Favorite Poem?

[IA_Seth]

I will go first...Andrew Marvell's "The Definition of Love"

http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/definition.htm

It reminds me of a lover past, who I connected with on a intellectual and physical level more than anyone before, but never quite could create a "relationship" with.


MY Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis, for object, strange and high ;
It was begotten by Despair,
Upon Impossibility.


II.

Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown,
But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.


III.

And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixed ;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.


IV.

For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close ;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic power depose.


V.

And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel),
Not by themselves to be embraced,


VI.

Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear.
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp'd into a planisphere.


VII.

As lines, so love's oblique, may well
Themselves in every angle greet :
But ours, so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.


VIII.

Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.

[LaraMN]

1. I don't have a "favorite" right now, but I do have a poetry earworm.

For the last 24 hours or so, and for no apparent reason, I keep hearing, "the brute, Brute heart of a brute like you," in my head. I haven't even read any Plath lately. I also haven't slept much- that can make odd little tidbits spring up in one's thoughts, I suppose. :shrug: :crazy:

[IA_Seth]

3. That is a sad poem...

If I recall correctly. I think I read it as part of a class, but from what I recall it was a sad one...right?

[Rowdyboy]

2. Easy one: Walt Whitman "When I heard at the close of day"

When I Heard At The Close Of The Day
Walt Whitman

When I heard at the close of the day how my name
had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still
it was not a happy night for me that follow’d;
And else, when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d,
still I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear
in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed,
laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way
coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter—and all that day my food
nourish’d me more—and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy—and with the next, at evening,
came my friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly
continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me,
whispering, to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover
in the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined
toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.

Online text © 1998-2006 Poetry X. All rights reserved.

[ismnotwasm]

4. It's gotta be this one

Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”



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 their 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.

[IA_Seth]

5. Never heard of it...

But I sure hope someone reads that to me if I am ever on a death-bed. How inspiring!

[vikegirl]

6. Any Dorothy Parker

Most notably today:

Frustration

If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;

Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.

But I have no lethal weapon-
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.

[IA_Seth]

8. I love that! n/t

[djeseru]

10. Best. Parker. Ever.

:thumbsup:

Thanks for posting it!

[Rowdyboy]

13. She is so very spot on.....

"Upon my honor
I saw a madonna
Sitting alone in a niche
Above the door
Of the glamorous whore
Of a prominent son-of-a-bitch"

and

"Oh life is a glorious cycle
of song
A medley of extemporanea
And love is a thing that can
never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania!"
And love is a thing

[WilmywoodNCparalegal]

7. The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe

One of the first poems I learned completely in English. I love the crescendo of terror, the creepy feeling of the whole mood set by Poe and the raven itself.

To this day, I read The Raven occasionally and more and more I appreciate the images it conjures in my head.

[no name no slogan]

9. "Chicago Poem" by Lew Welch

I lived here nearly 5 years before I could
meet the middle western day with anything approaching
Dignity. It's a place that lets you
understand why the Bible is the way it is:
Proud people cannot live here.

The land's too flat. Ugly sullen and big it
pounds men down past humbleness. They
Stoop at 35 possibly cringing from the heavy and
terrible sky. In country like this there
Can be no God but Jahweh.

In the mills and refineries of its south side Chicago
passes its natural gas in flames
Bouncing like bunsens from stacks a hundred feet high.
The stench stabs at your eyeballs
The whole sky green and yellow backdrop for the skeleton
stell of a bombed-out town.

Remember the movies in grammar school? The goggled men
doing strong things in
Showers of steel-spark? The dark screen cracking light
and the furnace door opening with a
Blast of orange like a sunset? Or an orange?

It was photographed by a fairy, thrilled as a girl, or
a Nazi who wished there were people
Behind that door (hence the remote beauty), but Sievers,
whose old man spent most of his life in there,
Remembers a "nigger in a red T-shirt pissing into the
black sand"

It was 5 years until I could afford to recognize the ferocity.
Friends helped me. Then I put some
Love into my house. Finally I found some quiet lakes
and a farm where they let me shoot pheasant.


Standing in the boat one night I watched the lake go absolutely
flat. Smaller than raindrops, and only
Here and there, the feeding rings of fish were visible a hundred yards
away — and the bluegill caught that afternoon
Lifted from its northern lake like a tropical! Jewel at its ear
Belly gold so bright you'd swear he had a
Light in there. His color faded with his life. A small
green fish...

All things considered, it's a gentle and undemanding
planet, even here. Far gentler
Here than any of a dozen other places. The trouble is
always and only with what we build on top of it.

There's nobody else to blame. You can't fix it and you
can't make it go away. It does no good appealing
To some ill-invented Thunderer
brooding above some unimaginable crag ...
It's ours. Right down to the last small hinge it
all depends for its existence
Only and utterly upon our sufferance.

Driving back I saw Chicago rising in its gases and I
knew again that never will the
Man be made to stand against this pitiless, unparalleled
monstrocity. It
Snuffles on the beach of its Great Lake like a
blind, red rhinoceros.
It's already running us down.

You can't fix it. You can't make it go away.
I don't know what you're going to do about it,
But I know what I'm going to do about it. I'm just
going to walk away from it. Maybe
A small part of it will die if I'm not around

feeding it anymore.

[Hatalles]

11. Dulce Et Decorum Est

** 'Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori' translates to something like 'it is noble and good to die for one's country.' I don't remember the exact translation. BTW, Wilfred Owen died as a soldier during WWI. I believe this poem was written in the trenches... but don't quote me on that. :)

by Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

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 disappointed shells 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 floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
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.

[djeseru]

12. One by Hughes Mearns.

As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today
I wish, I wish he'd stay away.

We must beware of men who aren't there.


I've got so many favorites that there's just not enough room to post them all.

[IA_Seth]

14. Yeah, I shouldn't have said favorite.

I guess I can't say that mine above is my FAVORITE, but it ranks up there and I was feelin sappy.

[djeseru]

15. And it always depends upon mood!

I'm feeling quite odd, hence the Mearns...

Thanks for sharing your favorite. :)

[GOPisEvil]

29. Good choice.

I'd read that before, but I was unfamiliar with the author :blush: I'm sure you'll have to remind me later.

:hug:

[lastliberalintexas]

16. Emily Bronte is one of my favorite authors

Remembrance

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring:
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven;
No second morn has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy;

Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And even yet I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

on edit- forgot the 2nd poem by Bronte-

Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
And tell why I have chosen thee!

Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say,
Why I did cast the world away.

Why I have persevered to shun
The common paths that others run;
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless, alike of wealth and power--
Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.

These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But careless gifts are seldom prized,
And MINE were worthily despised.

So, with a ready heart, I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever-present, phantom thing--
My slave, my comrade, and my king.

A slave, because I rule thee still;
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill:
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight,--

My darling pain that wounds and sears,
And wrings a blessing out from tears
By deadening me to earthly cares;
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel

And am I wrong to worship where
Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!




And when I'm in a less somber mood, I like this poem by Dyer-

My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find
That it excels all other bliss
Which God or nature hath assign'd.
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,
No force to win a victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to win a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,--
For why? my mind despise them all.

I see that plenty surfeit oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see that such as are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all.
These get with toil and keep with fear;
Such cares my mind can never bear.

I press to bear no haughty sway,
I wish no more than may suffice,
I do no more than well I may,
Look, what I want my mind supplies.
Lo ! thus I triumph like a king,
My mind content with anything.

I laugh not at another's loss,
Nor grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's bane.
I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend,
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,
And conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence.
Thus do I live, thus will I die,--
Would all did so as well as I!




For the current crises in our country-

The golf links lie so near the mill
That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
And see the men at play. - Sarah Gleghorn

If any question why we died
Tell them, "Because our fathers lied." - Rudyard Kipling


And of course everyone has to like Ogden Nash, right?

[Missy Vixen]

17. My current favorite

This speaks to me in a way I could never explain to anyone else.

Julie

XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

[henslee]

18. Rilke's "To Music"....

To Music

Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
silence of images. You language where language
ends. You time,
that stands upright on the path of perishing hearts.

Feelings for whom? Oh you the feelings'
metamorphosis into what?- into audible landscape.
You stranger: Music. You heart-space
outgrown us. Our inmost
that, climbing out of us, bursts free,-
holy escape:
our very core hovering there
like the most intimate distance, like the other
side of the sky:
pure,
vast,
no longer inhabitable.

[The Flaming Red Head]

19. H O W L !

[Burma Jones]

20. Shakespere's Sonnet 29 ...... and Prufrock

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


-The first time I made love to the woman that would become my wife, I recited this Sonnet to her while in passion's throes, she REALLY appreciated it......
:blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush:





Also, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

http://www.cs.amherst.edu/ccm/prufrock.html

[miss_american_pie]

21. Can't do it

That'd be like asking me which kid is my favorite. :hi:

[RetroLounge]

22. Poetry is boring and a waste of time...

:sarcasm:

RL

[miss_american_pie]

23. Especially modern poetry

It should have been outlawed after Wordsworth. ;)

[RetroLounge]

24. Wordsworth is the most mis-named poet out there...

Ain't worth a spit...

:D

RL

[miss_american_pie]

25. I wouldn't know...

about spitting. :hi:

[RetroLounge]

26. That's hard to

...swallow.

:hi:

RL

[miss_american_pie]

27. ...

:rofl:

[RetroLounge]

30. Thank you, I'm here all week

Try the veal...

:rofl:

RL

[Benfea]

28. "Creation" by L. Sprague de Camp

Creation
L. Sprague de Camp

That Yahveh manufactured man from dust, the Hebrews tell;
In Hind they say that Varuna had formed him by a spell;
The Norse believed that Odin made the breath of life indwell
     His torpid trunk.

Of all Creation legends, though, the one I like the best —
A myth from ancient Sumer, where perhaps the truth was guessed —
Asserts the gods created man one day, in cosmic jest,
     When they were drunk.

[Calliope]

31. Another Dorothy Parker

One Perfect Rose
A single flower he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet--
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.