Favorite poem?

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Replies

  • eatmindfully
    eatmindfully Posts: 93 Member
    Wow these are mostly lovely! And some are quite creatively tawdry
  • SteampunkSongbird
    SteampunkSongbird Posts: 826 Member
    Poe's The Raven. The longing and desperation always gets me, plus the description is just beautiful.
  • sweedee1218
    sweedee1218 Posts: 98 Member
    The Eagle

    By Alfred, Lord Tennyson


    He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

    Close to the sun in lonely lands,

    Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.


    The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

    He watches from his mountain walls,

    And like a thunderbolt he falls.
  • Gawanne79
    Gawanne79 Posts: 11 Member
    Out In The fields by Anon.

    The little cares that fretted me,
    I lost them yesterday,
    Among the fields above the sea,
    Among the winds that play,
    Among the lowing of the herds,
    The rustling of the trees,
    Among the singing of the birds,
    The humming of the bees.
    The foolish fears of what might pass
    I cast them all away,
    Among the clover-scented grass
    Among the new mown hay,
    Among the hushing of the corn
    Where drowsy poppies nod,
    Where ill thoughts die and good are born -
    Out in the fields with God.

  • beagletracks
    beagletracks Posts: 6,035 Member
    Fulfillment
    Dorothy Parker

    For this my mother wrapped me warm,
    And called me home against the storm,
    And coaxed my infant nights to quiet,
    And gave me roughage in my diet,
    And tucked me in my bed at eight,
    And clipped my hair, and marked my weight,
    And watched me as I sat and stood:
    That I might grow to womanhood
    To hear a whistle and drop my wits
    And break my heart to clattering bits.
  • synchkat
    synchkat Posts: 37,369 Member
    My most favourite poem

    Jenny Kiss’d Me
    BY LEIGH HUNT
    Jenny kiss’d me when we met,
    Jumping from the chair she sat in;
    Time, you thief, who love to get
    Sweets into your list, put that in!
    Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
    Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,
    Say I’m growing old, but add,
    Jenny kiss’d me.

    Fitting since we're on the net
    Friends Without Faces
    by Thomas Teague

    We sit and we type, and we stare at our screens,
    We all have to wonder, what this possibly means.
    With our mouse we roam, through the rooms in a maze,
    Looking for something or someone, as we sit in a daze.

    We chat with each other, we type all our woes,
    Small groups we do form, and gang up on our foes.
    We wait for somebody, to type out our name,
    We want recognition, but it is always the same.

    We give kisses and hugs, and sometimes flirt,
    In IMs we chat deeply, and reveal why we hurt.
    We do form friendships - but - why we don't know,
    But some of these friendships, will flourish and grow.

    Why is it on screen, we can be so bold,
    Telling our secrets, that have never been told.
    Why is it we share, the thoughts in our mind,
    With those we can't see, as though we were blind.

    The answer is simple, it is as clear as a bell.
    We all have our problems, and need someone to tell.
    We can't tell "real" people, but tell someone we must,
    So we turn to the 'puter, and to those we can trust.

    Even though it is crazy, the truth still remains,
    They are Friends Without Faces, and odd little names.
  • saraAmcd
    saraAmcd Posts: 81 Member
    not my favorite but the ear worm I have at the moment is
    "I have a gumby cat in mind. Her name is Jenny Any Dots" from T.S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats
  • beagletracks
    beagletracks Posts: 6,035 Member

    The Haw Lantern
    Seamus Heaney

    The wintry haw is burning out of season,
    crab of the thorn, a small light for small people,
    wanting no more from them but that they keep
    the wick of self-respect from dying out,
    not having to blind them with illumination.

    But sometimes when your breath plumes in the frost
    it takes the roaming shape of Diogenes
    with his lantern, seeking one just man;
    so you end up scrutinized from behind the haw
    he holds up at eye-level on its twig,
    and you flinch before its bonded pith and stone,
    its blood-prick that you wish would test and clear you,
    its pecked-at ripeness that scans you, then moves on.

  • nut4crew
    nut4crew Posts: 40 Member

    He is more than a hero
    he is a god in my eyes--
    the man who is allowed
    to sit beside you -- he

    who listens intimately
    to the sweet murmur of
    your voice, the enticing

    laughter that makes my own
    heart beat fast. If I meet
    you suddenly, I can'

    speak -- my tongue is broken;
    a thin flame runs under
    my skin; seeing nothing,

    hearing only my own ears
    drumming, I drip with sweat;
    trembling shakes my body

    and I turn paler than
    dry grass. At such times
    death isn't far from me


    Sappho
  • closetlibrarian
    closetlibrarian Posts: 2,207 Member
    Eh. I tend to like the darker stuff . . .


    The Second Coming
    By William Butler Yeats

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity. <---- US Politics, anyone?

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again; but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
  • accelerashawn
    accelerashawn Posts: 470 Member
    They twist like quad-coiled vipers
    Feeding on combustion's waste
    Black as ink and hot as Hades they join below
    Eternally in shadow, unless of course, I roll
    They belt a rumbling and vibrate fear
    Into the bones of my foe
  • liamdanieldobson
    liamdanieldobson Posts: 1 Member
    I don't consider myself a serious person and have always had a love of maths so...

    I’m sure that I will always be
    A lonely number like root three

    The three is all that’s good and right,
    Why must my three keep out of sight
    Beneath the vicious square root sign,
    I wish instead I were a nine

    For nine could thwart this evil trick,
    with just some quick arithmetic

    I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
    Such is my reality, a sad irrationality

    When hark! What is this I see,
    Another square root of a three

    As quietly co-waltzing by,
    Together now we multiply
    To form a number we prefer,
    Rejoicing as an integer

    We break free from our mortal bonds
    With the wave of magic wands

    Our square root signs become unglued
    Your love for me has been renewed

    -Harold & Kumar
  • UpEarly
    UpEarly Posts: 2,568 Member
    'One Art' by Elizabeth Bishop

    The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
    so many things seem filled with the intent
    to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

    Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
    of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
    The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

    Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
    places, and names, and where it was you meant
    to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

    I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
    next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
    The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

    I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
    some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
    I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

    Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
    I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
    the art of losing’s not too hard to master
    though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
  • kes840
    kes840 Posts: 66 Member
    Just wanted to say there's some good company here: Yeats, Heaney, Dickinson, Frost, Rumi, Oliver. And you can never have too many silly limericks! I'm partial to Elizabeth Bishop myself. (MFA Poetry, 1982)
  • MelissaThe1st
    MelissaThe1st Posts: 198 Member
    I watched G.I. Jane last night and had forgotten how much I liked this:
    wildthing.jpg?w=564&h=377