Favorite Poems

[Kevin]

Poetry sucks .

[Farin]

There was a young man from Japan

Whose limericks never would scan.

When asked why this was,

He answered "because

I always try to fit as many syllables into the last line as ever possibly I can."

[Kevin]

Not bad , but it still sucks !

[Kevin]

There was a young man from the Baltic

whose posts were rarely on topic

a few they amused,

to those high on booze

and that is the end of this topic .

[Levis]

I'd say change the middle lines to:

the few they amused

were high on booze

or something...

[Farin]

There was a young man from the Baltic

whose posts were rarely on topic

a few they amused,

to those high on booze

and that is the end of this topic .

Edited March 27, 2008 by Guest

[Uncle Joe]

Richard Cory

by Edwin Arlington Robinson, 1869-1935

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him;

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good-morning,†and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

And then Paul Simon turned this one into a song....

LYRICS:

They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town,

With political connections to spread his wealth around.

Born into society, a banker's only child,

He had everything a man could want: power, grace, and style.

But I work in his factory

And I curse the life I'm living

And I curse my poverty

And I wish that I could be,

Oh, I wish that I could be,

Oh, I wish that I could be

Richard Cory.

The papers print his picture almost everywhere he goes:

Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show.

And the rumor of his parties and the orgies on his yacht!

Oh, he surely must be happy with everything he's got.

But I work in his factory

And I curse the life I'm living

And I curse my poverty

And I wish that I could be,

Oh, I wish that I could be,

Oh, I wish that I could be

Richard Cory.

He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch,

And they were grateful for his patronage and thanked him very much,

So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read:

"Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head."

But I work in his factory

And I curse the life I'm living

And I curse my poverty

And I wish that I could be,

Oh, I wish that I could be,

Oh, I wish that I could be

Richard Cory.

[Tenacious_Peaches]

This poem is the story of my life.

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.