Favorite Poems/Poets

[thistlepong]

Barbara Guest

AN EMPHASIS FALLS ON REALITY

Cloud fields change into furniture

furniture metamorphizes into fields

an emphasis falls on reality.

"It snowed toward morning," a barcarole

the words stretched severely

silhouettes they arrived in trenchant cut

the face of lilies...

I was envious of fair realism.

I desired sunrise to revise itself

as apparition, majestic in evocativeness,

two fountains traced nearby on a lawn....

you recall treatments

of 'being' and 'nothingness'

illuminations apt

to appear from variable directions -

they are orderly as motors

floating on the waterway,

so silence is pictorial

when silence is real.

The wall is more real than shadow

or that letter composed of calligraphy

each vowel replaces a wall

a costume taken from space

donated by walls....

These metaphors may be apprehended after

they have brought their dogs and cats

born on roads near willows,

willows are not real trees

they entangle us in looseness,

the natural world spins in green.

A column chosen from distance

mounts into the sky while the font

is classical,

they will destroy the disturbed font

as it enters modernity and is rare....

The necessary idealizing of you reality

is part of the search, the journey

where two figures embrace

This house was drawn for them

it looks like a real house

perhaps they will move in today

into ephemaral dusk and

move out of that into night

selective night with trees,

The darkened copies of all trees.

[Rhaegar Targaryen's Ghost]

The Waste Land- T.S.Eliot. Absolutely Phenomenal.

[Sci-2]

The Way It Is

There is a thread you follow.

It goes among things that change.

But it doesn’t change.

People wonder about what

things you are pursuing.

You have to explain about the thread.

But it is hard for others to see.

While you hold it you can’t get lost.

Tragedies happen; people get hurt

or die; and you suffer and grow old.

Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.

But you don’t ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford

[Galactus]

Let's see, just a couple of them...

I tend to like well, fragments of poems, more like quotes, than the entire thing.

„Du mußt herrschen und gewinnen, oder dienen und verlieren, leiden oder triumphieren, Amboß oder Hammer sein."

-Goethe

"You must rule and win, or serve and lose, suffer or triumph, either be anvil or hammer."

Or how about a bit longer?

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?

Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;

Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,

Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

"Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?" –

"Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?

Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?" –

"Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif."

"Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!

Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;

Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,

Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand." –

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,

Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?" –

"Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;

In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind." –

"Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehen?

Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;

Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,

Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein." –

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort

Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?" –

"Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau:

Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. –"

"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;

Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt." –

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!

Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!" –

Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,

Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,

Erreicht den Hof mit Müh' und Not;

In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

Or some Fröding:

"Men strunt är strunt och snus är snus, om och i gyllne dosor,

och rosor i ett sprucket krus är ändå alltid rosor."

"But nonsense is nonsense and snuff is snuff, although in golden boxes

and roses in a broken jar, are still forever roses."

A quick one I learned from Alpha Centauri:

"We sit together.

The Mountain and I

'till only The Mountain remains."

-Li Po

Or some classic 19th century bombasm: Tegnér "Det Eviga"

Väl formar den starke med svärdet sin värld,

Väl flyga som örnar hans rykten;

Men någon gång brytes det vandrande svärd

Och örnarna fällas i flykten.

Vad våldet må skapa är vanskligt och kort,

Det dör som en stormvind i öknen bort.

Men sanningen lever. Bland bilor och svärd

Lugn står hon med strålande pannan.

Hon leder igenom den nattliga värld

Och pekar alltjämt till en annan.

Det sanna är evigt: Kring himmel och jord

Genljuda från släkte till släkte dess ord.

Det rätta är evigt: Ej rotas där ut

Från jorden dess trampade lilja.

Erövrar det onda all världen till slut,

Så kan du det rätta dock vilja.

Förföljs det utom dig med list och våld,

Sin fristad det har i ditt bröst fördold.

Och viljan, som stängdes i lågande bröst,

Tar mandom, lik Gud, och blir handling.

Det rätta får armar, det sanna får röst,

Och folken stå upp till förvandling.

De offer du bragte, de faror du lopp,

De stiga som stjärnor ur Lethe opp.

Och dikten är icke som blommornas doft,

Som färgade bågen i skyar.

Det sköna, du bildar, är mera än stoft,

Och åldern dess anlet förnyar.

Det sköna är evigt: Med fiken håg

Vi fiska dess guldsand ur tidens våg.

Så fatta all sanning, så våga all rätt,

Och bilda det sköna med glädje!

De tre dö ej ut bland människors ätt,

Och till dem från tiden vi vädje.

Vad tiden dig gav må du ge igen,

Blott det eviga bor i ditt hjärta än.

[The Marquis de Leech]

No Dylan Thomas? Heathens.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Ser Scot A Ellison]

RBPL,

How about this one:

And death shall have no dominion.

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.

Under the windings of the sea

They lying long shall not die windily;

Twisting on racks when sinews give way,

Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;

Faith in their hands shall snap in two,

And the unicorn evils run them through;

Split all ends up they shan't crack;

And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.

No more may gulls cry at their ears

Or waves break loud on the seashores;

Where blew a flower may a flower no more

Lift its head to the blows of the rain;

Though they be mad and dead as nails,

Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;

Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,

I've always liked it. :)

And death shall have no dominion.

[RebeccaSigyn]

I'm a huge Robert Frost fan & I absolutely adore Edgar Allen Poe.

"Fire & Ice" and "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" are my favorites from Frost.

For Poe "Annabell Lee" & of course "The Raven"

[Sci-2]

Siempre

William Aberg

She tells me through the vent

from the cell below

that they're taking her

on the morning train to the pinta,

that the guards have already packed

everything but her sheets, blue jumpsuit, and towel.

Through the floor,

with my heart as with an eye,

I can see her as she sits

on the bunk, face

cupped in her hands,

elbows propped on her thighs,

cheeks smudged by fingermarks

and tears, her dark

hair eclipsing her knees.

I try to reassure her

with wisdom I do not have,

and hope I try to fake,

that the hammer

and anvil of coming days

will forge us into

something stronger.

By the time they unlock

my cell at breakfast,

she has already gone. But later

as I walk back in my boxers

from the shower, an older guard,

the kind one, slips a note

into my hand, whispers,

She sent her love. Back in my cell

I unfold a note that says,

Te amo, siempre in crude letters

formed by a finger and menstrual blood.

[The Marquis de Leech]

RBPL,

How about this one:

I've always liked it. :)

And death shall have no dominion.

Yep, Thomas is awesome. Also there's A Child's Christmas in Wales

http://classiclit.about.com/od/christmasstoriesholiday/a/aa_childswales.htm

Not strictly poetry, more a poetic story, but I grew up with the 1980s TV film they made of it.

[The Marquis de Leech]

As for Poe, my favourite has to be The Bells. For sheer sound effects of language.

[RebeccaSigyn]

As for Poe, my favourite has to be The Bells. For sheer sound effects of language.

Awesome choice I can't tell you how much I love him!

"Bells, bells,bells -to the moaning and the groaning of the bells"

[Ser Scot A Ellison]

RBPL,

My daughter is big ito poe right now.

[Angalin]

The Happiest Day

It was early May, I think

a moment of lilac or dogwood

when so many promises are made

it hardly matters if a few are broken.

My mother and father still hovered

in the background, part of the scenery

like the houses I had grown up in,

and if they would be torn down later

that was something I knew

but didn't believe. Our children were asleep

or playing, the youngest as new

as the new smell of the lilacs,

and how could I have guessed

their roots were shallow

and would be easily transplanted.

I didn't even guess that I was happy.

The small irritations that are like salt

on melon were what I dwelt on,

though in truth they simply

made the fruit taste sweeter.

So we sat on the porch

in the cool morning, sipping

hot coffee. Behind the news of the day--

strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere--

I could see the top of your dark head

and thought not of public conflagrations

but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.

If someone could stop the camera then...

if someone could only stop the camera

and ask me: are you happy?

perhaps I would have noticed

how the morning shone in the reflected

color of lilac. Yes, I might have said

and offered a steaming cup of coffee.

Linda Pastan

(I have a particular fondness for this poem, as it inspired one that breathed new life into my own writing. :))

[Jojen]

Frost, Cummings, Yeats, Basho, Tagore, Leonard Cohen, Borges.

Two of my favorites by E.E. Cummings:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

_______________

o by the by

has anybody seen

little you-i

who stood on a green

hill and threw

his wish at blue

with a swoop and a dart

out flew his wish

(it dived like a fish

but it climbed like a dream)

throbbing like a heart

singing like a flame

blue took it my

far beyond far

and high beyond high

bluer took it your

but bluest took it our

away beyond where

what a wonderful thing

is the end of a string

(murmurs little you-i

as the hill becomes nil)

and will somebody tell

me why people let go

[Vic-tarion Rattlehead]

My all-time favorites are Dante Alighieri, Alexander Pushkin ("Eugene Onegin" is a masterpiece) and... Martin Walkyier (while he's considered more a lyricist than a poet).

[Tyler Snow]

Favorite Poem- "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 impostors 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!

[Sci-2]

I stood before a silk worm one day.

And that night my heart said to me,

"I can do things like that, I can spin skies, I can be woven into love that can bring warmth to people; I can be soft against a crying face, I can be wings that lift, and I can travel on my thousand feet throughout the earth, my sacks filled with the sacred."

And I replied to my heart,

"Dear, can you really do all those things?"

And it just nodded "Yes" in silence.

So we began and will never cease.

-Rumi

[Sci-2]

ATLANTIS by Auden

Being set on the idea

Of getting to Atlantis

You have discovered of course

Only the Ship of Fools

Is making the voyage this year,

As gales of abnormal force

Are predicted, and that you

Must therefore be ready to

Behave absurdly enough

To pass for one of The Boys,

At least appearing to love

Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

Should storms, as may well happen,

Drive you to anchor a week

In some old harbour-city

Of Ionia, then speak

With her witty scholars, men

Who have proved there cannot be

Such a place as Atlantis:

Learn their logic, but notice how its subtlety betrays

Their enormous simple grief;

Thus they shall teach you the ways

To doubt that you may believe.

If later, you run aground

Among the headlands of Thrace,

Where with torches all night long

A naked barbaric race

Leaps frenziedly to the sound

Of conch and dissonant gong;

On that stony savage shore

Strip off your clothes and dance, for

Unless you are capable

Of forgetting completely

About Atlantis, you will

Never finish your journey.

Again, should you come to gay

Carthage or Corinth, take part

In their endless gaiety;

And if in some bar a tart,

As she strokes your hair, should say

‘This is Atlantis, dearie,’

Listen with attentiveness

To her life-story: unless

You become acquainted now

With each refuge that tries to

Counterfeit Atlantis, how

Will you recognise the true?

Assuming you beach at last

Near Atlantis, and begin

That terrible trek inland

Through squalid woods and frozen

Tundras where all are soon lost;

If, forsaken then, you stand,

Dismissal everywhere,

Stone and snow, silence and air,

O remember the great dead

And honour the fate you are,

Travelling and tormented,

Dialectic and bizarre.

Stagger onwards rejoicing;

And even then if, perhaps

Having actually got

To the last col, you collapse

With all Atlantis shining

Below you yet you cannot

Descend, you should still be proud

Just to peep at Atlantis,

In a poetic vision:

Give thanks and lie down in peace,

Having seen your salvation.

All the little household gods

Have started crying, but say

Goodbye now, and put out to sea.

Farewell, my dear, farewell: may

Hermes, master of the roads

And the four dwarf Kabiri,

Protect and serve you always;

And may the Ancient of Days

Provide for all you must do

His invisible guidance,

Lifting up, dear, upon you

The light of His countenance.

=-=-=

So we found ourselves in an ancient place, the very

air around us bound by chains. There was

stagnant water in which lightning

was reflected, like desperation

in a dying eye. Like science. Like

a dull rock plummeting through space, tossing

off flowers and veils, like a bride. And

also the subway.

Speed under ground.

And the way each body in the room appeared to be

a jar of wasps and flies that day—but, enchanted,

like frightened children's laughter.

Laura Kasischke

[Chise]

I don't care if this is the most childish post in this thread, this thing still speaks to me

A learned cat whiles away the hours

By walking slowly round and round.

To right he walks, and sings a ditty;

To left he walks, and tells a tale....

What marvels there! A mermaid sitting

High in a tree, a sprite, a trail

Where unknown beasts move never seen by .... etc etc.. (ok, too lazy to actually find whole English thing)

[Angalin]

I am reading rather than writing, and this is one I refound for the thread.

The boy who nearly won the Texaco Art Competition

he took a large sheet

of white paper and on this

he made the world an african world

of flat topped trees and dried grasses

and he painted an elephant in the middle

and a lion with a big mane and several giraffes

stood over the elephant and some small animals to fill

in the gaps he worked all day had a bath this was saturday

on sunday he put six jackals

in the world and a great big snake

and buzzards in the sky and tickbirds

on the elephants back he drew down blue

from the sky to make a river and got the elephants

legs all wet and smudged and one of the jackals got drowned

he put red flowers in the front of the picture and daffodils in the bottom corners

and his dog major chewing a bone and mrs murphys two cats tom and jerry

and milo the milkman with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth

and his merville dairy float pulled by his wonder horse trigger

that would walk when he said click click and the holy family

in the top right corner with the donkey and cow

and sheep and baby jesus and got the 40A bus

on monday morning in to abbey street to hand

it in and the man on the door said

thats a sure winner

by Joe Kane