# Your Favorite Poem



## winn (Dec 31, 2005)

I have greatly enjoyed the posts in The Interchange that have allowed me to get to know participants here beyond the exterior veneer, so to speak, that is so often the focus of discussions.

On this rainy day in central NJ, I was hanging out at Barnes and Noble, and I thought I would look for "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man" by Robert W. Service. Fat chance. It has been out of print for a while and dates back to 1916. I know there are online sources to find it. I did stumble upon this poem, one of my favorites, "The Cremation of Sam McGee"


So, what are your favorites? Or what is your favorite for the moment? Please provide a link, if that is possible.

Cheers,
Winn


----------



## RJman (Nov 11, 2003)

I read the "Christabel;" 
Very well: 
I read the "Missionary;" 
Pretty - very: 
I tried at "Ilderim;" 
Ahem! 
I read a sheet of "Marg'ret of _Anjou_;" 
_Can you?; _ 
I turned a page of Webster's "Waterloo;" 
Pooh! Pooh! 
I looked at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone Doe;" 
Hillo! 
I read "Glenarvon," too, by Caro. Lamb; 
God damn!

-- Lord Byron

-- RJman


----------



## young guy (Jan 6, 2005)

I wish I knew something about poetry - real poetry not the greeting card variety. I hope a lot of people make a lot of recommendation - so I can learn something.
Thanks


----------



## JLibourel (Jun 13, 2004)

> quote:_Originally posted by winn_
> 
> I have greatly enjoyed the posts in The Interchange that have allowed me to get to know participants here beyond the exterior veneer, so to speak, that is so often the focus of discussions.
> 
> ...


We had "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man" in my family library. I read those poems often as a kid.

As to a single favorite poem, the Iliad, I guess.


----------



## Yckmwia (Mar 29, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by young guy_
> 
> I wish I knew something about poetry - real poetry not the greeting card variety. I hope a lot of people make a lot of recommendation - so I can learn something.
> Thanks


The study of "poetry in English" is the task of a lifetime. A good place to start is to purchase a copy of _The New Penguin Book of English Verse_; which, as anthologies go, is first-rate (although it contains no American poetry.) Timothy Steele's _All The Fun's In How You Say A Thing_ is one of the best introductions to prosody and versification available. The rest is up to you. As for favorites, these come and go, but I return always to Yeats. Here is an example of W.B.'s genuis, linked to a topic raised on another thread,

In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams â€"
Some vague Utopia â€" and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion,
mix pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.

Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful.
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow

"I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just." Thomas Jefferson


----------



## Rich (Jul 10, 2005)

Something by Philip Larkin.


----------



## Karl89 (Feb 20, 2005)

Rich,

Did you read the Andrew Motion bio of Larkin? I too like the Hermit of Hull.

Karl


----------



## Fogey (Aug 27, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by Yckmwia_
> 
> 
> 
> ...


A lovely poem, of a lovely place. Sir Josslyn Gore-Booth, the present baronet, sadly sold Lissadell out of the family in 2003, and its original contents have been scattered via the auction hammer. [V]


----------



## Fogey (Aug 27, 2005)

A few of my favourites:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'To the Poet' (1830), by Alexander Pushkin (as translated by Constance Garnett).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thou shalt not, poet, prize the people's love.
The noise of their applause will quickly die;
Then thou shalt hear the judgment of the fool,
And chilling laughter from the multitude.
But stand thou firm, untroubled and austere;
Thou art a king, and kings must live alone.
Thine own free spirit calls to thee; pass on,
Make perfect the fair blossom of thy dreams,
Nor ask for praises of achievement won.
Praise lives within; 'tis thou that art the judge,
And thine, the strictest judgement of them all.
Art thou content? Then leave the herd to howl;
Leave them to spit upon thine altar fires -
And on the dancing incense of thy shrine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Song' (1771), by William Blake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
...And tasted all the summer's pride,
'Till I the prince of love beheld,
...Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
...And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
...And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
...And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
...Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
...And mocks my loss of liberty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Maundy Thursday' (1913/4), by Wilfred Owen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Between the brown hands of a server-lad
The silver cross was offered to be kissed.
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.
(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)
Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,
(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)
Young children came, with eager lips and glad.
(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)
Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte.
Above the crucifix I bent my head:
The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:
And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling.
(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Fire and Ice' (1920), by Robert Frost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some say the world will end in fire, 
Some say in ice. 
From what Iâ€™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 say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


----------



## Liberty Ship (Jan 26, 2006)

Lines on Ale
by Edgar Allen Poe

Fill with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain -
Quaintest thoughts - queerist fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today. 

But, seriously, Shelly's "Ode to the West Wind" and "Ozymandias," any of Keats' great Odes, and Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." And, of course, Yeats' "Second Coming."


----------



## Kav (Jun 19, 2005)

Service is a great poet to recite standing on a bartable in Dutch Harbour Alaska, drinking hot buttered rhums while your semi-appreciative shipmates throw discarded King Crab shells at you, the topless dancer gives dirty looks over the competition and an honest to god Iditarod retired sleddog howls The Fish by G.K. Chesterton is a particular favourite.


----------



## marc_au (Apr 22, 2004)

When l was a lad l used to be the poetry king. l would always recite poetry by heart every week at school assembly. l would also study poetry and archyology with my grandmother on Saturday nights for many years. l always got 100% at school for my poetry studies.

My old favourite is simple but l still love it.
lt's called: *Around the boree log* by John O'Brien. l also like the works of Longfellow. l found the works of Tenneson alittle more tricky though.

Regards: Ronny.

*GR8MAN (The Shooman) B8MAN.*


----------



## Fogey (Aug 27, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by marc_au_
> 
> When l was a lad l used to be the poetry king. l would always recite poetry by heart every week at school assembly. l would also study poetry with my grandmothers on Saturday nights. l always got 100% at school for my poetry studies.
> 
> ...


What's your IQ, Ronny?


----------



## Fogey (Aug 27, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by marc_au_
> 
> 
> 
> ...


Your IQ doesn't surprise me. Even through your spelling indiscretions it is obvious that you are operating on a much higher level than average (English is a very illogical language, and so many kinds of genius have trouble using it in a conventional, or even standard way). Being very health-conscious (especially in eccentric ways) is also a common trait among the cognitively gifted. I hope you will contribute to my new Interchange thread relating to IQ and dress.


----------



## TheRookie (May 7, 2004)

When You Are Old by W.B. Yeats

When you are old and gray and full of sleep 
And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 

How many loved your moments of glad grace, 
And loved your beauty with love false or true; 
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, 
And loved the sorrows of your changing face. 

And bending down beside the glowing bars, 
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled 
And paced upon the mountains overhead, 
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


----------



## marc_au (Apr 22, 2004)

l remember when l used to read aloud poetry. l've never been so passionate in my life. l should have won an acting award. Some words are loud, some very soft, some boustrous and some sweet....all at a moments notice. l never just read poetry, l performed it with all my passion. Even the teachers used to say: "you have interpreted this poem better than l could ever imagine, if l could give you more than 100%, l would". l had a perfect 100% average that term.l did English literiture in year 12 and got 100%.

Actually, l used to use big words like Raj-man (RJman) but l found that most people never understood what l was talking about (it isolated me) so l decided to use words that people would understand. (l'm sure Raj wouldn't use all the words he uses at ACCC in real life. l tried it and it does work. My vocab is pretty small these days because you have to be able to relate to the average man).

*GR8MAN (The Shooman) B8MAN.*


----------



## n/a (Sep 4, 2002)

Percy Bysshe Shelley: "Song"

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

(First stanza only)

Shelley dealt so beautifully with the themes of politics, history and philosophy... and also love. As a young British gay man I just adore this poem. 

The first two lines are quoted in the score of the Elgar 2nd Symphony. Typically with Elgar, litterary connections are ambiguous, yet he did refer to his symphony as the "passionate pilgrimage of a soul". Anybody that knows this profoundly moving work would understand.


----------



## rojo (Apr 29, 2004)

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert

It's hard to pick one favorite, but I've always loved Coleridge:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea...
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.


----------



## cufflink44 (Oct 31, 2005)

I find myself returning over and over again to T.S. Eliot, and in particular to the _Four Quartets_.

It's funny. The Quartets are sometimes classified as religious poetry, and I'm anything but religious. I'm also aware of unsavory things in Eliot's biography, including, apparently, antisemitism, which shows up in some of his earlier poetry. And parts of the Quartets are, to me, quite impenetrable.

Despite all that, this poetry speaks to me like no other. I can't really explain it. There's something about the way Eliot uses language, and the way he conjures up images, that clicks with me and haunts me. At various times in my life, I've had whole pages of Burnt Norton and Little Gidding memorized.

BTW, for Yckmwia and TheRookie, who posted poems by Yeats: I wasn't able to track down the exact quote, but if I recall correctly, Eliot's capsule evaluation of Yeats went something like this: "the greatest poet in the English language, and, as far as I know, in any other language as well."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.

T.S. Eliot, _Burnt Norton_, I:11-43

----------------------------------------------------------
Ah, Love! could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

Fitzgerald, _Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_, 2nd ed.:CVIII


----------



## Rich (Jul 10, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by Karl89_
> 
> Rich,
> 
> ...


No - I must. Thanks for reminding me!

Here's a little one I especially like:

The daily things we do
For money or for fun
Can disappear like dew
Or harden and live on.
Strange reciprocity:
The circumstance we cause
In time gives rise to us,
Becomes our memory.


----------



## rudiddy (Aug 10, 2005)

While admittedly a bit macabre, I have always liked Theodore O'Hara's â€œBivouac of the Dead.â€ Stanzas from this are posted on placards throughout the Arlington National Cemetery.

"*BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD*" 
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 
That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance 
Now swells upon the wind; 
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts 
Of loved ones left behind; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 
The warrior's dream alarms; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shriveled swords are red with rust, 
Their plumed heads are bowed, 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 
Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed 
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 
The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
The din and shout, are past; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 
Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that nevermore may feel 
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane 
That sweeps the great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 
Came down the serried foe, 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 
Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 
Was "Victory or death!"

Long had the doubtful conflict raged 
O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 
The vengeful blood of Spain; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 
Still swelled the gory tide; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 
Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command 
Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 
The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their father's gore 
His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 
Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother's breath has swept 
O'er Angostura's plain -- 
And long the pitying sky has wept 
Above its moldered slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground 
Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 
Shall be your fitter grave; 
She claims from war his richest spoil -- 
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
On many a bloody shield; 
The sunshine of their native sky 
Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
The heroes sepulcher.

Rest on embalmed and sainted dead! 
Dear as the blood ye gave; 
No impious footstep shall here tread 
The herbage of your grave; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 
While fame her records keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanquished ago has flown, 
The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 
That gilds your deathless tomb.​
<i><font color="green"><center><h2><b>Ru-diddy</b></h2></center></font id="green"></i>


----------



## ashie259 (Aug 25, 2005)

I know it's somewhat hackneyed these days, but for me, Shelley's 'Ozymandias' never fails to give satisfaction. The whole vanity of human aspirations theme is one of my hobby horses:

I met a traveler 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 upon 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.


----------



## Earthmover (Jan 3, 2005)

My favorite will always be The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. My other favorites include poems from Matthew Arnold, W.H. Auden, Paul Eluard and Guillaume Apollinaire. I'm currently on a John Berryman kick, reading his shorter poems before bracing myself to take on the entirety of the Dream Songs.

In my AIM profile, I also have a designated poem section that changes after an uncertain period of time. Some of the ones I used are:

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock: https://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

Dover Beach, Matthew Arnold: https://www.victorianweb.org/authors/arnold/writings/doverbeach.html

Musee des Beaux Arts, W.H. Auden:

LibertÃ©, Paul Eluard:

Still Falls the Rain, Edith Sitwell: https://www.speakout.org.za/action/poems/poems_still_falls_the_rain.htm

The Duino Elegies - The First Elegy, Ranier Maria Rilke:

Should This Life Sometimes Deceive..., by Aleksandr Pushkin: https://www.russianlegacy.com/russian_culture/poetry/pushkin/should_this_life.htm


----------



## mpcsb (Jan 1, 2005)

e e cummings

e.g.:

Sweet springtime is my time is your time is our time 
for springtime 
is love time 
and viva sweet love.


----------



## Yckmwia (Mar 29, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by JLPWCXIII_
> 
> 
> 
> ...


----------



## Yckmwia (Mar 29, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by Rich_
> 
> 
> 
> ...


Perhaps Larkin's "This Be The Verse" should be cross-posted so that it may be contemplated by those who are wondering "if soulmates exist." It might be of some assistance. I believe "Church Going" will, in time, be recognized as the equal of "Elegy Written In A Country Church-Yard."

"I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just." Thomas Jefferson


----------



## Yckmwia (Mar 29, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by ashie259_
> 
> I know it's somewhat hackneyed these days, but for me, Shelley's 'Ozymandias' never fails to give satisfaction. The whole vanity of human aspirations theme is one of my hobby horses:
> 
> ...


Hackneyed? What tone-deaf fool has said this? Preposterous. And if the story is true that Shelley knocked this off in 20 minutes or so on a dare . . . well, the only appropriate response is that of Igor Ter-Ovanesyan, when he witnessed another display of spontaneous genius: "compared to this . . . we are as children"

"I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just." Thomas Jefferson


----------



## Mr. Di Liberti (Jan 24, 2006)

These two came to mind reading the question:

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
~ David Herbert Lawrence

Moon over Japan,
White butterfly moon!
Where the heavy-lidded Buddhas dream 
To the sound of the cuckoo's call...
The white wings of moon butterflies
Flicker down the streets of the city,
Blushing into silence the useless wicks of sound-lanterns
in the hands of girls

Moon over the tropics,
A white-curved bud
Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven...
The air is full of odours
And languorous warm sounds...
A flute drones its insect music to the night
Below the curving moon-petal of the heavens.
Moon over China,
Weary moon on the river of the sky,
The stir of light in the willows is like the flashing of a
thousand silver minnows
Through dark shoals;
The tiles on graves and rotting temples flash like ripples,
The sky is flecked with clouds like the scales of a dragon.
~ Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Anthony

Courtesy is as much a mark of a gentleman as courage ~ Theodore Roosevelt


----------



## Rich (Jul 10, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by Yckmwia_
> 
> Perhaps Larkin's "This Be The Verse" should be cross-posted so that it may be contemplated by those who are wondering "if soulmates exist." It might be of some assistance.


...or for those who have taken the plunge, "To My Wife":

Choice of you shuts up that peacock fan
The future was, in which temptingly spread
All that elaborative nature can.
Matchless potential but unlimited
Only so long as I elected nothing;
Simply to choose stopped all ways up but one,
And sent the tease-birds from the bushes flapping,
No future now. I and you now, alone.

So for your face I have exchanged all faces,
For your few properties bargained the brisk
Baggage, the mask-and-magic-man's regalia.
Now you become my boredom and my failure,
Another way of suffering, a risk,
A heavier-than-air hypostasis.


----------



## Yckmwia (Mar 29, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by cufflink44_
> 
> I find myself returning over and over again to T.S. Eliot, and in particular to the _Four Quartets_.
> 
> ...


Cuff,

I recall Eliot's remark, but I think it was limited in time, to the 20th Century, or "now writing," or something like that. I don't think Old Possum was sending Yeats to the absolute head of the queue, nor do I believe that Yeats deserves such extreme exaltation. Yeats was not a master of every form, like Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, and others, but he possessed a lyrical genius second to no one writing in English during the "dragon-ridden" 20th Century.

"I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just." Thomas Jefferson


----------



## winn (Dec 31, 2005)

Another favorite of mine:

=====
_Mending Wall_ by Robert Frost (1913)

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 out-door 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 offence. 
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."

=====

In 1961, Robert Frost delivered a poem at the Inauguration of President John F. Kennedy. He had written one poem, _Dedication_, but the glare of the day prevented him from reading it so he recited from memory, _The Gift Outright_. I heard this story back in 1993, when President-elect William Clinton asked Maya Angelou to deliver a poem at his first Inauguration. The poem she composed and delivered was _On the Pulse of Morning_.

_Dedication_ by Robert Frost 
_The Gift Outright_ by Robert Frost 
O_n the Pulse of Morning_ by Maya Angelou

===

Re: _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_. I have tried many times to memorize this one. But I canâ€™t get beyond my mis-recitation: â€œIn the room the women come and go, talking of Barry Manilowâ€. And, there are many, many times I wake up in the morning and ask: â€œDo I dare disturb the universe?â€ but usually conclude â€œI should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seasâ€.

===

_I wish I knew something about poetry - real poetry not the greeting card variety. I hope a lot of people make a lot of recommendation - so I can learn something. Thanks_. (young guy, 5 February 2006)

Would you believe my start at this was as a kid reading through the Childcraft series? Go to your public library and check out a decent anthology as mentioned above or something like _The Oxford Book of English Verse_, _the Oxford Book of American Verse_, or one of the many anthologies by Louis Untermeyer. A noble pursuit. Go for it.

===

Thank you all for your active participation on this one. Now I have some reading to do...

Cheers,
Winn


----------



## Connemara (Sep 16, 2005)

Yeats is the greatest poet of all time (I would place him above Virgil & Homer), as is evident in what may be his most significant work, _The Second Coming_. Literally sends chills down my spine.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

__________________________________________

In addition, I'd add _Elegy written in a Country Churchyard_ by Thomas Gray for sheer brilliance. The language floored me the first time I read it; a real masterpiece.

A link to the poem (it is a bit long): https://www.bartleby.com/101/453.html

-----------------------------
"In summer I sleep under a white ermine cover and in winter, under sable."--Karl Lagerfeld, the one and only.


----------



## AlanC (Oct 28, 2003)

> quote:_Originally posted by marc_au_
> 
> 
> 
> ...


What's the exchange rate run on that?


----------



## DocHolliday (Apr 11, 2005)

Probably something by Robert Burns. I'm also quite a fan of Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol," but likely more for Wilde's story than the poem itself.


----------



## m kielty (Dec 22, 2005)

Dylan Thomas

"FERN HILL"



mk


----------



## Mr. Checks (Dec 21, 2005)

For the dads here:
[WD Snodgrass]

Here in the scuffled dust
is our ground of play.
I lift you on your swing and must
shove you away,
see you return again,
drive you off again, then
stand quiet till you come.

You, though you climb
higher, farther from me, longer,
will fall back to me stronger.

Bad penny, pendulum,
you keep my constant time
to bob in blue July
where fat goldfinches fly
over the glittering, fecund
reach of our growing lands.

Once more now, this second,
I hold you in my hands.

Also:

Theodore Roethke
The Waking
My Papa's Waltz

Frost
Choose Something Like a Star


----------



## Aus_MD (Nov 2, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by AlanC_
> 
> 
> 
> ...


LOL, Alan.

Hard to say - I heard the bottom just fell out of the market.

Aus_MD


----------



## Aus_MD (Nov 2, 2005)

> quote:_Originally posted by Connemara_
> 
> Yeats is the greatest poet of all time (I would place him above Virgil & Homer)...


To these three (and I particulary like Fagal's translations of Homer) I would add Dante.

Aus_MD


----------



## Coolidge24 (Mar 21, 2005)

I really love verses from the Rubaiyat, I have a very old version given to me by my grandmother with gold ends on the pages and beautiful drawings

Among my favorites

But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

and

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

(aka "You Can't Go Home Again")

also, in a sartorial mind, I, like some other past posters on these fora, enjoy Conrad Aiken's little poem "Morning Song of Senlin" particularly the first stanza

*It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my father learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in the saffron mist and seem to die
And I myself upon a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie,
*
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face! -
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea...
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me...

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the star.

Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail track shines on the stones.
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a cloud of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.

The earth revolves around with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with the rains...
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor...

... it is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know...

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.


----------



## bosthist (Apr 4, 2004)

I have been reading Apollonaire and Wallace Stevens recently, and the following, while not necessarily my favorite poem, has stayed in my mind:

"Gray Room" (1917)

by Wallace Stevens

Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
And pick
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Or, with one finger,
Move the leaf in the bowl--
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.


----------



## Mr. Knightly (Sep 1, 2005)

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous
tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

- Keats

Actually all the Odes are truly peerless.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.


----------



## DukeGrad (Dec 28, 2003)

Gentlemen

How did I miss this one.
I love Keats as well.

I love most poetry, am into the metaphysical crap of late.
John Donne is a favorite of mine.

Also, my favorite, and one I reach out to most times, and that is all the time.
I love Corrine Roosevelts " The Path that Leads to Nowhere."
Helps you to dig down real hard and win!

Nice day my friends

Jimmy


----------



## Liberty Ship (Jan 26, 2006)

Also, every time I revisit it, I am taken with Thomas Wolfe's "poem" from the beginning of "Look Homeward, Angel":

"...a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces. Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth. Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone? O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When? O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again."


----------



## LabelKing (Sep 3, 2002)

[.......]

XVI
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
Who still considers himself very likeable

Tristan Tzara

*"In truth, I am not altogether wrong to consider dandyism a form of religion."

Charles Baudelaire*


----------



## Full Canvas (Feb 16, 2006)

KEATS . . .

O blush not so! O blush not so! 
Or I shall think you knowing; 
And if you smile the blushing while, 
Then maidenheads are going. 

There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't, 
And a blush for having done it; 
There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought, 
And a blush for just begun it. 

O sigh not so! O sigh not so! 
For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin; 
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips 
And fought in an amorous nipping. 

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core, 
For it only will last our youth out, 
And we have the prime of the kissing time, 
We have not one sweet tooth out. 

There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay, 
And a sigh for "I can't bear it!" 
O what can be done, shall we stay or run? 
O cut the sweet apple and share it!


----------



## Liberty Ship (Jan 26, 2006)

Well, looks like there is some agreement that Keats is the master. Years ago, when my mother died, I had to recruit a man of God to say a few words graveside. We were never very religious, but it seemed, given the nature of the event, that someone of the cloth was called for. Call me superficial, but I went to the Episcopal church where I thought I could find someone with the right accent. I found a the perfect person, a Rev. Sutherland, from England near the border of Scotland. I told him that he could say anything he wanted about God so long as he was willing to read the opening verse of Keat's "Endymion," below, from my mother's own edition. He was delighted with the idea and did a beautiful job.

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:	
Its loveliness increases; it will never	
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep	
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep	
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 5
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing	
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,	
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth	
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,	
Of all the unhealthy and oâ€™er-darkened ways 10
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,	
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall	
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,	
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon	
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 15
With the green world they live in; and clear rills	
That for themselves a cooling covert make	
â€™Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,	
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:	
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 20
We have imagined for the mighty dead;	
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:	
An endless fountain of immortal drink,	
Pouring unto us from the heavenâ€™s brink.


----------



## DukeGrad (Dec 28, 2003)

Gentlemen

I love Keats so much, as well.
But, poetry changes, as we do.
Read some Donne, without the punctuations, and with the same passion you would read Keats.
Plus a bottle of Laga Vulin 16 would help.

What I am finding, is there is so much there to read.
I enjoy many of your likes here as well.

Nice day my friends

Jimmy


----------



## AddisonBelmont (Feb 2, 2006)

Another fan of Philip Larkin here, although the word "fan" is probably one that Larkin would only handle with tongs. At any rate, here is...

*Reference Back*

That was a pretty one. I heard you call
From the unsatisfactory hall
To the unsatisfactory room where I
Played record after record, idly,
Wasting my time at home, that you
Looked so much forward to.

Oliver's Riverside Blues, it was. And now
I shall, I suppose, always remember how
The flock of notes those antique ******* blew
Out of Chicago air into
A huge remembering pre-electric horn
The year after I was born
Three decades later made this sudden bridge
From your unsatisfactory age
To my unsatisfactory prime.

Truly, though our element is time,
We are not suited to the long perspectives
Open at each instant of our lives.
They link us to our losses: worse,
They show us what we have as it once was,
Blindingly undiminished, just as though
By acting differently we could have kept it so.


----------

