Best poem of all time.

[Duke]

The Road Not Taken.

~D

[Clarkmeister]

Never fold headsup
Especially with a pair
Often one pair wins

[nolanfan34]

The Hat (could be wrong on the title)
by Shel Silverstein

Teddy said it was a hat,
so I put it on.
Now dad's saying,
"where's the toilet plunger gone?"

[nolanfan34]

[ QUOTE ]
Never fold headsup
Especially with a pair
Often one pair wins

[/ QUOTE ]

Best haiku should be its own thread. But this is good.

[M2d]

in just

for the spacing and punctuation as well as the words.

[Duke]

Classic.

~D

[Eclypse]

The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service

[ArchAngel71857]

The Iliad.

-AA

[nothumb]

T.S. Eliot: 'The Waste Land,' or Prufrock, depending.

Or Charles Bukowski's "A Poem for Swingers" from Open All Night, which ends,

"Piss on the sun if you want,
But leave the good women alone."

Or Howl.

NT

[scotnt73]

[ QUOTE ]
The Road Not Taken.

~D

[/ QUOTE ]

thats the only poem i can think of to tell you the truth. to me poems are just something people pretend to like to appear "deeper" than they really are. dont get me wrong, i love to read. my wife and daughter go to the bookstore with me 2-3 times a week. i just never understood how poems could be enjoyable in any way except to try and impress others.

[jdl22]

RETRATO by Manuel Machado

Esta es mi cara y ésta es mi alma: leed.
Unos ojos de hastío y una boca de sed...
Lo demás, nada... Vida... Cosas... Lo que se sabe...
Calaveradas, amoríos... Nada grave,
Un poco de locura, un algo de poesía,
una gota del vino de la melancolía...
¿Vicios? Todos. Ninguno... Jugador, no lo he sido;
ni gozo lo ganado, ni siento lo perdido.
Bebo, por no negar mi tierra de Sevilla,
media docena de cañas de manzanilla.
Las mujeres... -sin ser un tenorio, ¡eso no!-,
tengo una que me quiere y otra a quien quiero yo.

Me acuso de no amar sino muy vagamente
una porción de cosas que encantan a la gente...
La agilidad, el tino, la gracia, la destreza,
más que la voluntad, la fuerza, la grandeza...
Mi elegancia es buscada, rebuscada. Prefiero,
a olor helénico y puro, lo "chic" y lo torero.
Un destello de sol y una risa oportuna
amo más que las languideces de la luna
Medio gitano y medio parisién -dice el vulgo-,
Con Montmartre y con la Macarena comulgo...
Y antes que un tal poeta, mi deseo primero
hubiera sido ser un buen banderillero.
Es tarde... Voy de prisa por la vida. Y mi risa
es alegre, aunque no niego que llevo prisa.

Because I studied Spanish as an undergrad I'm somewhat familiar with Spanish language poetry but not English very much.

[Kurn, son of Mogh]

"A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London."
Dylan Thomas

[Aces McGee]

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe.

-McGee

[jagoff]

Hands down!!

[Ed Miller]

thats the only poem i can think of to tell you the truth. to me poems are just something people pretend to like to appear "deeper" than they really are. dont get me wrong, i love to read. my wife and daughter go to the bookstore with me 2-3 times a week. i just never understood how poems could be enjoyable in any way except to try and impress others.

You should read Shakespeare.

[SinCityGuy]

"On The Pulse Of Morning" - Maya Angelou

[SpiderMnkE]

I'm with you Scott... poetry? Can we say I wish I could think... so I'll pretend to be knowledgeable in very abstract things... wear funny clothes.. bang on bongo drums.. then defend my art by talking about the underlying structure to it.

I also love trying to give depth and meaning to a group of words that appear to have popped out of a random sentence generator.

[SpiderMnkE]

Greatest Poet: Clarkmeister

From his poetry... lessons are learned

[Rushmore]

"The Hollow Men," by Elliot.

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw, alas!

Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar


Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;


Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.


Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --


Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.


Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


IV


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms


In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river


Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow


For Thine is the Kingdom


Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow


Life is very long


Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom


For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the


This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

[sfer]

Does general iambic pentameter count? From Henry V:

What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

[Wingnut]

Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll

"O frabjous day! Caloo! Calay!"

[coolhandkuhn]

she being brand new
~ee cummings

[James Boston]

I don't remember the title, but it started with "There once was a man from Nantucket...."

[andyfox]

You managed to find
The one poem that's worse than The
Road Not Taken, Dave Clark.

[bdk3clash]

"The Christening of the Flying Wasp"
by Judge Elihu Smails

It's easy to grin
When your ship comes in
And you've got the stock market beat.

But the man worthwhile
Is the man who can smile
When his shorts are too tight in the seat.

[Duke]

[ QUOTE ]
i just never understood how poems could be enjoyable in any way except to try and impress others.

[/ QUOTE ]

At some point in time, someone said what I've always felt in a way that never would have occurred to me. Sometimes, a thought I've always had but never heard echoed finally made its appearance.

Different people will like different poems, as it's much a matter of opinion. I see many highly regarded works as drivel, and not from lack of understanding or ability to appreciate. Sometimes people just disagree as to how profound something is. Sometimes they disagree on what is artful, and what has been produced by a hack.

Anyhow, my wager is that it's not that you don't like poetry. I'd rate that right up with not enjoying a breath of fresh air. Instead, I think you just haven't had the opportunity to find any that you do like. Perhaps the required readings in your schooling weren't for you, and they tarnished your opinion of the whole of the art.

[ QUOTE ]
to me poems are just something people pretend to like to appear "deeper" than they really are.

[/ QUOTE ]

Save that notion for those who introduce themselves by saying they have a penchant for Russian literature, and don't even speak Russian. I'm all for appreciating the world-view of a particular society, but it's a lot like me watching foreign films. Yes I can get the basic ideas, but I can't help but feel that I'm missing something deeper. If one's favorite pastime is to be lost in that netherworld between understanding and wide-eyed amazement at the sketchy image conjured by their partial understanding, then I guess that's their problem - not penchant.

~D

[danderso8]

Since you're into Spanish poetry, I thought you might be interested in this clip I heard on the radio today...

http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=04/07/16/1442233

It's about Chilean poet and Nobel laureate Pablo Neruda.

I don't speak spanish, and don't know much about poetry or Chilean history, but found it fairly interesting. Also interesting was the preceding segment of the show making fun of Fox News, but that's another topic.

--Dan

[danderso8]

Dream Deferred, Langston Hughes

[danderso8]

Another one just occured to me...

Reincarnation, Wally McRae

http://www.cowboypoetry.com/mcrae.htm#Rein

[danderso8]

If the Soup-Nazi was into Haiku...

You have been so bad.
Yet you expect me to bless?
No Haiku for you!

(credit to my friends Karl Mahlburg and John Staroba, one of whom came up with this a few years ago. For a few days, they were playing with Haikus, and got to the point where they could almost have normal conversations in the meter. Was pretty funny.)

--dan

[Oski]

[ QUOTE ]
"The Christening of the Flying Wasp"
by Judge Elihu Smails

It's easy to grin
When your ship comes in
And you've got the stock market beat.

But the man worthwhile
Is the man who can smile
When his shorts are too tight in the seat.

[/ QUOTE ]

Go ahead Pookie, do the honors.

[Myrtle]

El Dorado

Edgar Allen Poe

......or,

The Highwayman

......or,

Annabel Lee.

I like Poe

/images/graemlins/grin.gif

[dsm]

[ QUOTE ]
You should read Shakespeare

[/ QUOTE ]

Which poem of his would you recommend, just as a starting point?

(When I think of Shakespeare I immediately think of his famous plays, almost forgetting that he wrote a bunch of sonnets too.)

-dsm

[Paluka]

[ QUOTE ]
she being brand new
~ee cummings

[/ QUOTE ]

I second this one. The poem is great, and is featured in a little known but highly entertaining movie called Plain Clothes.

[coolhandkuhn]

Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie
~Bob Dylan

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
<font color="red">When you were faked out an' fooled while facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens </font>
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache´
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AIN'T REAL"

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown

[Acesover8s]

Death shall have no dominion - Dylan Thomas


And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

[Duke]

[ QUOTE ]
"Piss on the sun if you want,
But leave the good women alone."

[/ QUOTE ]

He must not play MTG.

~D

[justus]

and paul said and peter said
and all the saints alive or dead
vowed she had the sweetest head
of yellow yellow hair

[Monty Cantsin]

Here's my favorite poem about poker:

Before The Game
-Vasko Popa

Shut one eye then the other
Peek into every corner of yourself
See that there are no nails no thieves
See that there are no cuckoo's eggs

Shut then the other eye
Squat and jump
Jump high high high
On top of yourself

Fall then with all your weight
Fall for days on end deep deep deep
To the bottom of your abyss

Who doesn't break into pieces
Who remains whole gets up whole
Plays


/mc

[John Feeney]

scotnt73,

I think Duke is right. You may just need to try more poetry to find some that moves you. Browse through some anthologies of great poetry. I'll bet you find some you like.

I believe many find poetry to be the most immediate, intensely moving or provocative form of writing. Short stories might come next, followed by longer fiction (or nonfiction). Some poetry is indeed so obscure that it's difficult to appreciate without a lot of work. (And some, of course, is just garbage.) But some is readily accessible and remarkably powerful. Try this poem, written in 1925 by well known black poet, Countee Cullen:

Incident

Once riding in old Baltimore
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

----------

Pretty good, huh?

[astroglide]

i've always found it easy to be moved by lyrics but not by poems

[Zeno]

The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde

_______________________________________________

On the ligther side I offer three examples:

The other day upon the stair
I met a man who wasn't there,
He wasn't there again today -
Oh, how I wish he'd go away....

**********************************************


The breasts of a barmaid of Crail
Where tattooed with the price of brown ale,
While on her behind
For the sake of the blind
Was the same information in Braille.

************************************************** **

What' the Use?

Sure, deck your lower limbs in pants:
Yours are the limbs, my sweeting.
You look divine as you advance -
Have you seen youself retreating?

- Ogden Nash

[Duke]

I hold most lyrics and poetry in contempt, and it's easy enough for me to listen to a lyric as just random noise. That would make it tougher to be moved by them.

~D

[ZeeJustin]

Worker bees can leave
Even drones can fly away
The queen is their slave

[KenDom]

"High Flight"

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of "Sklansky."

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

[Grivan]

I have a minor understanding of the Russian language Duke, and anyone who can say they love Russian literature without reading it in the original language must have something wrong with them. Just try reading the novel "Petersburg" by Andrei Bely in english translation and my point will be proved.

[Q8offsuit]

Milton's Paradise Lost
Whitman's "Song of Myself"

In any order. And no, it's not really close. at all. /images/graemlins/smile.gif

[tolbiny]

Eliot is great, prufrock is fantastic, but i think that the simplicity of "stopping by woods on a snowy evening" is my favorite (frost)

[tolbiny]

also shel silverstein

[tolbiny]

That's a peach, hon

[Deorum]

[ QUOTE ]
The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde

_______________________________________________

On the ligther side I offer three examples:

The other day upon the stair
I met a man who wasn't there,
He wasn't there again today -
Oh, how I wish he'd go away....

**********************************************


The breasts of a barmaid of Crail
Where tattooed with the price of brown ale,
While on her behind
For the sake of the blind
Was the same information in Braille.

************************************************** **

What' the Use?

Sure, deck your lower limbs in pants:
Yours are the limbs, my sweeting.
You look divine as you advance -
Have you seen youself retreating?

- Ogden Nash

[/ QUOTE ]

As a followup to this, I'll post The Paradox Poem:

"One bright day, in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
Back to back they faced each other
Drew their swords, and shot each other
A deaf police man heard the noise
Who came and shot the two dead boys
If you don't believe this lie is true
Ask the blind man, he saw it too"

Anyway, as for my favorite poem, I cannot say. I guess I do
not really have any one particular favorite. There are many
that I like, such as Poe (I like everything by Poe, but a
couple that noone has yet mentioned are The Raven and The
Bells). A lot of the classics are great: The Divine Comedy,
Paradise Lost, and Homer's stuff. And, if we are accepting
poetry not usually written or spoken in English, then I have
to say I really like Catullus. I was happy, although a
little surprised, to see that noone listed Keats' Ode on a
Grecian Urn, as I find that poem truly dull.

[ACPlayer]

Clarkmeister's work, though interesting and fun, is not a Haiku.

The syllable structure is not enough to make a work a Haiku.

[BugsBunny]

I've always like Poe myself. I wouldn't necessarily say it's the best but one of his lesser known poems always struck me for some reason:

Alone

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.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was 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.

Another one, by Wilfred Owen, always resonated with me as well:
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 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 . . .
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.

Roberts Service has some great stuff. The Cremation of Sam McGee is probably his best known one. I always liked "The Ballad of the Northern Lights" or the "Shooting of Dan McGrew" as well. Actually I like all of Service pretty much. But my favorite is probably "The Ballad of the Ice-Worm Cocktail"

The Ballad of the Ice-Worm Cocktail
by Robert W. Service


To Dawson Town came Percy Brown from London on the Thames.
A pane of glass was in his eye, and stockings on his sterns.
Upon the shoulder of his coat a leather pad he wore,
To rest his deadly rifle when it wasn't seeking gore;
The which it must have often been, for Major Percy Brown,
According to his story was a hunter of renown,
Who in the Murrumbidgee wilds had stalked the kangaroo
And killed the cassowary on the plains of Timbuctoo.
And now the Arctic fox he meant to follow to its lair,
And it was also his intent to beard the Artic hare...
Which facts concerning Major Brown I merely tell because
I fain would have you know him for the Nimrod that he was.

Now Skipper Grey and Deacon White were sitting in the shack,
And sampling of the whisky that pertained to Sheriff Black.
Said Skipper Grey: "I want to say a word about this Brown:
The piker's sticking out his chest as if he owned the town."
Said Sheriff Black: "he has no lack of frigorated cheek;
He called himself a Sourdough when he'd just been here a week."
Said Deacon White: "Methinks you're right, and so I have a plan
By which I hope to prove to-night the mettle of the man.
Just meet me where the hooch-bird sings, and though our ways be rude
We'll make a proper Sourdough of this Piccadilly dude."

Within the Malamute Saloon were gathered all the gang;
The fun was fast and furious, and the loud hooch-bird sang.
In fact the night's hilarity had almost reached its crown,
When into its storm-centre breezed the gallant Major Brown.
And at the apparation, whith its glass eye and plus-fours,
From fifty alcoholic throats responded fifty roars.
With shouts of stark amazement and with whoops of sheer delight,
They surged around the stranger, but the first was Deacon White.
"We welcome you," he cried aloud, "to this the Great White Land.
The Artic Brotherhood is proud to grip you by the hand.
Yea, sportsman of the bull-dog breed, from trails of far away,
To Yukoners this is indeed a memorable day.
Our jubilation to express, vocabularies fail...
Boys, hail the Great Cheechako!" And the boys responded: "Hail!"

"And now," continued Deacon White to blushing Major Brown,
"Behold assembled the eelight and cream of Dawson Town,
And one ambition fills their hearts and makes their bosoms glow -
They want to make you, honoured sir, a bony feed Sourdough.
The same, some say, is one who's seen the Yukon ice go out,
But most profound authorities the definition doubt,
And to the genial notion of this meeting, Major Brown,
A Sourdough is a guy who drinks ... an ice-worm cocktail down."

"By Gad!" responded Major Brown, "that's ripping, don't you know.
I've always felt I'd like to be a certified Sourdough.
And though I haven't any doubt your Winter's awf'ly nice,
Mayfair, I fear, may miss me ere the break-up of your ice.
Yet (pray excuse my ignorance of matters such as these)
A cocktail I can understand - but what's an ice-worm, please?"
Said Deacon White: "It is not strange that you should fail to know,
Since ice-worms are peculiar to the Mountain of Blue Snow.
Within the Polar rim it rears, a solitary peak,
And in the smoke of early Spring (a spectacle unique)
Like flame it leaps upon the sight and thrills you through and through,
For though its cone is piercing white, its base is blazing blue.
Yet all is clear as you draw near - for coyley peering out
Are hosts and hosts of tiny worms, each indigo of snout.
And as no nourishment they find, to keep themselves alive
They masticate each other's tails, till just the Tough survive.
Yet on this stern and Spartan fare so-rapidly they grow,
That some attain six inches by the melting of the snow.
Then when the tundra glows to green and nigger heads appear,
They burrow down and are not seen until another year."

"A toughish yarn," laughed Major Brown, "as well you may admit.
I'd like to see this little beast before I swallow it."
"'Tis easy done," said Deacon White, "Ho! Barman, haste and bring
Us forth some pickled ice-worms of the vintage of last Spring."
But sadly still was Barman Bill, then sighed as one bereft:
"There's been a run on cocktails, Boss; there ain't an ice-worm left.
Yet wait . . . By gosh! it seems to me that some of extra size
Were picked and put away to show the scientific guys."
Then deeply in a drawer he sought, and there he found a jar,
The which with due and proper pride he put upon the bar;
And in it, wreathed in queasy rings, or rolled into a ball,
A score of grey and greasy things, were drowned in alcohol.
Their bellies were a bilious blue, their eyes a bulbous red;
Their back were grey, and gross were they, and hideous of head.
And when with gusto and a fork the barman speared one out,
It must have gone four inches from its tail-tip to its snout.
Cried Deacon White with deep delight: "Say, isn't that a beaut?"
"I think it is," sniffed Major Brown, "a most disgustin' brute.
Its very sight gives me the pip. I'll bet my bally hat,
You're only spoofin' me, old chap. You'll never swallow that."
"The hell I won't!" said Deacon White. "Hey! Bill, that fellows fine.
Fix up four ice-worm cocktails, and just put that wop in mine."

So Barman Bill got busy, and with sacerdotal air
His art's supreme achievement he proceeded to prepare.
His silver cups, like sickle moon, went waving to and fro,
And four celestial cocktails soon were shining in a row.
And in the starry depths of each, artistically piled,
A fat and juicy ice-worm raised its mottled mug and smiled.
Then closer pressed the peering crown, suspended was the fun,
As Skipper Grey in courteous way said: "Stranger, please take one."
But with a gesture of disgust the Major shook his head.
"You can't bluff me. You'll never drink that gastly thing," he said.
"You'll see all right," said Deacon White, and held his cocktail high,
Till its ice-worm seemed to wiggle, and to wink a wicked eye.
Then Skipper Grey and Sheriff Black each lifted up a glass,
While through the tense and quiet crown a tremor seemed to pass.
"Drink, Stranger, drink," boomed Deacon White. "proclaim you're of the best,
A doughty Sourdough who has passed the Ice-worm Cocktail Test."
And at these words, with all eyes fixed on gaping Major Brown,
Like a libation to the gods, each dashed his cocktail down.
The Major gasped with horror as the trio smacked their lips.
He twiddled at his eye-glass with unsteady finger-tips.
Into his starry cocktail with a look of woe he peered,
And its ice-worm, to his thinking, mosy incontinently leered.
Yet on him were a hundred eyes, though no one spoke aloud,
For hushed with expectation was the waiting, watching crowd.
The Major's fumbling hand went forth - the gang prepared to cheer;
The Major's falt'ring hand went back, the mob prepared to jeer,
The Major gripped his gleaming galss and laid it to his lips,
And as despairfully he took some nauseated sips,
From out its coil of crapulence the ice-worm raised its head,
Its muzzle was a murky blue, its eyes a ruby red.
And then a roughneck bellowed fourth: "This stiff comes here and struts,
As if he bought the blasted North - jest let him show his guts."
And with a roar the mob proclaimed: "Cheechako, Major Brown,
Reveal that you're of Sourdough stuff, and drink your cocktail down."

The Major took another look, then quickly closed his eyes,
For even as he raised his glass he felt his gorge arise.
Aye, even though his sight was sealed, in fancy he could see
That grey and greasy thing that reared and sneered in mockery.
Yet roung him ringed the callous crowd - and how they seemed to gloat!
It must be done . . . He swallowed hard . . . The brute was at his throat.
He choked. . . he gulped . . . Thank God! at last he'd got the horror down.
The from the crown went up a roar: "Hooray for Sourdough Brown!"
With shouts they raised him shoulder high, and gave a rousing cheer,
But though they praised him to the sky the Major did not hear.
Amid their demonstrative glee delight he seemed to lack;
Indeed it almost seemed that he - was "keeping something back."
A clammy sweat was on his brow, and pallid as a sheet:
"I feel I must be going now," he'd plaintively repeat.
Aye, though with drinks and smokes galore, they tempted him to stay,
With sudden bolt he gained the door, and made his get-away.

And ere next night his story was the talk of Dawson Town,
But gone and reft of glory was the wrathful Major Brown;
For that ice-worm (so they told him) of such formidable size
Was - a stick of stained spaghetti with two red ink spots for eyes.

But a special place in my heart, being of Polish descent, goes to this one.

Warsaw
Robert Service

I was in Warsaw when the first bomb fell;
I was in Warsaw when the Terror came -
Havoc and horror, famine, fear and flame,
Blasting from loveliness a living hell.
Barring the station towered a sentinel;
Trainward I battled, blind escape my aim.
ENGLAND! I cried. He kindled at the name:
With lion-leap he haled me. . . . All was well.

ENGLAND! they cried for aid, and cried in vain.
Vain was their valour, emptily they cried.
Bleeding, they saw their Cry crucified. . . .
O splendid soldier, by the last lone train,
To-day would you flame forth to fray me place?
Or - would you curse and spit into my face?

September, 1939

[knifeandfork]

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
is better i think but "the road" is definitely more inspiring. "stopping" shows you the dark side (some say the character is pondering suicide)
"whose woods these are i think i know,
his house is in the village though,(god?)
he will not see me stopping here,
to watch his woods fill up with snow,
my little horse must think it queer........
just a thought this is my favorite poem although the opening to moby dick(not really a poem) and "to his coy mistress" are close favs of mine too. phil helmuth gives a valiant effort at poetry in the intro of his book........

[Wingnut]

I believe that would make it "senryu" (at least according to TMQ)

[RocketManJames]

My two favorites:

Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (TS Eliot)
Fire and Ice (Frost)

-RMJ

[Rushmore]

OK, I'll pull out the Big Dog.

When I was in first grade, our teacher, Mrs. Stole, wanted us to compose a brief poem, which was to rhyme, and which was to involve an animal.

At home, I opted for television, as opposed to actually considering the exercise in any way. I watched The Mod Squad.

At school the next day, it became clear that we were expected to actually READ our poem to the class. This put me into an awkward position, as I had not prepared anything, and had, as I have said, watched The Mod Squad instead.

The children all took their turns, standing with their little pieces of notebook paper, regaling us with bugs that needed hugs and weasels who had the measles.

Anyway, my turn came, I stood, and, like Robert Frost at Kennedy's inauguration, I reached down deep into my soul and extracted the following:

I dig
That pig,
Man.

You never heard such a silence in your life. Until, that is, this one kid in the back (with whom I am friends to this day) started laughing hysterically and literally fell off his chair.

We both went to the principal, but at least I had composed a great poem, heavily influenced as it was by Linc and Julie.

So that's my nomination.

[J_V]

Wow. That kid laughing off his chair was me....wow, that's funny. Well told. I might have to steal that story.

[smudgex68]

Not perhaps the greatest poem of all time but I like Philip Larkin. One of his more well-known, but not best is This Be The Verse.

[ QUOTE ]

They [censored] you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were [censored] up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

(1971)



[/ QUOTE ]

[smudgex68]

It's been censored !

[ArchAngel71857]

Dreamchaser by Jim Gaffigan

Dreams! Dreams! Dreams!
I like Dreams.

Wood by Jim Gaffigan

Wood! Wood! Wood!
I like Wood.
Please get your dick outta my butt.


-AA

[John Cole]

John,

I use Cullen's poem right at the start when I teach poetry. The meter and rhythm create expectations in the reader, and the end of the poem completely destroys those expectations. Then, I usually move to "The Road Not Taken" because people familiar with the poem usually don't know how to read it closely. (I also mention it seems to be the favorite of high school principals and motivational speakers--another group of readers that can't read poetry at all.) Most naive readers believe Frost is making a statement about individuality and making bold choices, but Frost is much more sophisticated. Another Cullen:

For a Lady I Know

She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores,
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.

[Aces McGee]

Henry V? I thought it was from "Renaissance Man."

-McGee

[Aces McGee]

Poe is my favorite writer of all time, too, not just poet. Back when I was in college and had a need for drinking toasts, this was always a good one:

Fill with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain —
Quaintest thoughts — queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today.

-McGee

[John Feeney]

[ QUOTE ]
I use Cullen's poem right at the start when I teach poetry. The meter and rhythm create expectations in the reader, and the end of the poem completely destroys those expectations.

[/ QUOTE ]

Yep. I wish I could say I picked it because I knew that, out of a great many poems, it was the perfect starter piece. But it just came to mind. /images/graemlins/smirk.gif

I think I need to go back and reread "The Road Not Taken." When I last read it I was young and aiming, it seems, toward the motivational speaking circuit. /images/graemlins/wink.gif

[benfranklin]

Lines on the Antiquity of Fleas

Adam
Had'em

--Ogden Nash

[bernie]

_

[M2d]

candy
is dandy
but liquor
is quicker

[Phat Mack]

Cross children walk, cheerful children ride. /images/graemlins/smile.gif

[spamuell]

I can't believe Emily Dickinson is yet to be mentioned. I haven't read nearly all her poems but she's just wonderful. Because I could not stop for Death is probably my favourite poem that I've read. Achieving immortality through writing so that generations later intelligent people will still respect and admire you and your work (which is what I think the poem is about) is something that I certainly aspire to.

The Soul selects her own Society is also superb.

[scalf]

/images/graemlins/smile.gif..isn't life beautiful?

isn't life gay?..

isn't life the perfect thing?;;

to pass the time away??

gl

/images/graemlins/smirk.gif /images/graemlins/club.gif

[regisd]

hm. favorite? that's difficult. there's edna st vincent millay's "fatal interview XXX" (that's the roman numeral version of 30, not the rating of the last movie you rented) poem:

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.


or amy lowell's 'venus transiens':

Tell me,
Was Venus more beautiful
Than you are,
When she topped the crinkled waves
Drifting shoreward
On her plaited shell?

Was Boticcelli's vision
Fairer than mine;
And were the painted rosebuds
He tossed his lady
Of better worth
Than the works I blow around you
To cover your too great loveliness
As with a gauze
Of misted silver?

For me,
You stand poised
In the blue and boyant air,
Cinctured by bright winds,
Treading the sunlight.
And the waves which precede you
Ripple and stir
The sands at my feet.


but if you don't want any of this mushy love poetry and would prefer raucous partying fun, i'd have to pick joseph march's very long narrative 1920's poem "the wild party", which starts off with a sexy blonde, moves thru drinking and debauchery of all sorts, and ends with a gunshot and the cops busting down the door. it's best experienced by getting tipsy with friends and reading it aloud.

[benfranklin]

[ QUOTE ]
candy
is dandy
but liquor
is quicker

[/ QUOTE ]

Ogden Nash
http://westegg.com/nash/

[Rolf Slotboom]

Couldn't agree more, Duke. Couldn't agree more.

Rolf Slotboom
www.acespeaks.cjb.net (http://www.acespeaks.cjb.net)

[queenhigh]

Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.

Or-

Milk, Milk, Lemonade,
Round the Corner Fudge is Made

[DrSavage]

Joseph Brodsky, Twenty Sonnets to Mary Queen of Scotts

[Songwind]

This is a really difficult thread to comment on. There are too many possible types of poetry.

A few of my favoites would be:
Huge swaths of Kipling.
The Baghavad Gita
"Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost
Shakespeare (pick one, for the most part)
Beowulf (find a decent translation and it's a great story)

But Kipling is definitely my favorite, probably because his work reminds me of my father.

[umaga]

This Be The Verse

They [censored] you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were [censored] up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

[cianosheehan]

[ QUOTE ]
i just never understood how poems could be enjoyable in any way except to try and impress others.

[/ QUOTE ]

People like words

[Myrtle]

ELDORADO
by Edgar Allan Poe
written in 1849

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

[John Cole]

You move to Iowa, and now you link a picture of Camus! John, what's happened?

[glen]

haha. At first I really felt your pain of realizing that you actually had to recite a poem, then I realized I lived this moment like ten times this year in architecture grad school - just replace the mod squad with with internet poker and your short masterpiece with 15 minute ramblings of architural wordypants babble. . .

[Patrick del Poker Grande]

The only poem I remember word for word. I'm sure it's only because I've seen it so much. It was written on the door of the outhouse at our cabin when I was a kid:

Here I sit, broken hearted.
Paid a nickel and only farted.
Boo hoo.
Next time, take a chance.
Save the nickel and crap your pants.

It illustrates and exposes you to the important concept of risk/reward. It also illustrates that you shouldn't leave a marker in an outhouse.

[Moyer]

My favorite poem as a child:

From "Deans Mother Goose Book of Rhymes"

There was a little man, and he had a little gun,
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead,
He saw a little duck, upon a little brook,
And he shot it right through the head, head, head.

[eggzz]

That song lyric posted by Bob Dylan rocked, he has to be one of the top five songwriters to ever live, in my opinion, but my favorite poem of all time has to be the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales, by Geoffrey Chaucer.


When that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour,
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tender croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages),
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blissful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke." General Prologue, l.1-20

[Apocalypse]

In dutch:

Hier ligt Poot,
hij is dood


in English (doesn't rhyme of course)

Here lies Poot,
hes dead

This is an actual writing on the tombstones of one of dutch greatest writers of poems, mister Poot /images/graemlins/smirk.gif