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...pretty self explanitory

By Imac7477 (Imac7477) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 08:34 pm: Edit

Mine is "The Convergence of the Twain" by Thomas Hardy. Kinda long so i do not really feel like posting it lol.

My second favorite...

There's the wonderful love of a beautiful maid,
And the love of a staunch, true man,
And the love of a baby that's unafraid--
All have existed since time began.
But the most wonderful love, the love of all loves,
Even greater than the love for Mother,
Is the infinite, tenderest, passionate love
Of one dead drunk for another.

By Titanz05 (Titanz05) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 08:35 pm: Edit

the road not taken - robert frost

By Benedwodo (Benedwodo) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 08:38 pm: Edit

The Waste Land- TS Eliot
http://world.std.com/~raparker/exploring/thewasteland/table/explore6.html

By Dragonreborn (Dragonreborn) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 08:57 pm: Edit

Rivulets of Tears
By DragonReborn

Pain sears through my heart like fire burning,
Desperation fills my head like acid seething,
Watching you go,
Just standing there watching you go.
Why must you go, my love?
Why must you leave me a heart bruised with scars?


Dreams come and gone
Always leave me shivering, sweating in the darkest night.
They are dreams of you, my love.
Nightmares
Seeing you retreat away from me
Growing fainter and fainter...
I wake up finding me alone, alone...


It's so cold, the night is so cold.
I'm so alone and cold, wishing you were here.
Wishing your arms would encircle my body
Feeling your warmth
Embracing your love...
But where are you?
Where?


It feels like the world is falling,
I watch the sky rains in sheets,
I watch thunder plays its game across the sky,
Thinking only of you.
Will you come back to me after this storm?
Will you my love?


Without you, I'm an empty soul
My spirit is gone along with you.
I'm not a whole person
Not a whole creature
Not anymore and never will
Not without you here
My love.


There, I lay alone in the void
Eyes closed with the searing pain in my heart,
Tears will not stop from wetting my cheeks.
A hand grasps a silver knife.
Such a beautiful knife.
I watch in wonder as it slices gracefully across my wrist
I watch as droplets of blood hit the ground
I watch as they drain away my life.


On a puddle of sweet blood I lay.
No more tears
I'll shed no more tears
I'll never have the chance
I'll never be lonely anymore
You wouldn't be alone anymore.
I'll come to you.
You go.
I go...

By Astrobobocop (Astrobobocop) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 09:01 pm: Edit

I bet my poem is the oldest...

Sanskrit
2nd century B.C.

Kings

In sensuous coil
And heartless toil,
In sinuous course
And armored force,
In savage harms
That yield to charms-
In all these things
Are snakes like kings.

Uneven, rough,
And high enough-
Yet low folk roam
Their flanks as home,
And wild things haunt
Them, hungry, gaunt-
In all these things
Are hills like kings.

The things that claw, and the things that gore
Are unreliable things;
And so is a man with a sword in his hand,
And rivers, and women, and kings

By Saera (Saera) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 09:05 pm: Edit

Earendil - J.R.R. Tolkien

Earendil was a mariner
that tarried in Arvernien;
he built a boat of timber felled
in Nimbrethil to journey in;
her sails he wove of silver fair,
of silver were her lanterns made,
her prow was fashioned like a swan
and light upon her banners laid.

In panoply of ancient kings,
in chained rings he armoured him;
his shining shield was scored with runes
to ward all wounds and harm from him;
his bow was made of dragon-horn,
his arrows shorn of ebony;
of silver was his habergeon,
his scabbard of chalcedony;
his sword of steel was valiant,
of adamant his helmet tall,
an eagle plume apon his crest,
upon his breast an emerald.

Beneath the Moon and under star
he wandered far from northern strands,
bewildered on enchanted ways
beyond the days of mortal lands.
From gnashing of the Narrow Ice
where shadow lies on frozen hills,
from nether heats and burning waste

he turned in haste and roaming still
on starless waters far astray
at last he came to Night of Naught,
and passed and never sight he saw
of shining shore nor light he saught.

The winds of wrath came driving him,
and blindly in the foam he fled
from west to east and errandless,
unheralded he homeward sped.
There flying Elwing came to him,
and flame was in the darkness lit;
more bright than light of diamond
the fire upon her carcanet.
The Silmaril she bound on him
and crowned him with the living light,
and dauntless then with burning brow
he turned his prow; and in the night
from otherworld beyond the Sea
there strong and free a storm arose,
a wind of power in Tarmenel;
by paths that seldom mortal goes
his boat it bore with biting breath
as might of death across the grey
and long-forsaken seas distressed:
from east to west he passed away.

Through Evernight he back was borne
on black and roaring waves that ran
o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores
that drowned before the Days began,
until he hears on strands of pearl
where ends the world the music long,
where ever-foaming billows roll
the yellow gold and jewels wan.
He saw the Mountain silent rise
where twilight lies upon the knees
of Valinor, and Eldamar
beheld afar beyond the seas.
A wanderer escaped from night
to haven white he came at last,
to Elvenhome the green and fair
where keen the air, where pale as glass
beneath the hill of Ilmarin
a-glimmer in a valley sheer
the lamplit towers of Tirion
are mirrored on the Shadowmere.

He tarried there from errantry,
and melodies they taught to him,
and sages old him marvels told,
and harps of gold they brought to him.
They clothed him then in elven-white,
and seven lights before him sent,
as through the Calacirian
to hidden land forlorn he went.

He came unto the timeless halls
where shining fall the countless years,
and endless reigns the Elder King
in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;
and words unheard were spoken then
of fold of Men and Elven-kin,
beyond the world were visions showed
forbid to those who dwell therein.

A ship then new they built for him
of mithril and of elven-glass
with shining prow; no shaven oar
nor sail she bore on silver mast:
the Silmaril as lantern light
and banner bright with living flame
to gleam thereon by Elbereth
herself was set, who thither came
and wings immortal made for him,
and laid on him undying doom,
to sail the shoreless skies and come
behind the Sun and light of Moon.

From Evereven's lofty hills
where softly silver fountains fall
his wings him bore, a lofty light,
beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.
From World's End then he turned away,
and yearned again to find afar
his home through shadows journeying,
and burning as an island star
on high above the mists he came,
a distant flame before the Sun,
a wonder ere the waking dawn
where grey the Norland waters run.

And over Middle-earth he passed
and heard at last the weeping sore
of women and of elven-maids
in Elder Days, in years of yore.
But on him mighty doom was laid,
til Moon should fade, and orbed star
to pass, and tarry nevermore
on Hither Shores where mortals are;
or ever still a herald on
an errand that should never rest
to bear his shining lamp afar,
the Flammifer of Westernesse.

By Kinglz (Kinglz) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 09:10 pm: Edit

Too lazy to post actual text..."In Just"- E.E. Cummings

By Caitlan2005 (Caitlan2005) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 09:18 pm: Edit

Because I could not stop for Death
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 played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 't is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

By Glowingamy (Glowingamy) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 09:21 pm: Edit

I don't read much poetry, but I like

Sonnet: To Eva
Sylvia Plath

All right, let's say you could take a skull and break it
The way you'd crack a clock; you'd crush the bone
Between steel palms of inclination, take it,
Observing the wreck of metal and rare stone.

This was a woman : her loves and stratagems
Betrayed in mute geometry of broken
Cogs and disks, inane mechanic whims,
And idle coils of jargon yet unspoken.

Not man nor demigod could put together
The scraps of rusted reverie, the wheels
Of notched tin platitudes concerning weather,
Perfume, politics, and fixed ideals.

The idiot bird leaps up and drunken leans
To chirp the hour in lunatic thirteens.

By Shhh (Shhh) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 09:34 pm: Edit

"The Red Wheelbarrow"
William Carlos Williams------------


so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

By Athlonmj (Athlonmj) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 09:35 pm: Edit

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner [by Samuel Coleridge] .. it's too long to post.

By Kewlkiwi102 (Kewlkiwi102) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 10:18 pm: Edit

Sundial

I am a sundial, and I make a botch
of what is done far better by a watch.

~Hilaire Belloc

By Titanz05 (Titanz05) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 10:44 pm: Edit

hey astrobobocop, its weird how a poem written thousands of years ago rhymes in english.

*sarcasm*

maybe its not as old as you were told.

By Vegangirl (Vegangirl) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 11:07 pm: Edit

gypsy girl by saul williams. too long to post, but i'll post another good one later

By Astrobobocop (Astrobobocop) on Monday, April 05, 2004 - 11:21 pm: Edit

Titanz05, there is such a thing as artistic license ;P
Nicely done posting Earendil Saera. I prefer the Ley of Luthien. Of course almost everything that tolkein wrote is good, at least in the realm of poetry.

Shhhh, just wondering, but do you actually draw anything specific from "The Red Wheelbarrow"? It seemed to myself and my entire class last year that it was too vague, even from a poetic standpoint, to make you feel anything from it.

By Savedbythebell7 (Savedbythebell7) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 12:00 am: Edit

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all people.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to all even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive people,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself to others you will become vain and bitter;
there will always be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let not this blind you to the virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have the right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with god,
whatever you conceive him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann

By Sw33tie4life (Sw33tie4life) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 02:43 am: Edit

THE BROOK

Alfred Tennyson

COME from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
by many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may comeand men may go,
But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,
with here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silver water-break
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

sweet, smile-provoking poem. perhaps not my favorite, but definitely up there

By Heartsofpaper (Heartsofpaper) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 04:08 am: Edit

my favorite has to be cloth of gold by w.b. 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.


although the cinnamon peeler by michael ondaatje is a close second.

By Vdevluk (Vdevluk) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 04:09 am: Edit

hmmmm....

my favorite poem starts:

'when i was drunk, you were beautiful'

hahaha. just kidding.

my favorites are sohrab and rustum, and morte d'arthur.

By Benedwodo (Benedwodo) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 12:14 pm: Edit

"hey astrobobocop, its weird how a poem written thousands of years ago rhymes in english.

*sarcasm*

maybe its not as old as you were told. "

or maybe it was just skillfully translated.

John Dryden's English translated of the Aeneid rhymes, even though the original poem was written in Latin...
http://classics.mit.edu/Virgil/aeneid.1.i.html

By Strick (Strick) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 01:05 pm: Edit

Fleas (author disputed)

Adam
Had 'em.

(In honor of my youngest son who will be playing Adam in the church musical next week.)

By Shhh (Shhh) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 03:54 pm: Edit

astrobobocop

it was featured as one of the ten poems no one understands... vague... everything is vague if you think about it. Its theme is universal, i guess if you want to call that vague.

I see it more as a statement than a poem. its supposed to be about, well as we see it, how the little things make such a big difference. How necessary they are. Simplicity comes into play and is mirrored wonderfully by the poem's structure.

By Astrobobocop (Astrobobocop) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 04:03 pm: Edit

Shhh, I think the big thing that influenced our opinion of the poem was the fact that it had a really rather nonsensical picture next to it. The poem was in our english text book, so I think that was the big influence. Also, by then, we had been doing some much longer poems where the deeper meaning was a little more obvious, and The Red Wheel Barrow sort of just threw us. I really despise simplicity sometimes, so maybe that is another reason.

By Caitlan2005 (Caitlan2005) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 04:40 pm: Edit

I like to think that The Red Wheel Barrow is about how no one lets anything be simple anymore. We have to complicate everything, even a simple 16 word poem. Probably off target but O well.

By Babygurl89919 (Babygurl89919) on Tuesday, April 06, 2004 - 04:48 pm: Edit

Only a few lines and I forget the name but it is by Maya Angelou.

You can trod me in the very dirt,
But still like dust I'll rise.

By Itziar (Itziar) on Tuesday, April 13, 2004 - 10:38 pm: Edit

My suggestions: T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and William Butler Yeats' "The Stolen Child."

By Ecismyhome (Ecismyhome) on Tuesday, April 13, 2004 - 10:38 pm: Edit

Dover Beach, by Arnold.

By Magoo (Magoo) on Tuesday, April 13, 2004 - 10:55 pm: Edit

roses are red violets are blue
sugar is sweet
and so are you...ok not really (couldn't resist) i don't really have a favorite poem. i do like langston hughes poem's among others
here is a good one...simple, and optimistic reminds me of the hymns that my ancestors used to sing as slaves.

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

i also like E.A. Poe's the raven.

By Glowingamy (Glowingamy) on Tuesday, April 13, 2004 - 10:59 pm: Edit

I always saw the Red Wheelbarrow as a sort of study in evocative imagery with mature writing; nobody wants to read psuedo-intellectual poetry that's half SAT-word adjectives...it's refreshing because has an unassuming style yet evokes so much of a mental image (wet dasies, chicken feathers, mulch) in only 16 words.

By Magoo (Magoo) on Tuesday, April 13, 2004 - 11:10 pm: Edit

I AGREE Glowingamy, although I have never been moved to tears by that poem I find it to be unassuming and a literal treat for the imagination. I can (this is my crazy intellect) imagine him just looking at this red wheelbarrow in the rain. After you look past the imagery it is interesting to think about why the wheelbarrow has importance in the poem

By Apathetique_0ne (Apathetique_0ne) on Wednesday, April 14, 2004 - 10:13 am: Edit

i LOVE this poem...

Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

By Acennace (Acennace) on Wednesday, April 14, 2004 - 01:28 pm: Edit

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

By Taru (Taru) on Wednesday, April 14, 2004 - 03:40 pm: Edit

Federico Garcia Lorca, "Somnambule Ballad." Either in Spanish or translated.

By Crypto86 (Crypto86) on Wednesday, April 14, 2004 - 04:00 pm: Edit

In Just- is an awesome poem - it's so whimsical and interesting. I'm not a big poetry fan, but A Study of Reading Habits by Philip Larkin is probably one of my favs. Also, Metaphors by Sylvia Plath is pretty interesting too. See if you can get the metaphor:

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeast rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

By Avatar56 (Avatar56) on Wednesday, April 14, 2004 - 04:50 pm: Edit

"Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen"

Reminds me of "Goodbye To All That" (autobiography) by Graves. Maybe that poem is mentioned in it?

By Magoo (Magoo) on Thursday, April 15, 2004 - 12:30 am: Edit

Haikus by Me (Magoo)

Silently she sits
Beautiful body burned black
Strong roots lost in death

Quiet she is now
The pain of a blade still present
Deep running roots gone

The forest mourns her
Black death burns growing bodies
Guilty he watches.

i love a good haiku, they are hard to write though the ones i made could use work...just note these are WRITTEN ABOUT TREES being cut and burned down (sound crazy huh), however they are personified sort of...what do you think, did you catch the personification?

By Relinquo1 (Relinquo1) on Thursday, April 15, 2004 - 02:32 am: Edit

Vegangirl, I love Saul Williams too, but I don't know many specific poems. I can't find any actual poems on the internet. Also I like this poem by Gwendolyn Brooks "We Real Cool" subtitled "The Pool Players" and "Seven at the Golden Shovel".

We real cool. We
Left School. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin Gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die Soon.

I'm also a fan of Keats, Sylvia Plath, Lewis Carroll et al.

By Oasis (Oasis) on Friday, April 16, 2004 - 08:30 am: Edit

"This is Just to Say" William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were
in the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

By Edward (Edward) on Friday, April 16, 2004 - 12:39 pm: Edit

Shelley's "Ozymandias"

I met a traveler 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 upon 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.

By Anomaly (Anomaly) on Friday, April 16, 2004 - 07:07 pm: Edit

I like Donne's Death Be Not Proud and The Negro Speaks of Rivers by Hughes.

By Springfieldchri (Springfieldchri) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 12:17 am: Edit

The first 10 lines of the song of hiawatha
-longfellow

By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

By Hunter1985 (Hunter1985) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 12:27 am: Edit

I love Ozymandias, it's better if you (at least mentally) shout when you read the "my name is Ozymandias" part.

But I think it's hard to compare to the poetic genius of this famous poem:

"Here I Sit: a Bathroom Scrawl"- Anonymous

Here I sit, broken hearted
trying to •••• but only farted.

Wait an hour, took a chance,
tried to fart, but crapped my pants.

Ah, the beauty of it all!

Seriously, though, I enjoy:

"There Will Come Soft Rains"
The Porter's Speech from Macbeth
"To His Coy Mistress"- innuendos are fun
"Because I Could not Stop for Death"
Almost anything from Shel Silverstein

And many other's which at this moment I cannot recall.

By Rachelvish (Rachelvish) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 12:30 am: Edit

Poems from Anna Akhmatova and William Wordsworth are my favorites. And lets not forget Dr. Seuss!!

By Relinquo1 (Relinquo1) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 04:04 am: Edit

Oops double post.

By Relinquo1 (Relinquo1) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 04:05 am: Edit

I just read and heard TS Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" yesterday. Now I think it's the greatest poem ever. It just has so much in it, and it's all amazing.
Good taste Itziar.

http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

By Icarus (Icarus) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 05:02 am: Edit

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


--Rudyard Kipling

By Aspirer42 (Aspirer42) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 03:42 pm: Edit

I'm a big fan of "Desiderata", "Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock", and "Ozymandias" as well. (EDIT: Oh, and "Convergence of the Twain". I knew I was forgetting one.) I also liked "Romance Somnambulo", though I've found other poems in AP Spanish Lit this year I enjoyed more.

My favorite poem of all time though is... Paradise Lost. Here, I'll post it!


(...Kidding!) Actually, I really don't have a poem that leaps out at me as my particular favorite. I'm a bit more partial than I probably should be, though, to Poe's "To Helen":

"Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece.
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the region which
Are Holy-Land!"

By _Holly (_Holly) on Saturday, April 17, 2004 - 05:47 pm: Edit

Première Soirée - Arthur Rimbaud

Elle était fort déshabillée
Et de grands arbres indiscrets
Aux vitres jetaient leur feuillée
Malinement, tout près, tout près.

Assise sur ma grande chaise,
Mi-nue, elle joignait les mains.
Sur le plancher frissonnaient d'aise
Ses petits pieds si fins, si fins.

- Je regardai, couleur de cire
Un petit rayon buissonnier
Papillonner dans son sourire
Et sur son sein, - mouche ou rosier.

- Je baisai ses fines chevilles.
Elle eut un doux rire brutal
Qui s'égrenait en claires trilles,
Un joli rire de cristal.

Les petits pieds sous la chemise
Se sauvèrent : "Veux-tu en finir !"
- La première audace permise,
Le rire feignait de punir !

- Pauvrets palpitants sous ma lèvre,
Je baisai doucement ses yeux :
- Elle jeta sa tête mièvre
En arrière : "Oh ! c'est encor mieux !...

Monsieur, j'ai deux mots à te dire..."
- Je lui jetai le reste au sein
Dans un baiser, qui la fit rire
D'un bon rire qui voulait bien...

- Elle était fort déshabillée
Et de grands arbres indiscrets
Aux vitres jetaient leur feuillée
Malinement, tout près, tout près.

By Tkdgal (Tkdgal) on Sunday, April 18, 2004 - 07:22 pm: Edit

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

By Shoshie (Shoshie) on Sunday, April 18, 2004 - 09:37 pm: Edit

Mmm...there are so many. I love "Hollow Men" by Eliot. And "Cinderella" by Anne Sexton. And "So We'll Go No More A 'Roving" by Lord Byron. *drools at all the pretty words*

By Melissa27 (Melissa27) on Sunday, April 18, 2004 - 10:34 pm: Edit

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
-Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

"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 bludgeonings 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.

By Fusiachi (Fusiachi) on Friday, April 23, 2004 - 10:32 pm: Edit

Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came, Robert Browning

I'll neglect posting the entire poem, for brevity's sake.


My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the workings of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

By Brownlovespink (Brownlovespink) on Saturday, April 24, 2004 - 03:28 am: Edit

To paint a bird's portrait

First of all, paint a cage
with an opened little door
then paint something attractive
something simple
something beautiful
something of benefit for the bird
Put the picture on a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide yourself behind the tree
silent
immovable...

Sometimes the bird arrives quickly
but sometimes it takes years
Don't be discouraged
wait
wait for years if necessary
the rapidity or the slowness of the arrival
doesn't have any relationship
with the result of the picture

When the bird comes
if it comes
keep the deepest silence
wait until the bird enters the cage
and when entered in
Close the door softly with the brush
then remove one by the one all the bars
care not to touch any feather of the bird

Then draw the portrait of the tree
choosing the most beautiful branch
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the coolness
of the beasts of the grass in the summer's heat
and then, wait that the bird starts singing

If the bird doesn't sing
it's a bad sign
it means that the picture is wrong
but if it sings it's a good sign
it means that you can sign

so you tear with sweetness
a feather from the bird
and write your name in a corner of the painting.

-Jacques Prevert, and unfortunately, translated from French.
-------------------------
I also really enjoy this one, by Langston Hughes-

Still Here

I been scarred and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,

Looks like between 'em they done
Tried to make me

Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'--
But I don't care!
I'm still here

By Mazzo (Mazzo) on Saturday, April 24, 2004 - 10:50 pm: Edit

Starfish by Bikini Kill (song)

Just like a starfish
My legs will still grow back
I'll just be ten times stronger
Each time that you attack

A Work Of Artifice by Marge Piercy

The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.

By Rippledance (Rippledance) on Monday, April 26, 2004 - 12:10 am: Edit

The Tyger - William Blake

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

I like the first verse of that most of all, so I just posted that. Then there's:
In Flanders Fields - John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

By Kmw11187 (Kmw11187) on Saturday, May 01, 2004 - 06:20 pm: Edit

I'm with you, Apathetique One... Ima huge fan of Edgar Allen Poe!!

Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

By Zephyrmaster (Zephyrmaster) on Saturday, May 01, 2004 - 06:26 pm: Edit

I don't read many poems [not by Poe], but rap is sort of poetry:

Yea, I see a place where little boys and girls
Are shells in the oceans not knowin they a pearl
No one to hold 'em while they growin
They livin' moment to moment without a care in the whole world
Now, if I could help it I tell it just like it is
And I may say some things that you don't like to hear
I know this: that people lie, people kneel
People die, people heal, people steal, and people shed tears
What's real, blood spills, gun kill, the sun still - rise
Above me, trust me, it must be, morning - time
Wake up, the stakes up
Everybody want the cake up, to break up with the crew
But when the karma come back for what you do
It's too late to make up - some excuse
~ Talib Kweli

But now I don't wanna down my homie
No matter how low you go you're not lowly
And I, hear that you made a few enemies
But when you need a friend you can depend on me, call
If you need my assistance there'll be no resistance
I'll be there in an instant
Who am I to judge another brother, only on his cover
I'd be no different than the other
~ Tupac

By Frozentears801 (Frozentears801) on Saturday, May 01, 2004 - 06:57 pm: Edit

Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down hy my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me -- she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last l knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While l debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string l wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
l am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
l warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And l untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
l propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And l, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!


I also like Annabel Lee and everything by Thomas Hardy.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." = "It is sweet and glorious to die for one's country?"

By Anticatalyst (Anticatalyst) on Monday, May 03, 2004 - 05:39 pm: Edit

"The Poet"

O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?
Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love. I have no home.
There is no center to sustain my life.
All things to which I give myself grow rich,
and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.

--Rainer Maria Rilke