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What's your favourite poem?

  • 02-06-2018 1:50am
    #1
    Registered Users Posts: 3,003 ✭✭✭


    I don't know about you fine people, but I have certain vices, certain behaviours, which sometimes make me feel completely powerless with regards to stopping. Trying to quit sometimes feels like I'd be more successful if I tried to derail one of those orange and black trains - you know, the very loud and very fast express ones, the ones that used to make me run into the station and cover my ears as a nipper - by running into one of them. It's almost as if I have absolutely no say over what happens to me, like I'm the passenger in a sidecar being driven by a nutcase who is speeding toward a precipice with his eyes shut.

    Before you refer me to the Personal Issues section, or give me the number of Pieta House, I should stress that I am not suicidal or depressed, in spite of the fact I've used some pretty grim analogies to describe how it feels. I'm actually pretty content, because I always find optimism in a poem that my brother turned me on to, a poem called Invictus.

    Now what the poem means, who the f*ck knows and who the f*ck cares, but I am very fond of the final two lines - "I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul".

    I tend to repeat both lines whenever I'm rationalising the recurrence of certain behaviours. I find the lines to be a glaring reminder that, actually, you do have a say in your future, and you can, if you want, climb out of the sidecar and take control of the steering wheel and brakes, and kick that other c*nt out. You don't necessarily have to be a passenger in your own self-destruction if you don't want to be.

    In fact, I think it's probably worth remembering in times of any sort of strife, any moment where you think, 'You know what, I might give up here'. It's astonishing how such simple language can also be so profound and effective.


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Comments

  • Registered Users Posts: 5,323 ✭✭✭JustAThought


    " My candle burneth at both ends; it gives a lovely light,
    But o my foes and o my friends. It will not last the night"

    Anon (I think)


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 4,360 ✭✭✭Lorelli!


    I always liked The Lake by Roger McGough in School but this was my poetry growing up...



  • Posts: 0 [Deleted User]


    I wandered lonely as a cloud..


  • Registered Users Posts: 2,795 ✭✭✭dulux99


    Itsy bitsy spider

    Roller-coaster of emotions every time


  • Registered Users Posts: 17,797 ✭✭✭✭hatrickpatrick


    Even as an adult and being into plenty of "proper" art, music, and poetry, my favourite poems are still generally plucked from compilations by Gabriel FitzMaurice of poems designed to have kids in utter hysterics. Was given a book by him as a kid ("But Dad...") and it's stuck with me ever since.

    An Apple For The Teacher

    Bring apples to eat, the teacher said,
    But me, I'd rather mush
    So I threw mine down the toilet,
    But the apple wouldn't flush.

    It just kept bobbing like a ball,
    As the flush foamed all about
    So I put my hand in the toilet bowl,
    And took the apple out.

    I washed it in a basin
    (So nobody would know)
    Then dried it on my jumper
    And gave it to Mister O.

    (That's what we call our teacher)
    He rubbed it once or twice...
    And then he ate my apple;
    He said 'twas very nice.


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  • Registered Users Posts: 3,003 ✭✭✭Hammer89


    Even as an adult and being into plenty of "proper" art, music, and poetry, my favourite poems are still generally plucked from compilations by Gabriel FitzMaurice of poems designed to have kids in utter hysterics. Was given a book by him as a kid ("But Dad...") and it's stuck with me ever since.

    An Apple For The Teacher

    Bring apples to eat, the teacher said,
    But me, I'd rather mush
    So I threw mine down the toilet,
    But the apple wouldn't flush.

    It just kept bobbing like a ball,
    As the flush foamed all about
    So I put my hand in the toilet bowl,
    And took the apple out.

    I washed it in a basin
    (So nobody would know)
    Then dried it on my jumper
    And gave it to Mister O.

    (That's what we call our teacher)
    He rubbed it once or twice...
    And then he ate my apple;
    He said 'twas very nice.

    I like how it's written like a child. '(That's what we call our teacher)' :)


  • Registered Users Posts: 4,954 ✭✭✭Liamalone


    Hey diddle diddle
    The cat did a piddle
    All over the kitchen floor
    Can't remember the rest


  • Registered Users Posts: 3,003 ✭✭✭Hammer89


    Liamalone wrote: »
    Hey diddle diddle
    The cat did a piddle
    All over the kitchen floor
    Can't remember the rest

    We sold him to a Korean,
    So he could be eaten,
    And now Mr Mittens does piddle no more.


  • Registered Users Posts: 1,021 ✭✭✭mickrock


    John Cooper Clarke—Evidently Chickentown



  • Registered Users Posts: 16,500 ✭✭✭✭DEFTLEFTHAND


    The Times Are Tidy.


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  • Registered Users Posts: 8,268 ✭✭✭AllForIt


    Jack and Jill went up the hill
    I can't abide poetry


  • Registered Users Posts: 21,517 ✭✭✭✭Tell me how


    Wordsworth's Daffodils or Joyce Kilmer's Trees.
    Both are very simple but accurately describe living things in the natural sense.


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 812 ✭✭✭Cleopatra_


    Sylvia Plath's poem Child.

    Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing. I want to fill it with color and ducks, The zoo of the new.

    Whose names you meditate --- April snowdrop, Indian pipe,

    Little Stalk without wrinkle, Pool in which images Should be grand and classical.

    Not this troublous Wringing of hands, this dark Ceiling without a star.


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 812 ✭✭✭Cleopatra_


    Also W.H. Auden's poem funeral blues.

    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone.
    Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum,
    Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
    Scribbling in the sky the message: “He is dead!”
    Put crepe bows around 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 Sunday rest,
    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
    I thought that love would last forever; 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


  • Registered Users Posts: 10,217 ✭✭✭✭Birneybau


    'This Be The Verse' by Philip Larkin:

    They fcuk you up, your mum and dad.
    They may not mean to, but they do.
    They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

    But they were fcuked up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,
    Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

    Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
    Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 4,744 ✭✭✭diomed


    I Married a Monster from Outer Space


  • Registered Users Posts: 1,768 ✭✭✭youngblood


    I always thought this first line was v powerful/depressing/scary/vivid

    I felt a funeral, in my brain.....


    Emily Dickinson


  • Registered Users Posts: 1,657 ✭✭✭somefeen


    Its a long one, but I'm very fond of 'Digging' by Seamus Heaney.
    I've never read anyone's analysis of it really but my own interpretation of it has gotten me through some very stressful times.

    Between my finger and thumb
    The squat pen rests
    Snug as a gun.

    Under my window, a clean rasping sound
    When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
    My father, digging. I look down

    Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
    Bends low, comes up twenty years away
    Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
    Where he was digging.

    The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
    Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
    He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
    To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
    Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

    By God, the old man could handle a spade.
    Just like his old man.

    My grandfather cut more turf in a day
    Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
    Once I carried him milk in a bottle
    Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
    To drink it, then fell to right away
    Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
    Over his shoulder, going down and down
    For the good turf. Digging.

    The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
    Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
    Through living roots awaken in my head.
    But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

    Between my finger and my thumb
    The squat pen rests.
    I’ll dig with it.


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 1,697 ✭✭✭DickSwiveller


    My favourite passage from a poem is from TS Eliot's Four Quartets, the last poem, 'Little Gidding'

    "We shall not cease from exploration
    And the end of all our exploring
    will be to arrive where we started
    And know the place for the first time"

    There is something very powerful about those lines.


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 1,194 ✭✭✭Conservatory


    The poems by Patti Smith in bird land or the start of the song horses I’m enjoying it lately and see it more as poetry than music.

    His father died and left him a little farm in New England.
    All the long black funeral cars left the scene
    And the boy was just standing there alone
    Looking at the shiny red tractor
    Him and his daddy used to sit inside
    And circle the blue fields and grease the night.
    It was if someone had spread butter on all the fine points of the stars
    'Cause when he looked up they started to slip.
    Then he put his head in the crux of his arm
    And he started to drift, drift to the belly of a ship,
    Let the ship slide open, and he went inside of it
    And saw his daddy 'hind the control board streamin' beads of light,
    He saw his daddy 'hind the control board,
    And he was very different tonight
    'Cause he was not human, he was not human.

    And then the little boy's face lit up with such naked joy
    That the sun burned around his lids and his eyes were like two suns,
    White lids, white opals, seeing everything just a little bit too clearly
    And he looked around and there was no black ship in sight,
    No black funeral cars, nothing except for him the raven
    And fell on his knees and looked up and cried out,
    “No, daddy, don't leave me here alone,
    Take me up, daddy, to the belly of your ship,
    Let the ship slide open and I'll go inside of it
    Where you're not human, you are not human.”

    But nobody heard the boy's cry of alarm.
    Nobody there 'cept for the birds around the New England farm
    And they gathered in all directions, like roses they scattered
    And they were like compass grass coming together into the head of a shaman bouquet
    Slit in his nose and all the others went shooting
    And he saw the lights of traffic beckoning like the hands of Blake
    Grabbing at his cheeks, taking out his neck,
    All his limbs, everything was twisted and he said,
    “I won't give up, won't give up, don't let me give up,
    I won't give up, come here, let me go up fast,
    Take me up quick, take me up, up to the belly of a ship
    And the ship slides open and I go inside of it where I am not human.”

    I am helium raven and this movie is mine,
    So he cried out as he stretched the sky,
    Pushing it all out like latex cartoon, am I all alone in this generation?
    We'll just be dreaming of animation night and day
    And won't let up, won't let up and I see them coming in,
    Oh, I couldn't hear them before, but I hear 'em now,
    It's a radar scope in all silver and all platinum lights
    Moving in like black ships, they were moving in, streams of them,
    And he put up his hands and he said, “It's me, it's me,
    I'll give you my eyes, take me up, oh now please take me up,
    I'm helium raven waitin' for you, please take me up,
    Don't let me here,” the son, the sign, the cross,
    Like the shape of a tortured woman, the true shape of a tortured woman,
    The mother standing in the doorway letting her sons
    No longer presidents but prophets
    They're all dreaming they're gonna bear the prophet,
    He's gonna run through the fields dreaming in animation
    It's all gonna split his skull
    It's gonna come out like a black bouquet shining
    Like a fist that's gonna shoot them up
    Like light, like Mohammed Boxer
    Take them up up up up up up
    Oh, let's go up, up, take me up, I'll go up,
    I'm going up, I'm going up
    Take me up, I'm going up, I'll go up there
    Go up go up go up go up up up up up up up
    Up, up to the belly of a ship.
    Let the ship slide open and we'll go inside of it
    Where we are not human, we're not human.

    Well, there was sand, there were tiles,
    The sun had melted the sand and it coagulated
    Like a river of glass
    When it hardened he looked at the surface
    He saw his face
    And where there were eyes were just two white opals, two white opals,
    Where there were eyes there were just two white opals
    And he looked up and the rays shot
    And he saw raven comin' in
    And he crawled on his back and he went up
    Up up up up up up
    Sha da do wop, da shaman do way, sha da do wop, da shaman do way,
    Sha da do wop, da shaman do way, sha da do wop, da shaman do way,
    Sha da do wop, da shaman do way,
    We like birdland.


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  • Registered Users Posts: 32,988 ✭✭✭✭Princess Consuela Bananahammock


    The Perfect High - Shel Silverstien

    http://www.subgenius.com/updates/5-99news/X0028_The_Perfect_High.html

    Probably a bit too long to repost here.

    Everything I don't like is either woke or fascist - possibly both - pick one.



  • Registered Users Posts: 2,371 ✭✭✭Westernyelp


    The song of wandering Aengus


  • Registered Users Posts: 557 ✭✭✭Walter Bishop


    The poems of John Lillison, England's greatest one-armed poet, as seen in The Man With Two Brains:

    Pointy Birds

    Oh pointy birds
    Oh pointy pointy
    Anoint my head
    Anointy nointy

    and In Dillman's Grove

    In Dillman's Grove my love did die
    and now in ground shall ever lie
    None could ever replace her visage
    Until your face brought thoughts of kissage


  • Closed Accounts Posts: 1,697 ✭✭✭DickSwiveller


    Bob Dylan 'Mr Tambourine man'

    Then take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind
    Down the foggy ruins of time.....

    To dance beneath the diamond sky
    With one hand waving free
    Silhouetted by the sea
    Circled by the circus sands
    With all memory and fate
    Driven deep beneath the waves
    Let me forget about today until tomorrow.


  • Registered Users Posts: 945 ✭✭✭Colonel Claptrap


    You are a rumble in the sky
    You are a flickering star
    You are hope in the darkness
    You are warmth in the cold
    You are a hand to reach for
    You are a face to behold
    You are Rescue 116.


  • Registered Users Posts: 3,411 ✭✭✭Stigura


    The end of " When We Two Parted ", by Byron, has brought a tear to my eye for decades now:

    If I should meet thee
    After long years,
    How should I greet thee?
    With silence and tears.

    Fcuk! That's some powerful sh!t :(


  • Registered Users Posts: 18,468 ✭✭✭✭_Brian




  • Registered Users Posts: 759 ✭✭✭Foggy Jew


    The Ballad of Father Gilligan. WB Yeats.
    "He who is wrapped in purple robes, with planets in his care
    Took pity on the least of things, asleep upon a chair".

    It's the bally ballyness of it that makes it all seem so bally bally.



  • Registered Users Posts: 112 ✭✭chite


    Charity

    I drop a coin
    In a box.

    Hollow. empty.
    Resonating.
    Almost threatening.

    Like Cautious anxiety
    Amongst
    craving hunger.

    And Speechless gratitude
    Amongst
    Murdered mercy.

    I drop a coin
    In a box.

    And then I walk away.



    (Dunno who wrote the above poem, found it online & thought it was good. Pretty much anything by Patrick Kavanagh is gold. This next poem is very appropriate in my little plot of veg when they'll start descending onto them, sans slug pellets, glyphosate etc.)


    The Uprising of the Slugs

    There lay, upon the garden path, a victim of the genocide.
    A mass of oily, melted flesh congealing in the sun.
    The Gardener had sprinkled there a concoction of pesticides,
    A rain of child-taste-deterrent Blitzem and Baysol.

    Like a candle waxed the gruesome corpse, it's optic nerves a liquid broth,
    Its mouth a gasping opening, gunge spilled from pneumostome.
    And yet this death would trigger revolution in the grass and moss,
    And by the waste disposal bin a Hortensian army.

    Each gender-less Mollusca knew the horrors that were yet to come,
    That to their fated nemesis their lives were not worth leaf or rose,
    But they gathered in the masses by some natural phenomenon,
    Each soldier left a trail as they slithered along patios.

    For years there was resistance, a guerrilla war on fertile soil,
    One side it fought for pleasure whilst the other for their basic needs.
    But now there was an end in sight, prospects of peace and end of toil,
    For oozing over decking came the rippling of pulsing feet.

    They found him by the sink garden, arranging thyme with utmost care,
    And in their thousands leeched upon his warm, succulent skin,
    Their slow assault soon took it's toll, with radula they scalped his hair,
    And those that found an orifice devoured him from within.

    From then there was utopia among the scores of garden pests,
    For where that damned dictator stood there lies a heap of clean white bone.
    Reminders of authority now caked in slimed invertebrates,
    With eyes that saw but shadow they caressed ancestral home.


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  • Registered Users Posts: 8,727 ✭✭✭degsie


    Roses are red
    Violets are blue
    This thread is shyte
    And it's all down to you (OP)


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