Favorite poem?

[Lyn]

Glad you like it. MacCaig's my favourite poet of the moment, although I think a lot of people ignore/underrate his work. Here's another extract, from his poem 'Summer Farm'

"I lie, not thinking, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me - as
This grasshopper with plated face
Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.

Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me."

[ivette]

I like novels more than poems but I still have a few favourite poems:

E.A.Poe - The Raven, Alone
Sylvia Plath - Lady Lazarus, Never try to trick me with a kiss, Last words

[quoththeraven98]

'The Raven', by Edgar Allen Poe, is my favorite poem, though that may be obvious considering my name.

[higley]

Not much for poetry on the whole (though I ought to pay more attention to it), but I do like Robert Frost. My favorite is Fragmentary Blue:

Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.

[theP3ach]

The Hollow Men by T.S Elliot

[Bakiryu]

Anything by Plath. I love her

[Pensive]

Anything by Plath. I love her

I like Daddy.

[Anza]

Edgar Allan Poe: The Conquerer Worm (Memorized), and The Raven.
I've completely memorized The Raven. The last few stanzas are a little shaky, but otherwise it's good.
I also like The Lady of Shallot, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. I memorized that one, too.

[Anza]

I started memorizing the Raven three days ago, and I've been reciting it every waking moment. It's been driving my Mom insane.

[tinustijger]

Haha! I have that sort of phases too Just when you can't get enough from one poem!
I even had the idea to tattoo Death be not proud's last line: "Death thou shalt die" ~ John Donne, on my spine! I'm still toying with the idea but my love for this poem has diminished a tiny bit now!

[Lyn]

What is it about the raven that everyone loves so much? I like it too, was just interested to hear why so many people seem to like that one particular poem.

[Pensive]

What is it about the raven that everyone loves so much? I like it too, was just interested to hear why so many people seem to like that one particular poem.

The rhythm, the rhyme. And the idea is most sublime.

[cloudcuckooland]

Hello!

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

I.

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

II.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

III.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

IV.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

V.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

VI.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

VII.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”

VIII.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

IX.

And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.

X.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

XI.

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

XII.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

John Keats.

I don't like it, to be quite honest, I'm obsessed with it!

[Beverly S]

I like this simple poem by Carl Sandburg entitled: Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then, moves on.

[bookworm712]

Anything by Plath. I love her

I love her too- she was the subject of many many papers in college.

I enjoy Walt Whitman- my parents were hippies....