort of lofty sensation my young heart never knew....even now, with 15 years in between me and the boy i was, the feeling never really left my mind -- a feeling of solitude amidst a world of strife and disillusioment, mutability and....me. from then on, whenever i HAD to choose a poem i love most, it would be --
An Irish Airman Forsees His Death
I know that i shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that i fight i do not hate,
Those that i guard i do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Elyx, interesting and sad poem. I also saw "Memphis Bell" years ago and have been wanting to see the film again. I remember it was really good. Some of the actors in it were quite young then and went on to be big stars.Quote:
Originally Posted by Elyx
Do you know who wrote the poem you posted and how did you locate it?
I wondered if a true airman wrote it and would like to know more of the history of the poem, for instance if he really met his death...if so how sad. I understand there was a real plane "Memphis Bell". I just saw a documentary on a film dircector, William Wyer and he joined up during WWII and he flew in the plane to take documentary films. He also manned the guns and became partially deaf because of the intense sound; then he was discharged from the service. He directed such great films as "Ben Hur" and "Best Years of Our Lives". You may know all this but thought it would be of interest to you and others.
An Irish Airman Forsees His Death was written by the Irish William Butler Yeats ( 1865 - 1939 ), a Nobel poet, freedom fighter, and in my opinion, the last romanticist to have braced the modern world. this is of course purely subjective, as many view him as the paragon of modernistic disillusionment.
Yeats never fought in arms....his is a war within, a constant dilemma between spiritual sublimity and the earthly struggle of his people. His peotry hence becomes a medium through which he attempts to conciliate these contending passions. it is for this reason his poems emanate a sense of philosophical fatigue that in turn reflects the modern world more accurately than his contemporaries have.
alot more could be said of Yeats; and even what little i have stated, others would disagree. but one thing is certain: W.B.Yeats is among the best of poets in the western world.
I have many favorites but if I had to post on it would be "The Glove And The Lions" by James Leigh Hunt
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another;
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
"By God!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat:
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."
Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" is my all-time favourite. I took on literature in college because of that single poem. Some lines are embarassing to read aloud; so what? The poem still transports me far and wide and leaves me enraptured in the clouds. "Mount Blanc" is another poem I heart. Yes I heart Shelley.
Ode to the West Wind
I
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystàlline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision—I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
OMG OMG OMG OMG OMGQuote:
Originally Posted by Yelena
This just got me sobbing and sniffling away here:bawling: :bawling: :bawling:
The Raven by Edgar allen poe
"Last Words To A Dumb Friend"
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall -
Foot suspended in its fall -
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons' mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should--by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance -
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man's will,
Of the Imperturbable.
As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
Thomas Hardy, October 2, 1904.
Logos, this poem is so sweet. I love Hardy but never read this one before. I have many departed animal friends - cats, a rabbit and a goose, and this really hit me right (painfully) in the heart like an arrow. Thanks for posting such a great poem.Quote:
Originally Posted by Logos
Yeah, I thought it was a gem, had to post it. I had no idea Thomas Hardy wrote so much poetry, I'm adding *dozens* of his poems now, should be on the site in a few days :)
Logos, Those additions would be so nice. Hardy wrote tons of poetry. In fact, I found this out, since I used to belong to a Hardy group; he gave up writing novels after "Jude the Obscure" and wrote poetry exclusively. He thought himself more a poet than a novelist. A friend of mine knows so much about Hardy and visited England just to see Hardy country...he loved it. He is totally obsessed with Hardy and he is now pursuing the full volume of his poetry, but being native born Japanese, it is quite difficult for him. I have one book of his poems, but I don't think I noticed this one. I will have to check and see if it is in my book. I will definitely copy your post of the poem to keep in a file on my hard-drive. Thanks again for posting it.Quote:
Originally Posted by Logos
I haven't seen you around lately so it is nice to see you tonight ~ Janine
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime .-
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
By Wilfred Owen
SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
By W.Shakespeare