Favorite poem?

[THX-1138]

the road not taken by Robert frost and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[breaddough]

I tend to appreciate the poems that leave me with a kind of sense of a quiet mind, like everything becomes more still.
Here's one of my favorites by the fabulous Ms. Dickenson

Ample make this bed
Make this bed with awe
In it wait til judgment break
Excellent and fair

Be its mattress straight
Be its pillow round
Let no sunrise's yellow noise
Interrupt this ground

[BibliophileTRJ]

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

Perhaps it's my favorite simply because I have salt in my veins..... 3rd generation fisherman.

[lime123]

I love poems by Emily Dickinson!
aren't her books the best???

My favorite poem begins:
Because I could not stop for death-
he stopped for me-
there was only me and him inside the Carriage-
and Immortality.

I know it's not exactly the same.
but i blanked for right now.

Charles Dickens is a plus too.

[thefemalemind]

Hello everyone,
I am new to this forum and thought that I might try it out. My fav's are:

Where the Sidewalk Ends By Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.


And

The Little Boy and the Old Man by Shel Silverstein

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.


And

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


And


Again--His voice at the doorby Emily Dickison

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!


And

I could suffice for Him,I knew by Emily Dickinson

I could suffice for Him, I knew --
He -- could suffice for Me --
Yet Hesitating Fractions -- Both
Surveyed Infinity --

"Would I be Whole" He sudden broached --
My syllable rebelled --
'Twas face to face with Nature -- forced --
'Twas face to face with God --

Withdrew the Sun -- to Other Wests --
Withdrew the furthest Star
Before Decision -- stooped to speech --
And then -- be audibler

The Answer of the Sea unto
The Motion of the Moon --
Herself adjust Her Tides -- unto --
Could I -- do else -- with Mine?


So, basically I like Emily Dickinson and Shel Silverstein.

[overmydeadbody]

Bronte, Donne, any american writer. These poems are all so average!
And eliot...even a mention of eliot!

'-"The Waste Land" by Eliot. Can't get much more canonical, but there's a reason everyone talks about it so much'

Eliot was best when writing about cats (my favourite being mccavity!!) The waste land is dreadful - all reference and no content. Contrived and deliberate intellectualised bollocks.

The best writer in the english language in the 20th century was easily yeats. My facvourite by him (so HARD to choose) Easter 1916, on the 1916 irish uprising. However here is one with less historical context, on the pilgrimage of an aging man.

Sailing to Byzantium
I

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
--- Those dying generations --- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shalll never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

[Behemoth]

I love Eliot's "Rhapsody on a Windy Night," personally. I used to hate "The Waste Land" but I have a sort of respect for it now; enjoyment is probably too strong a word but it's fascinating to examine all the allusions and literary traditions that went into it.

[Niamh]

It's very hard to select just one favourite poem so heres a bit of a list;

At the round earths imagined corners- John Donne

Sonnet 116- William Shakespeare

The stolen Child- William Butler Yeats

Is it a month- John Millington Synge

Thoughts in a garden- Andrew Marvell


just to name a few!

[rashikwa]

any poem by Keats or Emily Dickinson is my favourite

[rashikwa]

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

I like this one, so heart touching

[rashikwa]

this was the last I read by ED and I like it so much

The Heart Asks Pleasure First by Emily Dickinson.

The heart asks pleasure first
And then, excuse from pain-
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

[TEND]

Hmm,
Anything by T.S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and The Hollowmen
Most anything by Blake
oh....for my Scottish roots, my favorite Robbie Burns poem/song, Scots Wha Hae.

Lots more, but these are a few.

[Riesa]

at the moment this is my favorite:

The Moon and the Yew Tree
by Sylvia Plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

[toni]

I see nobody's mentioned of Thomas Hardy yet..
It is hard to choose a specific favorite poem but here is one:

The Convergence of The Twain
(lines on the loss of titanic)

In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls-grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?"...

VI
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her - so gaily great -
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

IX
Alien they seemed to be:
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,

X
Or sign that they were bent
by paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,

XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres

Actually, any poem from Hardy is okay by me..
But this poem's vivid imagery just struck me.

[Whifflingpin]

Not necessarily my favourite, but one I have been haunted by for over thirty years. It is

Jan Palach, by Jane Mapstone.

Now
I am only a thought in your mind
A headline on the paper of your thoughts
By tomorrow I will be relegated to a side column
And then I will disappear.
And maybe, in a year from today
Some line in the 'In Memoriam' will commemorate my death
But that's all
And in five years you will hear my name and think
'Now who the hell was he?"
And your kids will learn my name for one of their history tests.

But in spite of the fact
That today you are moved by the staring capitals, inch high,
You don't understand the enormity,
The reality
That made me
Twenty one
Burn
Myself
To
Death
You can't understand
You don't think about
The feelings that went through my body
As I poured the petrol over me
As I felt its stickiness running like blood down my arms
Down my legs
And you can't know
That with all my body
All my mind
Crying 'NO! NO!'
I found somewhere the necessity
To strike that match
To see it licking away at my clothes
To feel it biting away at my flesh
Consuming me
A person
Me
Watching it as though I was sat at
the back of a cinema, watching a film,
Completely detached
Watching me dying
And you'll never know
That before the clouds of laughing smoke, and whirling pain
Merged into darkness
I thought that
Maybe I was wrong.
Now
I am only a thought in your mind
A line in some volume of memory
I don't exist
I have no substance, flesh or feeling
Only decaying bones and decaying dreams
I died
You don't understand that
But think of this
I could have thrown stones and cracked your windows
I could have fought your policemen, burnt your cars
And made a public nuisance of myself
To gain attention

But what I did I can't do more than once
If you ignore it now then it is finished
If you just relegate me to your history books
Then there can be no point in what I did
No point. No reason
In burning myself to death
And I was wrong.

.