Poetry Thread. Post your favorites.

[Mirc]

Anyway, i like George Bacovia ... (if any of you heard of him).

I love Bacovia!!! But I wouldn't read it in a sunny day.

 

[Kayak]

One of my favorites, an old standard.
Thank you Mr. Coleridge.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

 

[Taliesin]

Rush did it better. (just kidding...)

 

[Aramazd]

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart....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 on 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."​

I also like a poem by Robert Frost, but I can't remember its name, just the lines
"I have miles to go before I rest"

 

[Richard Cribb]

Anyway, i like George Bacovia ... (if any of you heard of him).

Yes, I know his poetry pretty well.

I love Bacovia!!! But I wouldn't read it in a sunny day.

You have a point there.

I suppose with my avatar and username I am honour bound to post some Eminescu, so here we go.Luceafarul is a bit too long, though. So here is a short one, both in original and translated version, which reminds my of the time my loved one and I were physically separated by some 2000 kms...


First the original:

SI DACA

Si daca ramuri bat in geam
Si se cutremur plopii,
E ca in minte sa te am
Si-ncet sa te apropii.

Si daca stele bat in lac
Adincu-i luminindu-l,
E ca dureerea mea s-o-npac
Inseninindu-mi gindul.

Si daca norii desi se duc
De iese-n luciu luna,
E ca aminte sa-mi aduc
De tine-ntotdeauna.

-Mihai Eminescu

And then Corneliu Popescu's translation:

AND IF

And if the branches tap my pane
And the poplars whisper nightly,
It is to make me dream again
I hold you to me tightly.

And if the stars shine on the pond
And light its sombre shoal,
It is to quench my mind’s despond
And flood with peace my soul.

And if the clouds their tresses part
And does the moon outblaze,
It is but to remind my heart
I long for you always.

That's all for now, I plan to return to this thread.

 

[Taliesin]

I also like a poem by Robert Frost, but I can't remember its name, just the lines
"I have miles to go before I rest"

That's another of my favourites:

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only sound's the gentle sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 

[Sophie 378]

My favourite sonnet:

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and often, an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toil from day to day—
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

John Clare - The Thrush's Nest


------------

My favourite, I guess you'd call it free verse poem:

There are the rushing waves
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison.

Ages on ages
before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, or what?
On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.

Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the sun
poured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.

Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another
till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.

Growing in size and complexity
living things
masses of atoms
DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.

Out of the cradle
onto dry land
here it is
standing:
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.

Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the universe.

From a public address given by Richard Feynman to the 1955 autumn meeting of the National Academy of Sciences, entitled “The Value of Science”.

 

[De Lorimier]

I've been fascinated with Rimbaud's Le dormeur du val since I was a young boy. It jump-stared my love for poetry and history at the same moment.

Le dormeur du val
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière,
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.

 

[Mirc]

Luceafarul is a bit too long, though. .

Yes, it is 96 or 98 stanzas long!

 

[Taliesin]

I've been fascinated with Rimbaud's Le dormeur du val since I was a young boy. It jump-stared my love for poetry and history at the same moment.

Déja vu... anyhow, as you might remember, I also love this poem, both in its original and its English translation.

 

[Furiey]

This was one of the poems on the London underground tube trains whan I was working in London and commuting down there everyday. They gave me something to read rather than stare into the armpit of the person I was crushed up against and this one stuck in my memory. The rhythm of poem seemed to be the same as that of the train on the tracks as it travelled and even now, 10 years later, when I travel on the tube I think of this poem.

Dream Boogie (Langston Hughes)

Good morning, daddy!
Ain't you heard
The boogie-woogie rumble
Of a dream deferred?

Listen closely:
You'll hear their feet
Beating out and beating out a -

You think
It's a happy beat?​

Listen closely:
Ain't you heard
something underneath
like a -

What did I say?​

Sure,
I'm happy!
Take it away!

Hey, pop!
Re-bop!
Mop!

Y-e-a-h!​

 

[Taliesin]

@De Lorimier, here's another take on a similar subject:

Ultima Ratio Regum
Stephen Spender

The guns spell money's ultimate reason
In letters of lead on the Spring hillside.
But the boy lying dead under the olive trees
Was too young and too silly
To have been notable to their important eye.
He was a better target for a kiss.

When he lived, tall factory hooters never summoned him.
Nor did restaurant plate-glass doors revolve to wave him in.
His name never appeared in the papers.
The world maintained its traditional wall
Round the dead with their gold sunk deep as a well,
Whilst his life, intangible as a Stock Exchange rumor, drifted outside.

O too lightly he threw down his cap
One day when the breeze threw petals from the trees.
The unflowering wall sprouted with guns,
Machine-gun anger quickly scythed the grasses;
Flags and leaves fell from hands and branches;
The tweed cap rotted in the nettles.

Consider his life which was valueless
In terms of employment, hotel ledgers, news files.
Consider. One bullet in ten thousand kills a man.
Ask. Was so much expenditure justified
On the death of one so young, and so silly
Lying under the olive trees, O world, O death?


And another that I like:

Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough
The land and not the sea,
And leave the soldiers at their drill,
And all about the idle hill
Shepherd your sheep with me.

Oh stay with company and mirth
And daylight and the air;
Too full already is the grave
Of fellows that were good and brave
And died because they were.

~~A. E. Housman

 

[Fifty]

Here's a wierd/famous one from E.E. Cummings:

l(a

le
af
fa

ll

s)
one
l

iness





And here's a very famous war poem by Randall Jarrett:

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

 

[Taliesin]

A couple of other interesting/strange ones:

The Pool Players.
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.
~~Gwendolyn Brooks

This Is Just To Say

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
~~Williams Carlos Williams

 

[LLXerxes]

Bullets on your mind,
clouds are in the sky.
Noone wants to lose you,
noone wants to die.
Gunshots in the alley,
shells are on the ground.
Blood is on the dumpster,
bodies lying round.

Take out all your anger,
whichever way you choose.
It's just that in the long run
you have everything to lose.
When somebody finds you
you'll have no excuse.
Killing's not the answer
when you have the blues.

Bloodstains on your shirt,
screams still in your ears.
“Please do not hurt me,
we're friends of many years.”
Loading up your pistol,
right outside the shed.
Bust right through the door,
paint the whole room red.

Take out all your anger,
in a single shot.
Take out all the bodies,
or else they'll start to rot.
Just don't hurt too many
they're all that you've got.
Killing's not the answer
even without thought.

Gum wrapper on your forehead.
Sharpie up your nose.
You sir, are a moron.
And why, nobody knows.
Mutter under your breath.
See if I care.
Go ride on your heelies.
Go cut your hair.

No one hangs around him,
he has no excuse.
He'll steal all your batteries
and use up all the juice.
He'll get on the ground
just to look up your skirt.
He'll throw all his stuff at you
just to watch you hurt.

Tissues in your boxers.
money in your shoes.
You sir are the man.
that no girl wants to choose.
Throw all of the punches.
make all the kicks.
Make up all the insults
throw it in the mix.

No one hangs around him,
he has no excuse.
Thinks he is so awesome
obsesses over shoes.
He tries all the stunts
then fall on his ass.
When he screws up badly
he wants another chance.

Candy in your locker
soda in your bag.
When will you realize
we think you're a hag?
Laughing at the others
'cause you're insecure.
Never give an answer
'cause you're never sure.

Just a few... the author is chosing to be anonymous

 

[Fifty]

I would like other people's opinions on my favorite poem!


Images
by Tyrone Green

Dark and lonely on a summer's night.
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Watchdog barking. Do he bite?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Slip in his window. Break his neck.
Then his house I start to wreck.
Got no reason. What the heck?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
C-I-L my land lord!

 

[Sophie 378]

Forgive the - I just found a poem which absolutely stunned me.

Sea-Fever

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

That is such an emotional rush: the rhythm and onomatopoeia make it like a song for me. I want to set it to music and sing it. I found it yesterday and I dreamed about it all night, still thinking about it all today. I feel like I've finally understood something I barely knew existed (probably untrue, but never mind).

 

[skadistic]

Dirty limricks but I can't post them.

Rhyme of the Anciant Mariner

 

[Leha]

As a youngster I was impressed by this great piece of poetry:

Rudyard Kipling

If

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 wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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!​

Russian translation is great too

 

[Turner]

Poetry? Maybe. Maybe not.

Yet if my line should die
It dies with it's teeth in the enemy's throat,
It dies with it's name on the enemy's tongue.
For just as mere life is not victory
Mere death is not defeat.
And in the next world I shall kill the foe
A thousand times
Laughing
Undefeated.