• Quick note - the problem with Youtube videos not embedding on the forum appears to have been fixed, thanks to ZiprHead. If you do still see problems let me know.

favorite poems

LibraryLady

Emeritus
LibraryLady
Joined
Sep 4, 2004
Messages
14,331
Location
Maryland
We've talked about must have books, how about must read poems? I realize that fewer people have a favorite poem, but it might be an interesting survey.

I had to think for a while about mine; there are so many I truly love. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold, Jabberwocky and The Hunting of the Snark by Lewis Carroll, Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden (who has surfaced elsewhere and inspired this thread). I finally settled on what I have always considered to be the perfect poem by an anonymous medieval poet:

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow
That small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!


By the way, I want it noted that I finally figured out hyperlinks.
 
It's been years since I read any poetry seriously, but I used to love those wonderful story-poems like The Cremation of Sam MaGee and The Yarn Of The Nancy Bell.

Robert W. Service, Rudyard Kipling, that sort of thing.
 
I liked Jaberwocky and stuff by ee cummings like this http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/8454/eec.htm But I rarely read it anymore.
In my younger years, my tormented years, I used to write poetry, some pretty twisted stuff and some not so twisted. Does anyone else write poetry? Anyone interested in reading the babbling of a tormented youth?
 
I would prefer that to what passes for poetry at open mikes and coffeehouses these days.
 
Here is a sample of my poetry, I hope it doesn't sound like pillroy to everyone.

I wake from my dream world
to find a question sleeping
silently inside of me
Who is this mind
That acts so mercilessly
to remove me from society?
Not wanting to wake it,
I get up slowly
only to find another question
sleeping beside me.
But how can that be?
Am I standing here awake
or is this a dream in reality?
Turning slowly I gaze into the mirror
The shock of recognition hits me
knowledge of uncertainty
For when I looked in the mirror
I saw the question was me
 
I'm pretty low-brow when it comes to poetry. Ditto on Jabberwocky. I also like the standards: The Raven, The Bells, Annabelle Lee by Poe. Ozymandias by Shelley. The Garden of Prosperine by Swinburne. Coda, Resume by Dorothy Parker. To His Coy Mistress by Marvell.

I've just started sampling Bukowski, and I like him so far.
 
Howdy ya'll,

The Hollow Men by T.S.Eliot

One of my favs........

This is one of mine, hope you enjoy.

Twisted
I lay here upon the grass beneath the wonder of a nite sky
I watch the beauty of the stars eternal dance
I feel the ground under my back, land that I tend, land I love
I think of places I will never go and friends I will never meet
I think of loves first kiss and deaths first calling
I fade away to walk in dreams beyond the sky...

I dream of a world that never saw man, nor felt the rape of his claws
I see the green of the forest, the sparkle of the vast blue sea
I awaken to a soft and gentle rain, Human once more
I hear the dawn broken by the machines of travel
I close my eyes and try to let the rain wash me into the Earth
I remember a little boy that never knew love

I hear the rumble and watch the jet pierce the sky
I think of September
I listen to the wind, it has nothing to say
I ask God if I am his own I feel the warmth of the reply
I look back at the road I have traveled
I see how badly its twisted


Copyright ©4/2002 DewClaw productions
 
Robert Burns, 'To a Mouse' and 'To a Louse'

'Ulysses' by Tennyson

Ditto the Poe poems...the guy had a way with images...

Herrick, 'To the Youth, To Make the Most of Time'

Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Sam Colderidge(or Iron Maiden, depending on which version you've been exposed to...;) )

Two Paths Diverged in the Yellow Wood, by Robert Frost.
 
Little fly upon the wall
Ain't you got no clothes at all?
Ain't you got a shimmy shake?
Ain't you got a petty skirt?
Shoo fly, ain't you cold?

-Curly
 
Sea-Fever
by John Masefield

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.
 
I would hope that this would pass as poetry...... I think this is some damn fine writing.

Peace
=^..^=217

To be, or not to be


To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.-- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.



William Shakespeare
 
LibraryLady said:
Now that's an interesting choice. Not to be judgmental, but this guy's a little over the top, isn't he?
Click to expand...

He's generally regarded as the worst English-language poet ever :D
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Back
Top Bottom