What's your favourite poem?

poster2525 · 03-06-2018 9:48am

One of my favourites:

On Children
Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

antodeco · 03-06-2018 9:55am

Seamus O'Neill's "Bhí subject milis"

Original

Bhí subh milis
Ar bhaschrann an dorais
Ach mhúch mé an corraí
Ionam d'éirigh,
Mar smaoinigh mé ar an lá
A bheas an baschrann glan,
Agus an láimh bheag
Ar iarraidh.

Translation

There was jam
On the doorhandle
But I suppressed the anger
That rose up in me,
Because I thought of the day
That the doorhandle would be clean
And the little hand
Would be gone

Mrsmum · 03-06-2018 10:25am

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
—William Shakespeare

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Permabear · 03-06-2018 10:39am

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MagicIRL · 03-06-2018 10:40am

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-s

I first heard this about five years ago and it has stuck with me ever since. Simply incredible.

Mrsmum · 03-06-2018 10:57am

The dilemma of love!
Richard Murphy (1927-)

To think
I must be alone:
To love
We must be together.

I think I love you
When I’m alone
More than I think of you
When we’re together.

I cannot think
Without loving
Or love
Without thinking.

Alone I love
To think of us together:
Together I think
I’d love to be alone.

Corkgirl18 · 03-06-2018 11:15am

Hope is the thing with feathers by Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

DickSwiveller · 03-06-2018 11:44am

In to my Heart an Air that Kills by AE Housman

In to my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows
What are those blue remembered hills
What spires, what farms are those
It is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain
Those happy highways were I went
And can not come again.

Pugzilla · 03-06-2018 11:46am

Percy Shelley's "Ozymandias"

I met a traveller 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 on 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.

Birneybau · 03-06-2018 11:58am

Another from Philip Larkin:

Annus Mirabilis

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) -
Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
And the Beatles' first LP.

Up to then there'd only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for the ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything.

Then all at once the quarrel sank:
Everyone felt the same,
And every life became
A brilliant breaking of the bank,
A quite unlosable game.

So life was never better than
In nineteen sixty-three
(Though just too late for me) -
Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
And the Beatles' first LP.

DickSwiveller · 03-06-2018 11:59am

Bob Dylan Visions of Johanna

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin' you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind

artanevilla · 03-06-2018 12:07pm

The Road Not Taken
BY 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.

DickSwiveller · 03-06-2018 12:09pm

artanevilla wrote: »

The Road Not Taken
BY 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.

Such a beautiful poem. Gives me goosebumps.

DickSwiveller · 03-06-2018 12:12pm

Another Yeats

The Lake Isle of Inisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Tell me how · 03-06-2018 12:17pm

Poets knew what mindfulness was long before it became something to cram in to your day.

anewme · 03-06-2018 12:20pm

When you read some of these poems it’s hard not to be envious of the talent to be able to write them.

It is a real gift.

One of my favorite ones here is about the posters Dads relationship with Kevin, the homeless man, beautifully written.

Great thread, thanks OP.

Permabear · 03-06-2018 12:27pm

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DickSwiveller · 03-06-2018 12:32pm

Permabear wrote: »

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Yes, two fantastic songs. There is some debate over whether Dylan is a poet. I'm sure he is. Some of his lyrics, once heard, are simply unforgettable.

Conservatory · 03-06-2018 12:35pm

Permabear wrote: »

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I think the poet Laurete of some university in America called visions of Joanna the greatest poem of all time.

It’s great he gets the recognition now from the poetry community, if you think he probably had 30 or 40 albums and it’s very rare you hear a single word that couldn’t stand up as poetry.

I would with a straight face put him up there with the classical favorites like Shakespeare and the lads.

looksee · 03-06-2018 12:36pm

This was my mum's favourite poem, I heard it many times in my childhood:

Meg Merrilies
BY JOHN KEATS
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees—
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere—
She died full long agone!

I am not entirely convinced it is Great Art, but it is very fond and familiar.

Conservatory · 03-06-2018 12:39pm

It’s not really about great art I don’t think. Once it make you feel something.

I could be wrong though

Permabear · 03-06-2018 12:40pm

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squawker · 03-06-2018 12:41pm

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gjFRy8jQ_0U

DickSwiveller · 03-06-2018 12:41pm

Conservatory wrote: »

I think the poet Laurete of some university in America called visions of Joanna the greatest poem of all time.

It’s great he gets the recognition now from the poetry community, if you think he probably had 30 or 40 albums and it’s very rare you hear a single word that couldn’t stand up as poetry.

I would with a straight face put him up there with the classical favorites like Shakespeare and the lads.

Andrew Wisdom, who was the poet Laurete of Britain, said it was his favourite song. Christopher Ricks, who is a leading academic on literature, echoes what you say: that Dylan is up their with the greats.

Permabear · 03-06-2018 12:49pm

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TommyKnocker · 03-06-2018 12:51pm

Two of my favorite poems and again they are from back in my school days are

* The Highwayman Alfred Noyes - Still makes me well up when I read it all these years later

* Horatio at the bridge Thomas Babington Macaulay

Poochie05 · 03-06-2018 12:52pm

Cleopatra_ wrote: »

W.B. Yeats - When you are old

When you are old and grey 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.

Was going to post this too. Very sad but I always thought there was a twinge of spitefulness too for her not loving him back.

Capt'n Midnight · 03-06-2018 1:35pm

cumulonimbus wrote: »

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.

My favourite version is the one by the Simpsons and read by James Earl Jones:

For anyone who has ever used floppy disks and Dos.

*Abort, Retry, Ignore?*

Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bed sheets, still I sat there doing spreadsheets.
Having reached the bottom line I took a floppy from the drawer,
I then invoked the SAVE command and waited for the disk to store,
Only this and nothing more.

Deep into the monitor peering, long I sat there wond'ring, fearing,
Doubting, while the disk kept churning, turning yet to churn some more.
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token.
"Save!" I cried, "You cursed mother! Save my data from before!"
One thing did the phosphors answer, only this and nothing more,
Just, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

Was this some occult illusion, some maniacal intrusion?
These were choices undesired, ones I'd never faced before.
Carefully I weighed the choices as the disk made impish noises.
The cursor flashed, insistent, waiting, baiting me to type some more.
Clearly I must choose an option, choosing one and nothing more,
From "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

Now with fingers pale and trembling, slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored,
Praying for some guarantee, timidly, I pressed a key.
But on the screen there still persisted words appearing as before.
Ghastly grim they blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore,
Saying "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

I tried to catch the chips off guard, and pressed again, but twice as hard.
I pleaded with the cursed machine: I begged and cried and then I swore.
Now in mighty desperation, trying random combinations,
Still there came the incantation, just as senseless as before.
Cursor blinking, angrily winking, blinking nonsense as before.
Reading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted.
Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor.
And then I saw a dreadful sight: a bolt of lightning split the night.
A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core.
The lightning zapped my previous data, lost and gone forevermore.
Not even, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

To this day I do not know the place to which lost data go.
What demonic nether world where long-lost data will be stored,
Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, to black holes?
But sure as there's WordPerfect, Lotus, Pascal, Quattro Pro and more,
One day you will be left to wander, lost on some Plutonian shore,
Pleading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

This line always gets me
I tried to catch the chips off guard, and pressed again, but twice as hard.

Capt'n Midnight · 03-06-2018 1:40pm

Permabear wrote: »

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Pat Ingoldsby's poems are protected by the Bratislava Accord 1993, section 2 cre/009 manifest-minsk, the terms of which protect his book's content from being included in

school textbooks
examinations
elocution classes
anything with the word "Arts" in it.

Permabear · 03-06-2018 1:54pm

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What's your favourite poem?

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