Separate names with a comma.
Discussion in 'Community Discussion' started by monke, Dec 6, 2007.
I figured there would be a couple poetry lovers on here.
What is your favourite poem(s)?
I did a presentation for my theory course this term on the Rime of the Ancient Mariner... I kind of like it now. Of course, the Maiden cover is still better
Baby shoes: For sale, never worn.
O Dream, Where Art Thou - Emily Brontë
O Dream where art thou?
Long years have past away
Since last, from off thine angel brow
I saw the light decay-
Alas, alas for me
Thou wert so bright and fair,
I could not think thy memory
Would yield me nought but care!
The sun-beam and the storm,
The summer-eve divine,
The silent night of solemn calm,
The full moon's cloudless shine
Were once entwined with thee
But now with weary pain-
Lost vision! 'tis enough for me-
Thou canst not shine again-
Almost anything by Yeats. The man was pure genius, although I much prefer it when he can keep to one page or less.
"Dreamland" by Poe. Not bad for a drunk.
A few select works by me.
20 January 1993
Dulce Et Decorum Est
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
(No surprises there.)
I especially enjoy Yeats and Bukowski.
"And I shot out the stars one by one".
"Just heard a commercial which told me Farmer John smokes his own bacon.
Now, there's a tough son of a bitch."
I also like Robert Frost's "Mending Wall":
"Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'"
All that is gold does not glitter,
not all those who wander are lost;
the old that is strong does not wither,
deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
a light from the shadows shall spring;
renenwed shall be blade that was broken,
the crownless again shall be king.
see sig hehe
"Whose woods these are, I think I know, his house is in the village though."
"Stopping by Woods on a Snow Evening" by Robert Frost. This poem is a poem everyone has to remember during their school career, it's one of my favorites.
Was there ever anyone greater at writing four-line poems about animals? I don't think so!
The AntThe ant has made herself illustrious
By constant industry industrious.
So what? Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid?
The OctopusTell me, O Octopus, I begs,
Is those things arms, or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I'd call me Us.The OstrichThe ostrich roams the great Sahara.
Its mouth is wide, its neck is narra.
It has such long and lofty legs,
I'm glad it sits to lay its eggs.The PorcupineAny hound a porcupine nudges
Can't be blamed for harboring grudges.
I know one hound that laughed all winter
At a porcupine that sat on a splinter.The TermiteSome primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good.
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.The WaspThe wasp and all his numerous family
I look upon as a major calamity.
He throws open his nest with prodigality,
But I distrust his waspitality.
And Ogden Nash could even write fantastic two-liners!
The CowThe cow is of the bovine ilk.
One end is moo, the other, milk.The FlyGod in his wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.
Returning, We Hear the Larks - Isaac Rosenberg (1917)
Sombre the night is.
And though we have our lives, we know
What sinister threat lies there.
Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know
This poison-blasted track opens on our camp -
On a little safe sleep.
But hark! joy - joy - strange joy.
Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks.
Music showering our upturned listning faces.
Death could drop from the dark
As easily as song -
But song only dropped,
Like a blind mans dreams on the sand
By dangerous tides,
Like a girls dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there,
Or her kisses where a serpent hides.
Always makes me pause and think about those who went through WWI, we will remember them.
"There once was a man from Nantucket..."
Truth is, I don't know anymore. I thought about what I'd say a few years ago and I went and looked up these poems. While I love them still, I don't feel that way anymore, which is a good thing. For the novelty sake, I'll post a couple of those old favourites...
I know why the caged bird sings - Maya Angelou
The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Alone With Everybody - Charles Bukowski
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
and nobody finds the
crawling in and out
the bone and the
for more than
there's no chance
we are all trapped
by a singular
nobody ever finds
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
(wow I was a sad little thing)
Not a big poetry fan, but do love Never seek to tell thy love by William Blake,
Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears --
Ah, she doth depart.
Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by
Silently, invisibly --
O, was no deny.
I, also, am fond of Mr. Bukowski:
the dangling carrot
the perfect poem will never be
I back out the driveway at
wave to my wife,
drive down the hill and into
the perfect poem will never be
never be written
on a page,
in the street,
on the wall
in the men's room,
in the train station,
on a billboard,
on the head of a pin,
the perfect poem will never be
let us thank the gods.
And Richard Brautigan (<3 <3 <3) most of which is probably marginally too naughty to post, but here is one of many excellent ones:
A Mid-February Sky Dance
Dance toward me, please, as
if you were a star
with light-years piled
on top of your hair,
and i will dance toward you
as if I were darkness
with bats piled like a hat
on top of my head.
A lot of his short stories are almost poetry as well. Was just re-reading bits of Revenge of the Lawn, which I love, and it's just brilliant.
And I love the vibe off this one:
Lord, it is time. The summer was so great.
Lay down long shadows on the sundials.
Let loose the winds to run across the plain.
Command the lingering fruits to ripen:
Grant them two southerly days yet
Then drive them to fulfilment and compel
The final sweetness in the heavy wine.
Who has no house, will build himself none now;
Who is alone now, will stay so –
Wake, read, write long letters, go
Back and forth along bare avenues,
Restlessly wandering, where the fallen leaves blow.
Stephen Spender, Autumn day, After Rilke
spider spider on the wall
haven't you any brains at all ?
can't you see the wall's been plastered ?
can't you see you little...spider
Beat me to it.
T.S. Eliot's The Wastland and The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock
Wallace's The Emperor of Ice Cream and 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Juliana Spahr's This connection of everyone with lungs is moving too
This poem I wrote won me the Poetry Contest at my school (I was so proud. )
Beauties in the Night
by Cassandra Packard
I lay one night, in a cool field of grass
watching those beauties, those giant balls of gas.
They hang there in the night sky, with a companion at their side.
The biggest, brightest and most beautiful of all.
The one that controls the tide.
I watch them all, every night, I watch these beauties shine.
They twinkle, sparkle, and capture the eye
Like a diamond from a mine.
They are completely silent, not a sound to be heard.
This is perfectly fine,
they don’t have to say a word.
They are the stars and moon,
To which nothing can compare.
We are all very lucky,
For their beauty, is what they share.
That's really good. You made me look through my old poems!
I wrote this when I was 14.
Wow, I wrote mine when I was 13, and yours makes mine look like crap.
Hah it doesn't really. They're completely different things. I'm tempted to post a few more but they're all a bit odd.
well if you guys want to read one of mine(probably the one i'm super proud of):
Spring Warm Cold
But Somehow, with the Spring Air in February
& melting ice piles
scattered out among yellow soaked grass
& the hazy moist fog wind
blowing down through the crevasses
But Somehow, potholes cracked
asphalt buckled & burst
& you only hear the splash of dampness on car tires
speeding past in their Wind
where is your washer fluid?
is this normality?
You can see your Breath, but feel Warmth
curled up inside, under, wrapped a blanket, faded Blue
But still warm Still as a Rock, worn over the centuries
the Ceiling is laden with mold; growing from the hot,
the steamy showers in which you linger
Stinging water that turns your skin bright Red, that soothes the aches
that feeds the orange-ish mold slightly, sight of steam ridden mirrors
but youre still Cold, your nipples harden as soon as the water stops, drops
shaking & gasping for Breath
your Brain rattling away inside your Head
premature thoughts of the warm blanket come back
haunting the spring warm cold day of February
Lose yourself, Let go, Feel the Rush
Walk along streets, half-deserted, filled with a
grey cloud of Air, Storm clouds over you head
only over you, only bit of respite
kick the ice & watch it dissolve
rocking back & forth; just to keep warm; movement;
rather than stagnation; a nation in your mind, you Commander in Chief
moments of movies play back
confusing your life, desires, with fictionality
is any of this real?
distilled water please, no hold the French Fries
salt clogs my pores, Acne spreading all over
muscles pulled taught in anguish back arched
& then gone in a second, Flashes of Camera light
Flash, Flash, Flash
grabbed my Soul
Coughing in the cold, ever Persisting,
drawing out your lungs, Sneezing & losing your Breath
a sticky sweet Air filling your body
But i am running on something else altogether
something dry & thick, cracking away inside
& the time passes slowly; creeping by; moving like a stalled car
in a class, @ a work, sleeplessness on a bed
hours go by in days
despaired equality still popular
but this is not here, not Right Now, no one is Present
Raise your hands please as i call out your names
what is this mess? you are still a stone, but worn smooth
moved in such a manner, displaced from your natural Sandbox
poor Rain, Acidic in my Clothes, but not burning, nor Bright
the Stars are hidden, the moon ran away
along with the smells, the other colors, your lies
they sting, found in a cracked mirror, steamy mirror, moving like rivers, streams
flowing sweetly to you, my lost one, my decrepit one
but i am happily lost in my head, & my Real One saved me, the
Truth came, held my hand & cultivated a smile
giving new like to this old body
But the February weather
draws you out of the house
the lack of movie happiness craziness
strikes home again home run sold highest bidder
no one will win the Computer wars
type away, but i dont know Binary,
whatever that is
the keyboard; littered with crumbs, stained with Bacteria
the desk decaying; the room self imposing
the bed springs pushing you our the door; while
the fish tank; with its glowing green Algae, growing exponentially
the fish, swim dutifully
All day long, they Wont Notice
nor will the Stone.