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Top Banana
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OP
Top Banana
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 1,208 |
So I'm not a big Poetry fan... never did understand them very well... BUT this poem just plain rocks so I thought I'd post it.
IN THE DESERT by Stephen Crane
In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, "Is it good, friend?" "It is bitter – bitter", he answered, "But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart."
<sigh> I love that Poem. Not that I think being bitter or whatever is a good thing. But I do think that liking yourself for yourself is good. At least that's what it means to me. I'm not gonna delve too deep here.
So what are your favorite poems?
A government which robs Peter to pay Paul can always depend on the support of Paul.
-George Bernard Shaw
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Pulitzer
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Pulitzer
Joined: Jun 2006
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Nice poem! It's rather pointless to post my favorite poem, because most people won't be able to read it anyway. I've found a translation so you get at least an impression... the real thing is below Moon-night Mondnacht
Es war, als hätt der Himmel Die Erde still geküßt, Daß sie im Blütenschimmer Von ihm nun träumen müßt.
Die Luft ging durch die Felder, Die Ähren wogten sacht, Es rauschten leis die Wälder, So sternklar war die Nacht.
Und meine Seele spannte Weit ihre Flügel aus, Flog durch die stillen Lande, Als flöge sie nach Haus. (Joseph von Eichendorff)
It's never too dark to be cool.
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Hack from Nowheresville
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Hack from Nowheresville
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I'm with you, Steph-- I've never been one to understand poetry very well. However, I love Robert Frost's work. Mostly because I CAN understand it, haha. I've grown particularly attached to this one recently, and anyone who shares my current obsession should be able to see why. "Fire and Ice" Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
Thanks to Cat for my rockin' avatar! ++++ (About Lois & Clark) Perry: Son, you just hit the bulls eye. It's like we're supporting characters in some TV show and it's only about them. Jimmy: Yeah! It's like all we do is advance their plots. Perry: To tell you the truth, I'm sick of it. Jimmy: Man, me too!
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Features Writer
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Features Writer
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I'm not a poetry person myself, but I rediscovered this poem recently. It's depressing, but carries a good message, I think. Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning. I've been thinking about indifference a lot these days and the poem captures one reason for it, the fact that sometimes we aren't able to distinguish when someone needs help or not. It reminds me that making the attempt to really check in with those we care about is important. alcyone
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Hack from Nowheresville
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Hack from Nowheresville
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Hey Steph, What a nice idea to share favourite poems - and a very interesting first entry I love poetry (and I love to hate bad poetry, too), but I couldn't really decide on a single favourite poem. Instead, I'll post something a lot of people here might not know and can hopefully still enjoy. Last CallRight up to my final hour I'll be obliging and polite. Should I hear Death firmly knocking I'll shout at once: come in! Alright? What’s on the schedule? Is it dying? Well, that’s something rather new. But I’m sure that we can swing it, showing them a thing or two. What is this? Your hour glass? Interesting! And good to grasp. And the scythe is for grim reaping, did you say? I’d thought I’d ask. Which way should I turn from here? To the left? From where you stand? Well, alright then. To the graveyard? Where I take my final hand? Yes, the glass is out of sand now. Oh, I see, you want it back. May I ask you where you got it? So unusual, all in black. Is it antique? Oh well, whatever. I only meant to ask, old chap – What? No questions? No more talking? That's fine by me. I'll shut my - This is a poem by the late great Robert Gernhardt. He wrote it at a time when he had severe trouble with his heart and had to go through complicated surgery. There is a great tradition for humorous poems in Germany, and I like how Gernhardt balances sad themes with a lot of lightheartedness and fun. Others of his poems are just plain silly or vulgar or thoughtful - but almost all of them are interesting in one way or another. By the way, I found the translation above on a website which has a few more of his poems in English as well as some of his drawings: signandsight.com .
kill a cliché, save a reader
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Hack from Nowheresville
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Hack from Nowheresville
Joined: Feb 2006
Posts: 144 |
My favourite poem is very short. The original is in German, so I put the translation right underneath:
Eine Mutfrage
Wer wagt es, sich den donnernden Zügen entgegenzustellen? Die kleinen Blumen zwischen den Eisenbahnschwellen!
A Question of Courage
Who dares to resist the thundering trains? The small flowers between the railroad ties!
Erich Kästner (1899 - 1974)
He was a forbidden author during the nazi regime, and this poem is very clearly political. But I like it very much, since I found it in one of my schoolbooks, I was 14 or 15 years old at that time. What it says for me is: you are small compared to the world, but even you are able to do something against greater things happening.
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Nobel Peace Prize Winner
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Nobel Peace Prize Winner
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There are so many great poems, but this one by Percy Bysshe Shelley fills me with a mixture of awe and the chills: Ozymandias I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: `My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. Ann
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Pulitzer
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Pulitzer
Joined: Jun 2004
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I like Robert Frost's work for its simplicity and directness and his insight on humanity. I like Ogden Nash's work for his quirky sense of humor. Beyond that, I like certain poems for no reason I can put my finger on besides my mood at the moment. This is one of my other favorites, by Stephen Crane. A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."
Life isn't a support system for writing. It's the other way around.
- Stephen King, from On Writing
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Boards Chief Administrator Emeritus Nobel Peace Prize Winner
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Boards Chief Administrator Emeritus Nobel Peace Prize Winner
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Some of my favourites: Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W. H. Auden Bit depressing, but it sure gets to the heart of what grief is. And a couple I've used in my stories: High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue, I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untresspassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee No 412 squadron, RCAF Killed 11 December 1941 And Wilfred's Owen's Ode to the reality of war: 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 disappointed shells that dropped 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 floundering 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. And I'm another fan of Robert Frost. Especially this one, which creates such a wonderful mood: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know, His house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping here, To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer, To stop without a farmhouse near, Between the woods and frozen lake, The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake, To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep, Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. And on a lighter note, I've always loved this one: When I Am Old.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me, And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired, And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells, And run my stick along the public railings, And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other people's gardens, And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat, And eat three pounds of sausages at a go, Or only bread and pickle for a week, And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry, And pay our rent and not swear in the street, And set a good example for the children. We will have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practise a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised, When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple!
Jenny Joseph The Female of the Species - Rudyard Kipling
WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail. For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. And, as a Scot, how could I resist the terrible wonder that is William Topaz McGonagall (arguably the world's worst poet): The Tay Bridge Disaster
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay! Alas! I am very sorry to say That ninety lives have been taken away On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
'Twas about seven o'clock at night, And the wind it blew with all its might, And the rain came pouring down, And the dark clouds seem'd to frown, And the Demon of the air seem'd to say- "I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."
When the train left Edinburgh The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow, But Boreas blew a terrific gale, Which made their hearts for to quail, And many of the passengers with fear did say- "I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."
But when the train came near to Wormit Bay, Boreas he did loud and angry bray, And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
So the train sped on with all its might, And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight, And the passengers' hearts felt light, Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year, With their friends at home they lov'd most dear, And wish them all a happy New Year.
So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay, Until it was about midway, Then the central girders with a crash gave way, And down went the train and passengers into the Tay! The Storm Fiend did loudly bray, Because ninety lives had been taken away, On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
As soon as the catastrophe came to be known The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown, And the cry rang out all o'er the town, Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down, And a passenger train from Edinburgh, Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow, And made them for to turn pale, Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
It must have been an awful sight, To witness in the dusky moonlight, While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray, Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay, Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay, I must now conclude my lay By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay, That your central girders would not have given way, At least many sensible men do say, Had they been supported on each side with buttresses, At least many sensible men confesses, For the stronger we our houses do build, The less chance we have of being killed. Think I'll leave it there for now. LabRat
Athos: If you'd told us what you were doing, we might have been able to plan this properly. Aramis: Yes, sorry. Athos: No, no, by all means, let's keep things suicidal.
The Musketeers
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Columnist
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Columnist
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I really wasn't a fan of poetry until my 12th grade AP Lit class. It's funny how a really great teacher can make you appreciate things you never have before. Now I have way too many favorites to post here. In the class I had to do a big project on Elizabeth Bishop, now I really like a lot of her poetry, but this is my favorite of hers: One Art The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three beloved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop There are a couple more poems that come to mind as favorites, so I'll post those. Ego Trippin (there may be a reason why) By Nikki Giovanni
I was born in the Congo I walked to the Fertile Crescent and built the Sphinx I designed a pyramid so tough that a star that only glows every one hundred years falls into the center giving divine perfect light. I am bad.
I sat on the throne drinking nectar with allah I got hot and sent an ice age to Europe to cool my thirst.
My oldest daughter is Nefertiti the tears from my birth pains created the Nile I am beautiful woman.
I gazed upon the forest and burned out the Sahara desert With a packet of goat's meat and a change of clothes I crossed it in two hours I am a gazelle so swift so swift you can't catch me.
For a birthday present when he was three I gave my son Hannibal an elephant He gave me Rome for Mother's Day My strength flows ever on
My son Noah built a new ark and I stood proudly at the helm as we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into my self and was Jesus Men intone my loving name All praise all praise I am the one who would save
I sowed diamonds in my back yard My bowels delivered uranium The fillings from my fingernails are Semi-precious jewels
Once a trip north I caught a cold and blew My nose giving oil to the Arab world I am so hip my errors are correct.
I sailed west to reach east and had to round off the earth as I went The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid across three continents.
I am so perfect, so divine so ethereal so surreal I cannot be comprehended except by my permission
I mean....I....can fly Like a bird in the sky.... Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee-- And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love-- I and my Annabel Lee-- With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we-- Of many far wiser than we-- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: And so, all the night-tide, I lay down by the side Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea-- In her tomb by the sounding sea. And Labby already posted one that I absolutely love, the one by W.H. Auden. Beautiful.
"Lois Lane is Clark Kent's Superman." - Brian Miller
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Kerth
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Kerth
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I loved Dulce Et Decorum Est. Another favourite is The Lady of Shallot by Lord Alfred Tennyson: On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road run by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early, In among the bearded barley Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly; Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, burning bright, Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And around about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance -- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right -- The leaves upon her falling light -- Thro' the noises of the night, She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, And around the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." My next favourite is Auld Lang Syne by Robert Burns Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne!
Chorus.-For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint stowp! And surely I'll be mine! And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary fit, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
And there's a hand, my trusty fere! And gie's a hand o' thine! And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c.
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched they must be felt with the heart
Helen Keller
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Boards Chief Administrator Emeritus Nobel Peace Prize Winner
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Boards Chief Administrator Emeritus Nobel Peace Prize Winner
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Ha! You beat me to it, Crazy_Babe. I was coming back in to add The Lady of Shalott - beautiful. The other one I remembered, which I just adore, is Poe's The Raven. Difficult to beat for sheer imaginative imagery: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! LabRat
Athos: If you'd told us what you were doing, we might have been able to plan this properly. Aramis: Yes, sorry. Athos: No, no, by all means, let's keep things suicidal.
The Musketeers
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Joined: Oct 2007
Posts: 242
Hack from Nowheresville
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Hack from Nowheresville
Joined: Oct 2007
Posts: 242 |
I feel like I'm back at SMU doing my Lit degree! So many of these I studied, tore apart, wrote essays on, and memorized to pass class. Here are a few others that I love: "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought
And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! and through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "I wandered lonely as a cloud" by William Wordsworth 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. the first poem we had to memorize in class: "The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams so much depends upon
a red wheel barrow
glazed with rain water
beside the white chickens. "I saw a jolly hunter" by Charles Causley I saw a jolly hunter With a jolly gun Walking in the country In the jolly sun.
In the jolly meadow Sat a jolly hare. Saw the jolly hunter. Took jolly care.
Hunter jolly eager- Sight of jolly prey. Forgot gun pointing Wrong jolly way.
Jolly hunter jolly head Over heels gone. Jolly old safety catch Not jolly on.
Bang went the jolly gun. Hunter jolly dead. Jolly hare got clean away. Jolly good, I said. "Ballad of Birmingham" by Dudley Randall "Mother dear, may I go downtown Instead of out to play, And march the streets of Birmingham In a Freedom March today?"
"No, baby, no, you may not go, For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and hoses, guns and jails Aren't good for a little child."
"But, mother, I won't be alone. Other children will go with me, And march the streets of Birmingham To make our country free."
"No, baby, no, you may not go, For I fear those guns will fire. But you may go to church instead And sing in the children's choir."
She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, And white shoes on her feet.
The mother smiled to know that her child Was in the sacred place, But that smile was the last smile To come upon her face.
For when she heard the explosion, Her eyes grew wet and wild. She raced through the streets of Birmingham Calling for her child.
She clawed through bits of glass and brick, Then lifted out a shoe. "O, here's the shoe my baby wore, But, baby, where are you?" "Reincarnation" by Wallace McRae "What does Reincarnation mean?" A cowpoke asked his friend. His pal replied, "It happens when Yer life has reached its end. They comb yer hair, and warsh yer neck, And clean yer fingernails, And lay you in a padded box Away from life's travails."
"The box and you goes in a hole, That's been dug into the ground. Reincarnation starts in when Yore planted 'neath a mound. Them clods melt down, just like yer box, And you who is inside. And then yore just beginnin' on Yer transformation ride."
"In a while, the grass'll grow Upon yer rendered mound. Till some day on yer moldered grave A lonely flower is found. And say a hoss should wander by And graze upon this flower That once wuz you, but now's become Yer vegetative bower."
"The posy that the hoss done ate Up, with his other feed, Makes bone, and fat, and muscle Essential to the steed, But some is left that he can't use And so it passes through, And finally lays upon the ground This thing, that once wuz you."
"Then say, by chance, I wanders by And sees this upon the ground, And I ponders, and I wonders at, This object that I found. I thinks of reincarnation, Of life and death, and such, And come away concludin': 'Slim, You ain't changed, all that much.'" Okay, I have to stop now! Desiree
Don't think about the pink elephant... I dare you!
Thanks to Tineke for the avatar
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Joined: Apr 2003
Posts: 3,627
Pulitzer
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Pulitzer
Joined: Apr 2003
Posts: 3,627 |
Poe, Dickinson, and Frost are my big 3. One of my favs by Dickinson, just for kicks: Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove At recess, in the ring; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, be passed us; The dews grew quivering and chill, For only gossamer my gown, My tippet only tulle.
We paused before house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.
"Meg...who let you back in the house?" -Family Guy
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Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 1,208
Top Banana
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OP
Top Banana
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 1,208 |
I've grown particularly attached to this one recently, and anyone who shares my current obsession should be able to see why. Hmmm.... I'm pretty sure I know which 'obsession' you are referring to Trin. And that poem does fit very nicey. BTW, I finished the 1st book last night. So friggin good! I've really enjoyed a lot of these Poems. I forgot how much I liked Robert Frost. And it's been cool to see some new ones too.
A government which robs Peter to pay Paul can always depend on the support of Paul.
-George Bernard Shaw
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Joined: Dec 2003
Posts: 516
Columnist
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Columnist
Joined: Dec 2003
Posts: 516 |
Several of my favorite poems have all ready been listed here like High Flight. My favorite Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant about death is rather long so I'm not going to posted but I will post 2 others that I love - one sad, one funny with a view point.
Prayer For A Very New Angel by: Violet Alleyn Storey
God, God, be lenient her first night there. The crib she slept in was so near my bed; Her blue-and-white wool blanket was so soft, Her pillow hollowed so to fit her head.
Teach me that she'll not want small rooms or me When she had You and Heaven's immensity!
I always left a light out in the hall. I hoped to make her fearless in the dark; And yet, she was so small-one little light, Not in the room, it scarcely mattered. Hark!
No, no; she seldom cried! God, not too far For her to see, this first night, light a star!
And in the morning, when she first woke up, I always kissed her on her left cheek where The dimple was. And oh, I wet the brush, It made it easier to curl her hair.
Just, just tomorrow morning, God, I pray, When she wakes up, do things for her my way!
The Monkey's Viewpoint (author unknown)
Three monkeys sat in a coconut tree, Discussin things as they're said to be. Said one to the others: "Now listen you two; There's a certain rumor that can't be true: That man descends from our noble race. The very idea! It's a dire disgrace! No monkey ever deserted his wife. Starved her baby and ruined her life. And you've never know a mother monk; To leave the babies with others to bunk; Or pass them on from one to another Till they scarcely know who is their mother. And another thing: You'll never see A monk build a fence 'round a coconut tree, And let the coconuts go to waste, Forbidding all other monks a taste Why, if I put a fence around the tree, Starvation would force you to steal from me. Here's another thing a monk won't do Go out at night and get on a stew; Or use a gun or a club or knife To take some other monkey's life. Yes, man descended, the ornery cuss, But, brothers, he didn't descend from us."
The first poem I always found sad but also so very sweet and loving. Now the second well it says a lot about us and how a strange visitor from another planet my view us.
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Joined: Jun 2003
Posts: 145
Hack from Nowheresville
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Hack from Nowheresville
Joined: Jun 2003
Posts: 145 |
My all time favorite is "If" by Rudyard Kipling. "IF"
By Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master; If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two imposters just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -- Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!
Did is a word of achievement Won't is a word of retreat Might is a word of bereavement Can't is a word of defeat Ought is a word of duty Try is a word of each hour Will is a word of beauty Can is a word of power
--Author Unknown
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Joined: Oct 2005
Posts: 378
Beat Reporter
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Beat Reporter
Joined: Oct 2005
Posts: 378 |
Unlike many of you, I love poetry. I love it more than novels, more than movies, sometimes even more than music. I buy a lot of contemporary poets' works, so, I will post poems by artists no one here has probably ever read: By Wendell Berry--because it expresses completely how I feel about my best friend/the love of my life. Except Now that you have gone and I am alone and quiet, my contentment would be complete, if I did not wish you were here so I could say, "How good it is, Tanya, to be alone and quiet." And this is the poem that means a lot to me, because I've moved many, many times in my life, and it's hard to explain to people you leave behind what it's like when/if you meet again. It's by Denise Levertov who has some great poems and some poems that are only great if you're a huge lover of nature as she was. from...Everything That Acts Is Actual The flawed moon acts on the truth, and makes an autumn of tentative silences. You lived, but somewhere else, your presence touched others, ring upon ring, and changed. Did you think I would not change?
The black moon turns away, its work done. A tenderness, unspoken autumn. We are faithful only to the imagination. What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth. What holds you to what you see of me is that grasp alone. And to end, a poem by one of the US's poet laureates, Richard Wilbur. I like this poem, because it's about the way our definitions of beauty change just as we ourselves change and the world around us changes. The Beautiful Changes One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides The Queen Anne's Lace lying like lilies
On water; it glides
So from the walker, it turns Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of you Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes.
The beautiful changes as a forest is changed By a chameleon's tuning his skin to it;
As a mantis, arranged
On a green leaf, grows
Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.
Your hands hold roses always in a way that says
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes
In such kind ways,
Wishing ever to sunder
Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder. This was a great post. I need to go read more now!
**~~**
Swoosh --->
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Joined: Apr 2003
Posts: 9,362
Boards Chief Administrator Emeritus Nobel Peace Prize Winner
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Boards Chief Administrator Emeritus Nobel Peace Prize Winner
Joined: Apr 2003
Posts: 9,362 |
I was reminded of this favourite today by a quote in the book I was reading: Leisure - Wm. Henry Davies.
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. LabRat
Athos: If you'd told us what you were doing, we might have been able to plan this properly. Aramis: Yes, sorry. Athos: No, no, by all means, let's keep things suicidal.
The Musketeers
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Joined: Feb 2007
Posts: 81
Freelance Reporter
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Freelance Reporter
Joined: Feb 2007
Posts: 81 |
neat thread! mine is Invictus by William Ernest Henley Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul. very inspirational if you ask me :p
Sarah,
Tempus: You want to know the future, Miss Lane? No one works, no one argues, there are 9,000 channels and nothing on!
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