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Your favorite poem?

Discussion in 'Reader's Corner' started by Kakashi_Love, May 18, 2005.

  1. I just thought there should be a thread to list our favorite poetry.
    So anyways here's mine :

    This is by William Bultler Yeats, the most romantic Poet ever.

    "He Remembers Forgotton Beauty"

    When my arms wrap you round I press
    My heart upon the loveliness
    That has long faded from the world;
    The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
    In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
    The love-tales wrought with silken thread
    By dreaming ladies upon cloth
    That has made fat the murderous moth;
    The roses that of old times were
    Woven by ladies in their hair,
    The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
    Through many a sacred corridor
    Where such grey clouds of incense rose
    That only God's eyes did not close:
    For that pale breast and lingering hand
    Came from a more dream-heavy land,
    A more dream-heavy hour than this;
    And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
    I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
    For hours when all must fade like dew,
    But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
    Throne over throne where in half sleep,
    Their swords upon their iron knees,
    Brood her high lonely mysteries.
  2. akuma no omoigakenai saku

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    May 16, 2005
    Can't decide on just one, so I may hit this thread a few times over the next few days

    Let's start with the old cliche

    Spoiler: The Raven By Edgar Allen Poe

    It has the best flow of any poem ever written and the atmosphere it creates in great.

    no one seems to be posting in the mall today, so I'm putting in another one.

    Spoiler: Jabberwocky By Lewis Caroll

    Portmanteaux kick ass. :cool

    Sorry for clogging up your thread Kakashi_Love, but I'm bored and I have a lot more poems to post. I'm trying to figure out spoiler tags now, to see if I can hide the text from those that don't want to see it. If you're either a moderator/administrator, or know any, you could delete me last 2 since they are so long. I don't know how to ask for them to be edited to hide the text away in a tag. That's only if it pisses you off that I did those long posts.

    moe//I fixed them up for you mate. Both are wonderful poems. Excellent choices :amuse
  3. jkingler

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    Oct 22, 2004
    Well, I would have to say I love about 100 different Emily Dickenson poems equally, so I will pick something else to post :p

    My favorite Romantic poet is Percy Bysshe Shelley, and my favorite (short) poem by him is Ozymandias. So deep, so true, so...Shelley :)

    -Percy Bysshe Shelley
  4. Actually I have to thank you for reviving this thread. I use to memorize "the Raven" by heart. I love that poem..it's so perfect. Here's another one of my fav.

    by Louise Bogan

    I burned my life, that I may find
    A passion wholly of the mind,
    Thought divorced from eye and bone
    Ecstasy come to breath alone.
    I broke my life, to seek relief
    From the flawed light of love and grief.

    With mounting beat the utter fire
    Charred existence and desire.
    It died low, ceased its sudden thresh.
    I had found unmysterious flesh--
    Not the mind's avid substance--still
    Passionate beyond the will.
  5. akuma no omoigakenai saku

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    May 16, 2005
    Here are some more, then I'll stop for a while.
    If any of the names are wrong, point it out, cause I just found most of them online a few months years ago, so their credibility is dubious.

    Spoiler: A Poison Tree
    A Poison Tree
    By William Blake

    I was angry with my friend;
    I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
    I was angry with my foe:
    I told it not, my wrath did grow.

    And I waterd it in fears,
    Night and morning with my tears:
    And I sunned it with smiles,
    And with soft deceitful wiles.

    And it grew both day and night,
    Till it bore an apple bright.
    And my foe beheld it shine,
    And he knew that it was mine.

    And into my garden stole.
    When the night had veiled the pole;
    In the morning glad I see,
    My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

    Spoiler: Alone
    By Edgar Allan Poe

    From childhood's hour I have not been
    As others were; I have not seen
    As others saw; I could not bring
    My passions from a common spring.

    From the same source I have not taken
    My sorrow; I could not awaken
    My heart to joy at the same tone;
    And all I loved, I loved alone.

    Thenin my childhood, in the dawn
    Of a most stormy lifewas drawn
    From every depth of good and ill
    The mystery which binds me still:

    From the torrent, or the fountain,
    From the red cliff of the mountain,
    From the sun that round me rolled
    In its autumn tint of gold,

    From the lightning in the sky
    As it passed me flying by,
    From the thunder and the storm,
    And the cloud that took the form

    (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
    Of a demon in my view.

    Spoiler: Armies In The Fire
    Armies In The Fire
    By Robert Louis Stevenson

    The lamps now glitter down the street;
    Faintly sound the falling feet;
    And the blue even slowly falls
    About the garden trees and walls.

    Now in the falling of the gloom
    The red fire paints the empty room:
    And warmly on the roof it looks,
    And flickers on the back of books.

    Armies march by tower and spire
    Of cities blazing, in the fire;
    Till as I gaze with staring eyes,
    The armies fall, the lustre dies.

    Then once again the glow returns;
    Again the phantom city burns;
    And down the red-hot valley, lo!
    The phantom armies marching go!

    Blinking embers, tell me true
    Where are those armies marching to,
    And what the burning city is
    That crumbles in your furnaces!

    Spoiler: Because I Could Not Stop For Death
    Because I could not stop for Death
    By Emily Dickinson

    Because I could not stop for Death--
    He kindly stopped for me--
    The Carriage held but just Ourselves--
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove--He knew no haste
    And I had put away
    My labor and my leisure too,
    For His Civility--

    We passed the School, where Children strove
    At Recess--in the Ring--
    We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--
    We passed the Setting Sun--

    Or rather--He passed us--
    The Dews drew quivering and chill--
    For only Gossamer, my Gown--
    My Tippet--only Tulle--

    We paused before a House that seemed
    A Swelling of the Ground--
    The Roof was scarcely visible--
    The Cornice--in the Ground--

    Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet
    Feels shorter than the Day
    I first surmised the Horses' Heads
    Were toward Eternity--

    Spoiler: Clothes of Heaven
    Cloths of Heaven
    By William Butler Yeats

    Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
    Enwrought with golden and silver light,
    The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
    Of night and light and the half-light,
    I would spread the cloths under your feet:
    But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
    I have spread my dreams under your feet;
    Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

    Spoiler: Happy the Man
    Happy the man
    By Horace

    Happy the man, and happy he alone,
    He who can call today his own:
    He who, secure within, can say,
    Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

    Be fair or foul, or rain or shine
    The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
    Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power,
    But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

    Spoiler: Death Be Not Proud
    Death, Be Not Proud
    By John Donne

    Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
    For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
    Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
    From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
    Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
    And soonest our best men with thee do go,
    Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
    Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
    And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
    And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
    And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
    One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
    And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

    Spoiler: Do Not Go Gentle
    Do Not Go Gentle
    By Dylan Thomas

    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 there 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.

    Spoiler: I Did Not Die
    I Did Not Die
    By Melinda Sue Pacho

    Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
    I am not there; I do not sleep.
    I am a thousand winds that blow.
    I am the diamond glints on snow.
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
    I am the gentle autumns rain.
    When you awaken in the mornings hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush
    Of quiet birds in circled flight.
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
    I am not there. I did not die.

    Spoiler: Invictus
    By William Ernest Henley

    Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeoning of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years
    Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll
    I am the master of my fate:
    I am the captain of my soul.

    Spoiler: John Barleycorn
    John Barleycorn
    By Robert Burns

    There was three kings into the east,
    Three kings both great and high,
    And they hae sworn a solemn oath
    John Barleycorn should die.

    They took a plough and plough'd him down,
    Put clods upon his head,
    And they hae sworn a solemn oath
    John Barleycorn was dead.

    But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
    And show'rs began to fall;
    John Barleycorn got up again,
    And sore surpris'd them all.

    The sultry suns of Summer came,
    And he grew thick and strong;
    His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
    That no one should him wrong.

    The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
    When he grew wan and pale;
    His bending joints and drooping head
    Show'd he began to fail.

    His colour sicken'd more and more,
    He faded into age;
    And then his enemies began
    To show their deadly rage.

    They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
    And cut him by the knee;
    Then tied him fast upon a cart,
    Like a rogue for forgerie.

    They laid him down upon his back,
    And cudgell'd him full sore;
    They hung him up before the storm,
    And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

    They laid him out upon the floor,
    To work him further woe;
    And still, as signs of life appear'd,
    They toss'd him to and fro.
    They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
    The marrow of his bones;
    But a miller us'd him worst of all,
    For he crush'd him between two stones.

    And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
    And drank it round and round;
    And still the more and more they drank,
    Their joy did more abound.

    John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
    Of noble enterprise;
    For if you do but taste his blood,
    'Twill make your courage rise.

    'Twill make a man forget his woe;
    'Twill heighten all his joy;
    'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
    Tho' the tear were in her eye.

    Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
    Each man a glass in hand;
    And may his great posterity
    Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

    Spoiler: Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
    Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
    By Robert Frost
    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.
    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.
    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there is some mistake.
    The only other sound's the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.
    The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.

    John Barleycorn is the best poem about makin' hooch that I've ever come across.
  6. akuma no omoigakenai saku

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    May 16, 2005
    Turns out I was lying.
    That was going to be my last post in here, but it was 13000 characters, so I had to cut it into 2.

    Spoiler: The Flowers
    The Flowers
    By Robert Louis Stevenson

    All the names I know from nurse:
    Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
    Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
    And the Lady Hollyhock.

    Fairy places, fairy things,
    Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
    Tiny trees for tiny dames--
    These must all be fairy names!

    Tiny woods below whose boughs
    Shady fairies weave a house;
    Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
    Where the braver fairies climb!

    Fair are grown-up people's trees,
    But the fairest woods are these;
    Where, if I were not so tall,
    I should live for good and all.

    Spoiler: The Riddle Of The World
    The Riddle of the World
    By Alexander Pope

    Know then thyself, presume not God to scan
    The proper study of mankind is man.
    Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
    A being darkly wise, and rudely great:
    With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
    With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,
    He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
    In doubt to deem himself a God, or beast;
    In doubt his mind and body to prefer;
    Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
    Whether he thinks to little, or too much;
    Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;
    Still by himself, abus'd or disabus'd;
    Created half to rise and half to fall;
    Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
    Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
    The glory, jest and riddle of the world.

    Spoiler: The Road Not Taken
    The Road not Taken
    By Robert Frost

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveller, 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 feet 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 travelled by,
    And that has made all the difference

    Spoiler: The Ruin
    The Ruin
    By Walter de la Mare

    When the last colours of the day
    Have from their burning ebbed away,
    About that ruin, cold and lone,
    The cricket shrills from stone to stone;
    And scattering o'er its darkened green,
    Bands of fairies may be seen,
    Clattering like grasshoppers, their feet
    Dancing a thistledown dance round it:
    While the great gold of the mild moon
    Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.

    Spoiler: The Tyger
    The Tyger
    By William Blake

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder, and what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart,
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? and what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And water'd heaven with their tears,
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
  7. Ah! Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson, two of the best poets in the world! Thanks for posting akuma no omoigakenai saku!
  8. Siavash

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    May 8, 2005
    i hate poem it sucks!
  9. mow

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    Sep 26, 2004
    Eat poo.

    God this is such a hard one. I have a ton of poems that I ill post, but for the moment, the one I can think of is A Silver Mount Zion - Built then Burnt (Hurrah! Hurrah). Its a song actually, but it was written as a poem; spoken, not sung.

    Dear Brothers and Sisters,
    Dear Enemies and Friends,

    Why are we all so alone here?
    All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy.
    All we need is a little more light, a little less weight, a little more freedom.
    If we were an army, and if we believed that we were an army, and we believed that everyone was scared like little lost children in their grown up clothes and poses;
    so we ended up alone here floating through long wasted days,
    or great tribulations..
    While everything felt wrong.
    Good words, strong words, words that could've moved mountains.
    Words that no one ever said.
    We were all waiting to hear those words and no one ever said them.
    And the tactics never hatched.
    And the plans were never mapped.
    And we all learned not to believe.
    And strange lonesome monsters loafed through the hills wondering why..
    And it is best to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever wonder why.
    So tangle -- oh tangle us up in bright red ribbons!
    Let's have a parade.
    It's been so long since we had a parade, so let's have a parade!
    Let's invite all our friends.
    And all our friends' friends!
    Let's promenade down the boulevards with terrific pride and light in our eyes: twelve feet tall and staggering..
    Sick with joy with the angels there and light in our eyes.
    Brothers and Sisters,
    hope still waits in the wings like a bitter spinster;
    impatient, l
    onely and shivering,
    waiting to build her glorious fires.
    it's because of our plans man;
    our beautiful ridiculous plans.
    Let's launch them like careening jetplanes
    Let''s crash all our planes in the river.

    Let's build strange and radiant machines at this Jericho waiting to fall.
  10. Nighthawk

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    Apr 7, 2005
    I don't understand poems.
  11. akuma no omoigakenai saku

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    May 16, 2005
    Well, what language are you reading them in?

    I guess you mean you don't understand what people see in them or something.

    I feel that way about 99.9% of poetry (especially street poetry and that beatnik stuff), but an occassional one will interest me. When they're really well written, they kind of affect you physically, like the silk and flower scenes from Hero. You can almost forgot to breathe during those scenes.

    Reading The Raven or Alone does the same thing. It's like there'e something foreign inside your chest, moving around. It's a sense of awe at the writer's ability.

    Leonard Cohen songs are the same, especially if you try to sing along with them.

    Not that I'm some kind of sissy or anything. :mad

    Now I'm going to go punch some cute little animals to prove it. :laugh

    edit: just had to fix some typos.
    Last edited: Jun 11, 2005
  12. Ginnylin

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    May 30, 2005
    Gotta be the Robert Frost stuff. Being reading him for yrs.
    The Road Less Travelled would have to be the best tho. I dont know why, you just never get sick of it. Well it is always applicable to your life since we never stop making choices =)
  13. monk3

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    Mar 6, 2005
    My most Favorite Poem right now is the one i made of this experience of my and my friends when we rode about 5 miles in like 90 degree (Farenheit) to buy some packs of cards.

    Spoiler: i made this ^_^
    On the day I will always remember,
    Occurred last year, on a weekend in September.
    The sky was clear that interesting day,
    When me and my friends decided to ride away.

    4 miles and one-half was the length one way,
    to the place where we would go for that day.
    Pedal and pedal did we go on the bikes,
    Since it was much easier than going on our feet to hike.
    ?Downers Grove!? We shouted forth as we kept on riding.
    To a shop that sold cards of our liking.

    We arrived there with not much trouble.
    Crossing 55th and other streets and over some rubble.
    Top Decks the sign said with brilliant appeal,
    A place where nerds gathered but didn?t steal.

    We bought the things that we needed most
    Without much trouble we decided to coast.
    Down the many hills we went,
    The hills that we had to ascend, pant, and lament.

    As we crossed the street, to go nearer to town,
    The thing that I cannot forget would happen right about now(n).
    A curb that was not constructed right,
    Happened to be in our direction of sight.
    We did not see this defection of cement,
    So on and on my two friends went.

    I was in the back, I observed all.
    My first friend slipped, but did not fall.
    The first one went down the hill,
    But the second one was in for a nasty spill.

    He hit the curb, the second friend.
    Hit it hard and I could not give help that I could lend.
    He did not see this defection for he did not notice.
    When the first friend hit it and slipped almost unnoticed.
    He hit it hard, my second buddy.
    And he went flying, I bet it felt cruddy.

    I stopped right there and helped him up
    I couldn?t help myself from laughing seeing him fly like a cup.
    Sailing through the air like a cup when it is thrown,
    He landed on his back, wanting me to help him home.

    We caught up to my friend, showing him the scars,
    Of the incident that left his skin drip blood on the street tar.
    We searched for an office that would sell band-aids and gauze.
    So that the pain of it would not feel like claws.

    We taped him up so he wouldn?t bleed,
    And then friend #1 had to lead,
    His own path home because he had to go,
    Which left me and my friend on a slow path heading home.

    We made it back without other trouble,
    Crossing more sidewalks, streets, and rubble.
    To my home we went, with on a humorous note,
    To the end of a journey that we had to vote,
    That we would remember this day, for as long as we lived,
    Seeing my friend flip, and getting many cuts and skids.

    tell me what you all think
  14. CrazyMoronX

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    Jan 5, 2005
    Here's mine!

    Roses are red, violets are blue, poems are great, like piles of poo.

    Kinda anti-poem there, but it was written in the late 12th century by an obscure poet named Laruc Geohans. Nobody here has heard of him I'm sure, he's French! He also wrote the infamous poem about hell entitled "Reqium for a Lovely Slap"
  15. mow

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    Sep 26, 2004
    Not a poem , but a personal fav.

    by William Butler Yeats

    I, being, poor,
    have only my dreams;
    I have spread my dreams under your feet;
    Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
  16. The Scenester

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    Jan 22, 2005
    The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe. I'm sure most of you are familiar with that :amuse
  17. Fairady

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    Jan 31, 2005
    Here's a few of my favorite Dorothy Parker poems. I just love her pessimism.

    Spoiler: Condolence

    They hurried here, as soon as you had died,
    Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,
    And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee,
    And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed.
    Gently they told me of that Other Side-
    How, even then, you waited there for me,
    And what ecstatic meeting ours would be.
    Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried.

    And when I smiled, they told me I was brave,
    And they rejoiced that I was comforted,
    And left to tell of all the help they gave.
    But I had smiled to think how you, the dead,
    So curiously preoccupied and grave,
    Would laugh, could you have heard the things they said.

    Spoiler: Resume

    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.

    Spoiler: Love Song
    Love Song

    My own dear love, he is strong and bold
    And he cares not what comes after.
    His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
    And his eyes are lit with laughter.
    He is jubilant as a flag unfurled --
    Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
    My own dear love, he is all my world, --
    And I wish I'd never met him.

    My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
    And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
    The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
    And the skies are sunlit for him.
    As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
    As the fragrance of acacia.
    My own dear love, he is all my dreams, --
    And I wish he were in Asia.

    My love runs by like a day in June,
    And he makes no friends of sorrows.
    He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
    In the pathway of the morrows.
    He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
    Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
    My own dear love, he is all my heart, --
    And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

    Spoiler: Unfortunate Coincidence
    Unfortunate Coincidence

    By the time you swear you're his,
    Shivering and sighing,
    And he vows his passion is
    Infinite, undying -
    Lady, make a note of this:
    One of you is lying.

    Spoiler: Observation

    If I don't drive around the park,
    I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
    If I'm in bed each night by ten.
    I may get back my looks again.
    If I abstain from fun and such.
    I'll probably amount to much;
    But I shall stay the way I am.
    Because I do not give a damn.
  18. sharingan_clan213

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    Dec 24, 2005
    I recently read a poem by Carl Sanburg:

    PILE the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo,
    Shovel them under and let me work--
    I am the grass; I cover all.

    And pile them high at Gettysburg
    And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
    Shovel them under and let me work.
    Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
    What place is this?
    Where are we now?

    I am the grass.
    Let me work.
  19. Beren

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    Edgar Allen Poe is an awesome poet. Aside from "Annabel Lee" by Poe and Blake's "Tyger", I also enjoyed the following poems (excerpts of some):

    Tennyson's "In memorium":

    I envy not in any moods
    The captive void of noble rage,
    The linnet born within the cage,
    That never knew the summer woods:

    I hold it true, whate'er befall;
    I feel it, when I sorrow most;
    'Tis better to have loved and lost
    Than never to have loved at all.

    Eliot's "Love Song J Alfred Prufock"

    And indeed there will be time
    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;
    Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    Waller's "Go Lovely Rose"
  20. Ruri

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    Aug 13, 2005
    ^The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is such a great poem!

    I love so many poems by Emily Dickinson that I don't know where to begin. ^.^

    Spoiler: A random favorite

    I'm nobody! Who are you?

    I'm nobody! Who are you?
    Are you nobody, too?
    Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
    They'd advertise - you know!

    How dreary to be somebody!
    How public like a frog
    To tell one's name the livelong day
    To an admiring bog!

    -Emily Dickinson
  21. Kuroihitomi

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    May 15, 2006

    Out of the night that covers me
    Black as the pit from pole to pole
    i thank whatever gods may be
    for my unconquerable soul

    in the fell clutch of circumstance
    i have not winced nor cried aloud
    under the bludeonings of chance
    my head is bloody but unbowed

    beyond this place of wrath and tears
    looms but the horror of the shade
    and yet the menace of the years
    finds and shall find me unafraid

    it matters not how straight the gate
    how charged with punishment the scroll
    i am the master of my fate
    i am the captain of my soul

    William Ernest Hensley
  22. NeophyteNihilist

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    May 20, 2005
    This is defiantly one of my favorite poems as well. Whenever I read it I am amazed at how Poe managed to convey the fear, grief, and anger of the man in the poem, vividly describe the setting, and still make the words of the poem flow together so seamlessly.
    This is (obviously) another one of my favorite poems, although I didn't know what it was called until reading your post.
    I didn't really appreciate the theme of this poem until I read it right after its companion poem, The Lamb. The Tyger was published in a compilation of poems entitled Songs of Experience. The Lamb was published in a compilation called Songs of Innocence.
    Spoiler: The Lamb
    Last edited: May 20, 2006
  23. NeophyteNihilist

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    Here's a couple more poems by Robert Frost that are among my favorites.
    Spoiler: Nothing Gold Can Stay
    Nothing Gold Can Stay
    By Robert Frost

    Nature's first green is gold
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf's a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf.
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day.
    Nothing gold can stay.​

    Spoiler: Mending Wall
    Mending Wall
    By Robert Frost

    Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
    That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
    And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
    And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
    The work of hunters is another thing:
    I have come after them and made repair
    Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
    But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
    To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
    No one has seen them made or heard them made,
    But at spring mending-time we find them there.
    I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
    And on a day we meet to walk the line
    And set the wall between us once again.
    We keep the wall between us as we go.
    To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
    And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
    We have to use a spell to make them balance:
    "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
    We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
    Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
    One on a side. It comes to little more:
    There where it is we do not need the wall:
    He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
    My apple trees will never get across
    And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
    He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
    Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
    If I could put a notion in his head:
    "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
    Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
    Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
    What I was walling in or walling out,
    And to whom I was like to give offence.
    Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
    That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
    But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
    He said it for himself. I see him there
    Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
    In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
    He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
    Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
    He will not go behind his father's saying,
    And he likes having thought of it so well
    He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."​

    Another one of my favorite poems is Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. I'm surprised no one mentioned it yet.

    Spoiler: Dover Beach
    Dover Beach
    By Matthew Arnold

    The sea is calm tonight,
    The tide is full, the moon lies fair
    Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
    Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
    Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
    Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
    Only, from the long line of spray
    Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
    Listen! you hear the grating roar
    Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
    At their return, up the high strand,
    Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
    With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
    The eternal note of sadness in.

    Sophocles long ago
    Heard it on the Agean, and it brought
    Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
    Of human misery; we
    Find also in the sound a thought,
    Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

    The Sea of Faith
    Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
    Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
    But now I only hear
    Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
    Retreating, to the breath
    Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
    And naked shingles of the world.

    Ah, love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world, which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
    Where ignorant armies clash by night.​
  24. mow

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    Bukowski in my opinion is the greatest poet mankind has ever had.

    But im a fanboy, so I'm biased XD

    Some of my fav pieces by him:

    Spoiler: me and faulkner
    sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it, but
    most repeat the same theme over and over again, it's
    as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange
    and off and important to them, it's done by everybody
    because everybody is of a different stripe and form
    and each must work out what is before them
    over and over again because
    that is their personal tiny miracle
    their bit of luck

    like now as like before and before I have been slowly
    drinking this fine red wine and listening to symphony after
    symphony from this black radio to my left

    some symphonies remind me of certain cities and certain rooms,
    make me realize that certain people now long dead were able to
    transgress graveyards

    and traps and cages and bones and limbs

    people who broke through with joy and madness and with
    insurmountable force

    in tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles

    and even now after decades of listening I still am able to hear
    a new work never heard before that is totally
    bright, a fresh-blazing sun

    there are countless sub-stratas of rising surprise from the
    human firmament

    music has an expansive and endless flow of ungodly

    writers are confined to the limit of sight and feeling upon the
    page while musicians leap into unrestricted immensity

    right now it's just old Tchaikowsky moaning and groaning his
    way through symphony #5
    but it's just as good as when I first heard it

    I haven't heard one of my favorites, Eric Coates, for some time
    but I know that if I keep drinking the good red and listening
    that he will be along

    there are others, many others

    and so
    this is just another poem about drinking and listening to

    repeat, right?

    but look at Faulkner, he not only said the same thing over and
    over but he said the same

    so, please, let me boost these giants of our lives
    once more: the classical composers of our time and
    of times past

    it has kept the rope from my throat

    maybe it will loosen

    Spoiler: eulogy to one hell of a dame
    some dogs who sleep at night, must dream of bones
    and I remember your bones, in flesh,
    and best in that dark green dress
    and those high-heeled bright black shoes,
    you always cursed when you drank,
    your hair coming down you
    wanted to explode out of what was holding you:
    rotten memories of a rotten past, and
    you finally got out by dying,
    leaving me with the rotten present;
    you've been dead 28 years
    yet I remember you better than any of the rest;
    you were the only one who understood the futility of the arrangement of life;
    all the others were only displeased with trivial segments,
    carped nonsensically about nonsense;

    Jane, you were killed by knowing too much.
    so here's a drink
    to your bones
    this dog
    dreams about.

    Spoiler: I met a genius today
    I met a genius on the train
    about 6 years old,
    he sat beside me
    and as the train
    ran down along the coast
    we came to the ocean
    and then he looked at me
    and said,
    it's not pretty.

    for furthur reading; The bukowski thread
  25. Jink

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    Jan 13, 2005
    I recently stole a poetry book from a library called "The Spoken Word Revolution: Slam, Hip-Hop, and A Way of Life". I found a poet in it by the name of Reggie Gibson and I'm in love with ALL his poems. I would post one but they're kinda long -_-; I'll probably write it down later though
  26. vitruvianwoman

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    i like "Corsons Inlet" by A.R. Ammons

    I went for a walk over the dunes again this morning

    to the sea,

    then turned right along

    the surf

    rounded a naked headland

    and returned

    along the inlet shore:

    it was muggy sunny, the wind from the sea steady and high,

    crisp in the running sand,

    some breakthroughs of sun

    but after a bit

    continuous overcast:

    the walk liberating, I was released from forms,

    from the perpendiculars,

    straight lines, blocks, boxes, binds

    of thought

    into the hues, shadings, rises, flowing bends and blends

    of sight:

    I allow myself eddies of meaning:

    yield to a direction of significance


    like a stream through the geography of my work:

    you can find

    in my sayings

    swerves of action

    like the inlet's cutting edge:

    there are dunes of motion,

    organizations of grass, white sandy paths of remembrance

    in the overall wandering of mirroring mind:

    but Overall is beyond me: is the sum of these events

    I cannot draw, the ledger I cannot keep, the accounting

    beyond the account:

    in nature there are few sharp lines: there are areas of


    more or less dispersed;

    disorderly orders of bayberry; between the rows

    of dunes

    irregular swamps of reeds

    though not reeds alone, but grass bayberry, yarrow, all . . .

    predominantly reeds:

    I have reached no conclusions, have erected no boundaries,

    shutting out and shutting in, separating inside

    from outside: I have

    drawn no lines:


    manifold events of sand

    change the dune's shape that will not be the same shape


    so I am willing to go along, to accept

    the becoming

    thought, to stake off no beginnings or ends establish

    no walls:

    by transitions the land falls from grassy dunes to creek

    to undercreek: but there are no lines though

    change in that transition is clear

    as any sharpness: but "sharpness" spread out,

    allowed to occur over a wider range

    than mental lines can keep:

    the moon was full last night: today, low tide was low:

    black shoals of mussels exposed to the risk

    of air

    and, earlier, of sun,

    waved in and out with the waterline, waterline inexact,

    caught always in the event of change:

    a young mottled gull stood free on the shoals

    and ate

    to vomiting: another gull, squawking possession, cracked a crab,

    picked out the entrails, swallowed the soft-shelled legs, a ruddy

    turnstone running in to snatch leftover bits:

    risk is full: every living thing in

    siege: the demand is life, to keep life: the small

    white blacklegged egret, how beautiful, quietly stalks and spears

    the shallows, darts to shore

    to stab ?- what? I couldn't

    see against the black mudflats?a frightened

    fiddler crab?

    the news to my left over the dunes and

    reeds and bayberry clumps was

    fall: thousands of tree swallows

    gathering for flight:

    an order held

    in constant change: a congregation

    rich with entropy: nevertheless, separable, noticeable

    as one event,

    not chaos: preparations for

    flight from winter,

    cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, wings rifling the green clumps


    at the bayberries

    a perception full of wind, flight, curve,


    the possibility of rule as the sum of rulelessness:

    the "field" of action

    with moving, incalculable center:

    in the smaller view, order tight with shape:

    blue tiny flowers on a leafless weed: carapace of crab:

    snail shell:

    pulsations of order

    in the bellies of minnows: orders swallowed,

    broken down, transferred through membranes

    to strengthen larger orders: but in the large view, no

    lines or changeless shapes: the working in and out, together

    and against, of millions of events: this,

    so that I make

    no form of


    orders as summaries, as outcomes of actions override

    or in some way result, not predictably (seeing me gain

    the top of a dune,

    the swallows

    could take flight?some other fields of bayberry

    could enter fall

    berryless) and there is serenity:

    no arranged terror: no forcing of image, plan,

    or thought:

    no propaganda, no humbling of reality to precept:

    terror pervades but is not arranged, all possibilities

    of escape open: no route shut, except in

    the sudden loss of all routes:

    I see narrow orders, limited tightness, but will

    not run to that easy victory:

    still around the looser, wider forces work:

    I will try

    to fasten into order enlarging grasps of disorder, widening

    scope, but enjoying the freedom that

    Scope eludes my grasp, that there is no finality of vision,

    that I have perceived nothing completely,

    that tomorrow a new walk is a new walk.

    i also like "The River-Merchant's Wife" by Ezra Pound.

    While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
    I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
    You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
    You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
    And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
    Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
    At fourteen I married My Lord you.
    I never laughed, being bashful.
    Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
    Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

    At fifteen I stopped scowling,
    I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
    Forever and forever and forever.
    Why should I climb the look out?

    At sixteen you departed,
    You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
    And you have been gone five months.
    The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

    You dragged your feet when you went out.
    By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
    Too deep to clear them away!
    The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
    The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
    Over the grass in the West garden;
    They hurt me. I grow older.
    If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
    Please let me know beforehand,
    And I will come out to meet you
    As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

    and finally, i like "The Applicant" by Sylvia Plath.

    First, are you our sort of a person?
    Do you wear
    A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
    A brace or a hook,
    Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

    Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
    How can we give you a thing?
    Stop crying.
    Open your hand.
    Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

    To fill it and willing
    To bring teacups and roll away headaches
    And do whatever you tell it.
    Will you marry it?
    It is guaranteed

    To thumb shut your eyes at the end
    And dissolve of sorrow.
    We make new stock from the salt.
    I notice you are stark naked.
    How about this suit----

    Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
    Will you marry it?
    It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
    Against fire and bombs through the roof.
    Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

    Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
    I have the ticket for that.
    Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
    Well, what do you think of that ?
    Naked as paper to start

    But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
    In fifty, gold.
    A living doll, everywhere you look.
    It can sew, it can cook,
    It can talk, talk , talk.

    It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
    You have a hole, it's a poultice.
    You have an eye, it's an image.
    My boy, it's your last resort.
    Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
  27. crazychidori

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    May 20, 2006
    God's Grandeur by G.M Hopkins

    THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
    Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
    Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
    And wears man?s smudge and shares man?s smell: the soil
    Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

    And for all this, nature is never spent;
    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
    And though the last lights off the black West went
    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs?
    Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
  28. Rotc Girl

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    Dec 2, 2005
    My favorite nonsense poem:

    I come before you
    to stand behind you
    to inform you of
    something I know absolutly nothing about.

    Admision is free,
    so pay at the door.
    Pull up a chair, sit on the floor.

    Early this morning,
    late last night,
    Two dead men rose up to fight.
    Back to back,
    they faced ech other.
    Drew their swords,
    and shot each other.
    The stone deaf sherif heard the noise,
    came and killed those two dead boys.
    The mute psychotic shreaked in fright,
    words of joy at the ghastly sight.
    If you don't believe this lie is true,
    ask the blind man,
    He saw it too.

    Spoiler: I never saw a moor

    by Emily Dickinson
    Inever saw a moor
    I never saw the sea,
    yet I know how heather looks,
    and what a billows* be.

    I never talked to God,
    nor visited in Heaven,
    yet so certain am I of the spot,
    as if a cheque** were given.
    I got in trouble for reciting it in the original form.

    List of my favorite poems that I don't know the authors:
    From Flanders Field
    Who so List to Hunt?
    Lord Randall
    Tell the Truth, but Tell it at a Slant.
  29. cathydecker

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    May 24, 2006
    "Oh Rose, thou art sick!"
    "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"
    Keat's "Ode to a Nightingale" and "Lamia"
    "Dulce et Decorum Est"
    most of Basho Matsuo

    Oh and the great cat poems
    the old Irish "Pangur Ban"
    My Cat Jeoffry (section of Jubilate Agno)

    I like Cowper's The Task

    lots of Old English poetry and riddles
    "The Wanderer"
    "Caedmon's Hymn"
    "Dream of the Rood"
  30. Shade Luka

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    Dec 29, 2005
    I took my power in my hand
    And went against the world;
    'T was not so much as Davis had,
    But I was twice as bold.

    I aimed my pebble, but myself
    Was all the one that fell.
    Was it Goliath was too large,
    Or only I too small?

    Emily Dickinson