Favorite Poems

[TheLizard]

Does anybody have any poems that they really love? Here are some of my favorites:

"The Sun Wields Mercy"- Charles Bukowski

"Not Waving But Drowning"- Stevie Smith

"I Am"- John Clare

"Me"- Spike Milligan

"Sonnet 130"- William Shakespeare

"Mental Cases"- Wilfred Owen

"The Hand That Signed The Paper"- Dylan Thomas

"I Am The People, The Mob"- Carl Sandburg

"Prospective Immigrants Please Note"- Adrienne Rich

"The Terms In Which I Think Of Reality"- Allen Ginsberg

[Ombre Vivante]

"Richard Cory" by Edward Arlington Robinson

"Out Out - " by Robert Frost

Leaves Of Grass by Walt Whitman

A lot of the soliloquys in The Tragedy of Macbeth, The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, and Hamlet are quite memorable. Also, Edmond Rostand's Cyrano De Bergerac has some really sharp quips, although I'm referring to the old translation and not the Anthony Burgess modified version.

[edna]

Edmond Rostand's Cyrano De Bergerac has some really sharp quips, although I'm referring to the old translation and not the Anthony Burgess modified version.

The original in French is a masterpiece.

[Farin]

I'm afraid I don't know much poems, especially english ones...

but I always like Poe's Raven:

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!

[Ombre Vivante]

I'm sure. Unfortunately, I don't have a grasp of the language. I've tried, but it's near impossible for me to get the pronounciation.

There is another French epic called The Song Of Roland, which rhymes every two lines. The English translation? It rhymes every two lines! That's a masterpiece of translation alone, but it's also pretty good. Homer's Illiad and, I think, The Odyssey were composed in a similar manner in the original Greek.

Eventually, I want to learn another language in order to get the untranslateable nuances

[Lea]

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

The need of my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

and...

Anything by Dorothy Parker.

Rudyard Kipling, E.A. Poe, Rod McKuen, Nothing Gold can Stay by Robert Frost and others of his.

My brothers poetry is some of my favorite. I love poetry so I guess I shouldn't even try to mention all my favorites.

[Farin]

There is another French epic called The Song Of Roland, which rhymes every two lines. The English translation? It rhymes every two lines! That's a masterpiece of translation alone, but it's also pretty good. Homer's Illiad and, I think, The Odyssey were composed in a similar manner in the original Greek.

Faust 1 and 2 rhymes every two lines too

[Levis]

^ Intellectuals the lots of ye

THIS is (one of) my all-time favourite poem(s) by the man I think is my all-time favourite poet:

Two Dogs Have I

by Ogden Nash

For years we've had a little dog,

Last year we acquired a big dog;

He wasn't big when we got him,

He was littler than the dog we had.

We thought our little dog would love him,

Would help him to become a trig dog,

But the new little dog got bigger,

And the old little dog got mad.

Now the big dog loves the little dog,

But the little dog hates the big dog,

The little dog is eleven years old,

And the big dog only one;

The little dog calls him Schweinhund,

The little dog calls him Pig-dog,

She grumbles broken curses

As she dreams in the August sun.

The big dog's teeth are terrible,

But he wouldn't bite the little dog;

The little dog wants to grind his bones,

But the little dog has no teeth;

The big dog is acrobatic,

The little dog is a brittle dog;

She leaps to grip his jugular,

And passes underneath.

The big dog clings to the little dog

Like glue and cement and mortar;

The little dog is his own true love;

But the big dog is to her

Like a scarlet rag to a Longhorn,

Or a suitcase to a porter;

The day he sat on the hornet

I distinctly heard her purr.

Well, how can you blame the little dog,

Who was once the household darling?

He romps like a young Adonis,

She droops like an old mustache;

No wonder she steals his corner,

No wonder she comes out snarling,

No wonder she calls him Cochon

And even Espèce de vache.

Yet once I wanted a sandwich,

Either caviar or cucumber,

When the sun had not yet risen

And the moon had not yet sank;

As I tiptoed through the hallway

The big dog lay in slumber,

And the little dog slept by the big dog,

And her head was on his flank.

[Levis]

Oooh and this one for you rhyme-scheme enthusiasts:

To A Small Boy Standing On My Shoes While I Am Wearing Them

Let's straighten this out, my little man,

And reach an agreement if we can.

I entered your door as an honored guest.

My shoes are shined and my trousers are pressed,

And I won't stretch out and read you the funnies

And I won't pretend that we're Easter bunnies.

If you must get somebody down on the floor,

What in the hell are your parents for?

I do not like the things that you say

And I hate the games that you want to play.

No matter how frightfully hard you try,

We've little in common, you and I.

The interest I take in my neighbor's nursery

Would have to grow, to be even cursory,

And I would that performing sons and nephews

Were carted away with the daily refuse,

And I hold that frolicsome daughters and nieces

Are ample excuse for breaking leases.

You may take a sock at your daddy's tummy

Or climb all over your doting mummy,

But keep your attentions to me in check,

Or, sonny boy, I will wring your neck.

A happier man today I'd be

Had someone wrung it ahead of me.

I love Ogden Nash

Okay... carry on being intellectual now

[Levis]

No no no ... wait wait wait!! I have something for the 'classic' folks too. Lewis Carroll! Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass is one of my top favourite books.

[The Seeker]

I was waiting for that

[Levis]

Beware the jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!

[blind-fitter]

I love Ogden Nash

I never knew that. I'm a bit of a fan myself. You even cited one of my personal favourites. I love the ones where he's scathing about children.

[Levis]

I like his little poemettes. And isn't 'The Adventures of Isabel' a classic? I remember having that as part of my syllabus in school.

[Steel2Velvet]

Edge Of The Divine

by Bill Clarke

From the corner of your eye

You may have sensed

The passing of Gods and Goddesses

Behind the grain of what you think is real

But by the time you understand what is happening

It is always too late

They have slipped away and given you instead

The sound of a car, a voice, a newspaper

A telephone, rain

Yet if you are serious

About catching sight of the Divine

There are methods - and states of mind

You have to stand outside

Above, beyond, within yourself

You have to be irresponsible, you have to be marble

You have to be statue still and pay no heed

To the drifting debris of the world

To breathe slowly one breath

At least the distance of an afternoon

But most of all you must be prodigal

You must let your death sift through your fingers

Like pine dust from a mountain precipice

You must expect nothing

Least of all, the Divine

The slow mime of summer heat

On the stage of a dream

The clear precision of winter ice

Far below pain

The moon seeking the sanctuary

Of temple ruins

The forest of lost childhood

Possessed by a surreptitious wind

The circle of lamplight in the empty street

Of an unknown town

Such are the times and places

Where you might witness what you seek

These are the edges

Of the Divine

[Lea]

Poems about dogs?

Verse For A Certain Dog

Dorothy Parker

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,

Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.

All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.

(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)

You look about, and all you see is fair;

This mighty globe was made for you alone.

Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.

(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;

High in young pride you hold your noble head,

Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.

(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)

Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,

Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,

Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.

(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

"Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed.

You wear your joy of living like a crown.

Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.

(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!)

You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend.

Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,

You ask but leave to follow to the end.

(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)

[Sweet Jane 61]

When We Two Parted ~ George Gordon, Lord Byron

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow —

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me —

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well: —

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met —

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee? —

With silence and tears.

[Uncle Joe]

Following are a couple of my favorites from my boyhood.

How Jack Found that Beans May Go Back On a Chap

by Guy Wetmore Carryl (1873–1904)

Without the slightest basis

For hypochondriasis

A widow had forebodings

which a cloud around her flung,

And with expression cynical

For half the day a clinical

Thermometer she held

beneath her tongue.

Whene'er she read the papers

She suffered from the vapors,

At every tale of malady

or accident she'd groan;

In every new and smart disease,

From housemaid's knee to heart disease,

She recognized the symptoms

as her own!

She had a yearning chronic

To try each novel tonic,

Elixir, panacea, lotion,

opiate, and balm;

And from a homeopathist

Would change to an hydropathist,

And back again,

with stupefying calm!

She was nervous, cataleptic,

And anemic, and dyspeptic:

Though not convinced of apoplexy,

yet she had her fears.

She dwelt with force fanatical

Upon a twinge rheumatical,

and said she had a

buzzing in her ears!

Now all of this bemoaning

And this grumbling and this groaning

The mind of Jack, her son and heir,

unconscionably bored.

His heart completely hardening,

He gave his time to gardening,

For raising beans was

something he adored.

Each hour in accents morbid

This limp maternal bore bid

Her callous son affectionate

and lachrymose good-bys.

She never granted Jack a day

Without some long "Alackaday!"

Accompanied by

rolling of the eyes.

But Jack, no panic showing,

Just watched his beanstalk growing,

And twined with tender fingers

the tendrils up the pole.

At all her words funereal

He smiled a smile ethereal,

Or sighed an absent-minded

"Bless my soul!"

That hollow-hearted creature

Would never change a feature:

No tear bedimmed his eye, however

touching was her talk.

She never fussed or flurried him,

The only thing that worried him

Was when no bean-pods

grew upon the stalk!

But then he wabbled loosely

His head, and wept profusely,

And, taking out his handkerchief

to mop away his tears,

Exclaimed: "It hasn't got any!"

He found this blow to botany

Was sadder than were all

his mother's fears.

The Moral is that gardeners pine

Whene'er no pods adorn the vine.

Of all sad words experience gleans

The saddest are: "It might have beans."

(I did not make this up myself:

'Twas in a book upon my shelf.

It's witty, but I don't deny

It's rather Whittier than I!)

[Uncle Joe]

T. A. DALY

Mia Carlotta

Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for "mash,"

He gotta da bigga, da blacka moustache,

Good clo’es an’ good styla an’ playnta good cash.

W’enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street,

Da peopla dey talka, "how nobby! how neat!

How softa da handa, how smalla da feet."

He leefta hees hat an’ he shaka hees curls,

An’ smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls;

Oh, manny da heart of da seelly young girls

He gotta.

Yes, playnta he gotta—

But notta

Carlotta!

Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye,

An’ lika da steam engine puffa an’ sigh,

For catcha Carlotta w’en she ees go by.

Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air,

An’ look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare;

As eef she no see dere ees som’body dere.

Giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash,

He gotta da clo’es an’ da bigga moustache,

He gotta da seelly young girls for da "mash,"

But notta—

You bat my life, notta—

Carlotta.

I gotta!

[Lea]

This is one of my favorite Parker Poems and quite well known.

Résumé

Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

[Ombre Vivante]

Faust 1 and 2 rhymes every two lines too

I like rhyming schemes. I remember when I first read T.S. Eliot back in middle school. I thought, "This isn't a poem. It doesn't rhyme!"

[Jenny]

Happiness - Priscilla Leonard

Happiness is like a crystal,

Fair and exquisite and clear,

Broken in a million pieces,

Shattered, scattered far and near.

Now and then along life's pathway,

Lo! some shining fragments fall;

But there are so many pieces

No one ver finds them all.

You may find a bit of beauty,

Or an honest share of wealth,

While anoter just beside you

Gathers honor, love or health.

Vain to choose, or grasp unduly,

Broken is the perfect ball;

And there are so many pieces

No one ever finds them all.

Yet the wise as on their journey,

Treasure every fragment clear,

Fit then as they may together,

Imaging the shattered sphere,

Learning ever to be thankfule,

Though their share of it is small;

For it has so many pieces

No one ever finds them all.

[Levis]

Verse For A Certain Dog

Dorothy Parker

I love this one (naturally). It's lovely!

[Farin]

20 Examples of Why You Should Enjoy Poetry

[The Seeker]

We discussed the last one in a lecture not too long ago... I like that one