ANSWERS: 100
  • my favorit pome is I Cry by 2pac. Its just a real good pome here it is case you never herd it: “I Cry” Sometimes when I'm alone I Cry, Cause I am on my own. The tears I cry are bitter and warm; they flow with life but take no form I Cry because my heart is torn. I find it difficult to carry on. If I had an ear to confiding, I would cry among my treasured friend, but who do you know that stops that long, to help another carry on. The world moves fast and it would rather pass by. Then to stop and see what makes one cry, so painful and sad. And sometimes... I cry and no one cares about why.
  • I have two favourite poems My 'pre-1940' favourite is by Sakespeare Sonnet 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red. If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath far more pleasing sound. I grant I never saw a goddess go: My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love is rare And any she belied with false to compare My 'modern' favourite is by Carol Anne Duffy. Anne Hathaway "Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed..."- Shakespeares Will The bed we loved on was a spinning world of forests, castles, tourchlight, clifftops, seas where he would dive for pearls. My lovers words were shooting starswhich fell to earth as kisses on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme to his, now echo, assonance; his touch a verb dancing in the centre of a noun. Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed a page beneath his writers hands. Romance and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste. In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on, dribbling their prose. My living laughing love I hold him in the casket of my widow's head as he held me on the next best bed
  • In Flanders Fields - by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae.
  • Any that are mine . Go to poetry.com and read some from everyday people like us .
  • The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe. It ranks right up there with The Raven.
  • To be or not to be by Shakespeare. To be or not to be, that is the question — Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep — No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep — To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life, For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch[1] and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
  • Willy's Sonnet 61 Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: It is my love that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
  • I have always loved sea stories of the gallant men of the tall sailing ships and their exploits. And it seems that an awful lot of them came from sailors of New England. New England's coast long had a fleet of packets, sloops, and schooners that operated between Boston and their home ports, carrying passnegers, frieght, and mail and other assundries. One story in particular stands out to me was of a Nantucket skipper, who day or night could give his position by just tasting the water and soil off of the greased lead drop used for depth soundings. James T. Fields put it together like this: The Nantucket Skipper Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though 'lying low,' How near New York their schooners ran. They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right. A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell by tasting, just the spot; And so below he'd dowse the glim,-- After, of course, his 'something hot'. Snug in hs berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found. No matter how his craft would rock, He slept; for skippers' naps are sound. The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead. One night 'twas Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag, the pedler's son; And so he mused (the wanton wretch): "Tonight I'll have a grain of fun! We're all a set of stupid fools To think the skipper knows by tasting What ground he's on,- Nantucket schoools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!" And so he took the well-greased lead And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck,-a parsnip bed; And then he sought the skipper's berth. "Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue; Then opened his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung! The skipper stormed and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden: "Nantucket's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
  • e.e. cummings i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
  • "DON'T QUIT"..........I'M NOT SURE WHO WROTE IT BUT FROM MEMORY IT GOES LIKE THIS...... WHEN THINGS SEEM HARD AS THEY SOMETIMES WILL, AND THE ROAD YOUR TRUDGING IS ALL UP HILL, WHEN CARE IS PRESSING YOU DOWN A BIT, REST IS YOU MUST BUT DON'T YOU QUIT, LIFE SEEMS QUEER WITH ITS TWISTS AND TURNS, AS EVERY ONE OF US SOMTIMES LEARNS, AND MANY A FELLOW TURNS ABOUT, WHEN HE MIGHT HAVE WON HAD HE STUCK IT OUT, DON'T GIVE UP THOUGH THE PACE SEEMS SLOW, YOU MAY SUCCEED WITH ANOTHER BLOW, OFTEN THE GOAL IS NEARER THAN IT SEEMS TO A FAINT AND FALTERING MAN, OFTEN THE STRUGGLER HAS GIVEN UP WHEN HE MIGHT HAVE CAPTURED THE VICTORS CUP, BUT HE LEARNED TO LATE WHEN THE NIGHT CAME DOWN, HOW CLOSE HE WAS TO THE GOLDEN CROWN, SUCCESS IS FALIURE TURNED INSIDE OUT, THE SILVER TINT OF THE CLOUDS OF DOUBT, AND YOU NEVER CAN TELL HOW CLOSE YOU ARE, IT MAY BE NEAR WHEN IT SEEMS AFAR, SO STICK TO THE FIGHT WHEN YOUR HARDEST HIT, IT'S WHEN THINGS SEEM WORST THAT YOU MUSN'T QUIT!!!
  • It is only when I read this poem that I actually see some value in the cold and darkness of winter. Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost 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 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 other sound's the 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.
  • A U.S. Service men in Japan wrote this on the night before Christmas. Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone, In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone. I had come down the chimney with presents to give And to see just who in this home did live. I looked all about a strange sight I did see, No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand, On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands. With medals and badges, awards of all kind A sober thought came through my mind. For this house was different, so dark and dreary, I knew I had found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly. I heard stories about them, I had to see more So I walked down the hall and pushed open the door. And there he lay sleeping silent alone, Curled up on the floor in his one bedroom home. His face so gentle, his room in such disorder, Not how I pictured a United States soldier. Was this the hero of whom I’d just read? Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed? His head was clean shaven, his weathered face tan, I soon understood this was more than a man. For I realized the families that I saw that night Owed their lives to these men who were willing to fight. Soon ‘round the world, the children would play, And grownups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day. They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year, Because of soldiers like this one lying here. I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone On a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home. Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye, I dropped to my knees and started to cry. The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice, "Santa don’t cry, this life is my choice; I fight for freedom, I don’t ask for more, my life is my God, my country, my Corps." With that he rolled over and drifted off into sleep, I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep. I watched him for hours, so silent and still, I noticed he shivered from the cold night’s chill. So I took off my jacket, the one made of red, And I covered this Soldier from his toes to his head. And I put on his T-shirt of gray and black, With an eagle and an Army patch embroidered on back. And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride, And for a shining moment, I was United States Army deep inside. I didn’t want to leave him on that cold dark night, This guardian of honor so willing to fight. Then the soldier rolled over, whispered with a voice so clean and pure, "Carry on Santa, it’s Christmas Day, all is secure." One look at my watch, and I knew he was right, Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night! And another one. The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light, I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight. My wife was asleep, her head on my chest, My daughter beside me, angelic in rest. Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white, Transforming the yard to a winter delight. The sparkling lights in the tree I believe, Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve. My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep, Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep. In perfect contentment, or so it would seem, So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream. The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near, But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear. Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow. My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear, And I crept to the door just to see who was near. Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night, A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight. A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old, Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold. Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled, Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child. "What are you doing?" I asked without fear, "Come in this moment, it's freezing out here! Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve, You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!" For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift, Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts.. To the window that danced with a warm fire's light Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right, I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night." "It's my duty to stand at the front of the line, That separates you from the darkest of times. No one had to ask or beg or implore me, I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me. My Gramps died at 'Pearl on a day in December," Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers." My dad stood his watch in the jungles of 'Nam', And now it is my turn and so, here I am. I've not seen my own son in more than a while, But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile. Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag, The red, white, and blue... an American flag. I can live through the cold and the being alone, Away from my family, my house and my home. I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet, I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat. I can carry the weight of killing another, Or lay down my life with my sister and brother.. Who stand at the front against any and all, To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall." "So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright, Your family is waiting and I'll be all right." "But isn't there something I can do, at the least, "Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast? It seems all too little for all that you've done, For being away from your wife and your son." Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret, "Just tell us you love us, and never forget. To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone, To stand your own watch, no matter how long. For when we come home, either standing or dead, To know you remember we fought and we bled. Is payment enough, and with that we will trust, That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."
  • To My Unborn Child by Dharma Faith Joy I long to hold in my arms. And smell you sweet sweet smell. To gaze into your little face And give you butterfly kisses. I want to teach you to walk and talk and learn But most of all to love and care and be the best you can be I don't know when you'll come But I'll be waiting here To hold you in my arms and love you oh so dear
  • "Design" by Robert Frost
  • Anything by Dr. Seuss - they're fun to read and when I read them now they bring back some childhood memories.
  • This is my absolute favorite poem of all times, because it is so erotic and simultaneously funny. Of course, you can see the male voice getting so excited that his "flowers bloom," before he is ready for them too. Lol. Thy fingers make early flowers Thy fingers make early flowers of all things. thy hair mostly the hours love: a smoothness which sings,saying (though love be a day) do not fear,we will go amaying. thy whitest feet crisply are straying. Always thy moist eyes are at kisses playing, whose strangeness much says;singing (though love be a day) for which girl art thou flowers bringing? To be thy lips is a sweet thing and small. Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing if this thou catch, else missing. (though love be a day and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing). e.e. cummings
  • I will toot my own horn here. This is one I wrote for my wife, Kim, on our 10th anniversery,Dec.20,1996. She died, Nov.25th,1999. For Kim I love to watch you sleeping In the early morning hours, Before the sun comes up On this little world of ours. When the moonlight shines On your softly graying hair, I see a gift from Heaven On the pillow, lying there. My passion seeks no other, Just the warmth of your embrace. How I long to hold you tightly, And touch your precious face. My love for you forever Will be engraved upon my heart, And we will be together, Dear, Till death do us part.
  • The Day is Done Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) THE DAY is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life’s endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
  • One I will never forget- Edgar Allan Poe- The Raven: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
  • I couldn't even begin to explain why I pick "We Real Cool". I like the fact that it's short and make a good point with minimal simple words. I also believe the band Jazz June got their name from this poem. Anyway, here it is: We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks 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 have a few favorites, but if I had to pick just one, it would be "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. Simply an amazing work
  • Probably either this one by Louis Macneiece: Snow The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was Spawning snow and pink roses against it Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: World is suddener than we fancy it. World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various. And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes - On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands - There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses. Or this one (Carol Ann Duffy): Prayer Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. So, a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift. Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain; then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales console the lodger looking out across a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls a child's name as though they named their loss. Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer - Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre. Or this one (Sylvia Plath): Lady Lazarus I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it-- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?-- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot-- The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart-- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash-- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there-- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
  • The Lady of Shallot by Alfred Lord Tennyson.
  • Since Frost's. "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" is spoken for, I will post a runner up that I have loved since I was a boy. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And bear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his haul, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
  • My favorite is Invictus, by W.E. Henley. I re-read it during hard times. The last two lines have become a motto of sorts for me. I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. It's a very empowering poem.
  • My ulterior motive for posting this question is finding new poems to add to my poetry.doc file where I cut-paste poems that I like. :) I have added quite a few from these answers!! Some of my favorites have already been listed, so I'll just add this one by Anne Sexton: Her Kind I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind. Okay, one more: A.E. Houseman When I Was One-and-Twenty WHEN I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a-plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
  • I love Dylan Thomas. This is my favorite. "Being But Men" Being but men, we walked into the trees Afraid, letting our syllables be soft For fear of waking the rooks, For fear of coming Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries. If we were children we might climb, Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig, And, afert the soft ascent, Thrust out our heads above the branches To wonder at the unfailing stars. Out of confusion, as the way is, And the wonder, that man knows, Out of the chaos would come bliss. That, then, is loveliness, we said, Children in wonder watching the stars, Is the aim and the end. Being but men, we walked into the trees.
  • Ok, well, there are lots of poems that I call my favorite because there are so many great ones. Most of the really good ones are much too long to put here. But here is one by Edgar Allan Poe that is relatively short, and just has Edgar Allan Poe all over it, if you knwo what I mean. ELDORADO Gaily bedight, A fallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old-- This night 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."
  • ODE TO A TREE: Mother Nature has called you And I know you must go Radiant leaves of splendor Red, yellow and gold She dressed you in green A few months before, And you danced in the breeze Proudly adorned Sweet smelling blossoms Crowned your limbs, And I noticed you tossing Your head in the wind. You seemed to be saying How pretty you looked As you bent your tall branches And peeked in the brook. Your reflection of beauty Even dazzled the skies For the sun's liquid gold Gave you the first prize. Jack Frost gets jealous This time of the year, And sprinkles white crystals That fall like tears. Each leaf that he touches A color unfolds, Magnificent as summer And worth more than man's gold. You'll be gone for the winter But soon will come spring, When the earth reawakens And little birds sing. I'll look out my window See buds on the trees, I'll know you've come back Be watching for me.
  • My favorite poem is Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman." It has wonderful description, action, romance, betrayal, killing, and a touch of the supernatural. I first heard it in an abbreviated song performed by the late protest singer Phil Ochs. I sought out the full version and wasn't disappointed. The Highwayman By Alfred Noyes Part One I The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding- Riding-riding- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. II He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. III Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. IV And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say- V "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." VI He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West. Part Two I He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. II They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride. III They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say- Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! IV She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! V The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. VI Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! VII Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night ! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death. VIII He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. IX Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. * * * * * * X And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding- Riding-riding- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. XI Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
  • It doesn't interest me what you do for a living, I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are, I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what social status you hold, I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals, or have become shriveled and closed, from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance without restraint, and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes, without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, and without dwelling on the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another, to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal, and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithful to yourself, and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty, every day. And if you can source your own life, from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge, and shout to the sky, "Yes, I have hope!" It doesn't interest me, to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done, to care for the children. It doesn't interest me who you know, or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me, and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. Author Unknown
  • Birches -By Robert Frost but you gotta love the where the side walk ends , a light in the attic etc by shell silverstein . i loved those as a kid they were so silly to me but i still love them today .
  • A Falcon, A Storm, Or An Unfinished Song I live my life in widening rings which spread over earth and sky. I may not ever complete the last one, but that is what I will try. I circle around God's primordial tower, and I circle ten thousand years long; And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song. -- Rainer Maria Rilke
  • Either futility or Anthem for Doomed Youth by Owen.
  • this is definately a poem that made me feel really bad for people who smoke meth... I destroy homes – I tear families apart. I take your children and that’s just a start. I’m more valued than diamonds, more precious than gold. The sorrow I bring is a sight to behold. If you need me, remember, I’m easily found. I live all around you, in school and in town. I live with the rich, I live with the poor. I live just down the street and maybe next door. I’m made in a lab, but not one like you think. I can be made under the kitchen sink, In your child’s closet, and even out in the woods. If this scares you to death, then it certainly should. I have many names. But there’s one you’ll know best. I’m sure you’ve heard of me, my name is Crystal Meth. My power is awesome, try me, you’ll see. But if you do, you may never break free. Just try me once and I might let you go. But if you try me twice, then I’ll own your soul. When I possess you, you’ll steal and you’ll lie. You’ll do what you have to do, just to get high. The crimes you commit for my narcotic charms, Will be worth the pleasures you feel in my arms. You’ll lie to your mother; you’ll steal from your dad. When you see their tears, you must feel sad. Just forget your morals and how you were raised. I’ll be your conscience, I’ll teach you my ways. I take kids from their parents; I take parents from their kids. I turn people from God, I separate friends. I’ll take everything from you, your looks and your pride. I’ll be with you always, right by your side. You’ll give up everything, your family, your home. Your money, your true friend, then you’ll be alone. I’ll take and take till you have no more to give. When I finish with you, you’ll be lucky to live. If you try me, be warned, this is not a game. If I’m given the chance, I’ll drive you insane. I’ll ravage your body; I’ll control your mind. I’ll own you completely; your soul will be mine. The nightmares I’ll give you when you’re lying in bed, And the voices you’ll hear from inside your head. The sweats, the shakes, and the visions from me. I want you to know these things are gifts from me. But then it’s too late, and you’ll know in your heart That you are now mine and we shall not part. You’ll regret that you tried me (they always do). But you came to me, not I to you. You knew this would happen. Many times you’ve been told. But you challenged my power, You chose to be bold. You could have said no and then walked away. If you could live that day over now, what would you say? My power is awesome, as I told you before. I can take your life and make it so dim and sore. I’ll be your master and you’ll be my slave. I’ll even go with you when you go to your grave. Now that you’ve met me, what will you do? Will you try me or not? It’s all up to you. I can show you more misery than words can tell. Come take my hand, let me lead you to Hell.
  • "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost
  • The first time I read it, it was called Flint. It's actually supose to be called Jewels by Christina Rossetti. Flint/Jewels An emerald is as green as grass; A ruby red as blood; A sapphire shines as blue as heaven; A flint lies in the mud. A diamond is a brilliant stone, To catch the world's desire; An opal holds a fiery spark; But a flint holds fire. or this one... Brother Dear (undiscovered poet) Not an hour nor day goes by, That I do not think and sigh, I wonder what you are doing, Are you with birds and cooing, I wonder what you were to be, If only I could now see, My dear brother how I miss thee, Lucky others I envy, Oh the irony of it all, Further more I will not stall, Lucky are those who do not want, Yet what they have they all taunt, It saddens me, for they are blind, Someone has blessed them, how kind, I often watch them from afar, As I wish upon a star, How much I wish I could meet you, Would you like to meet me too?
  • Sonnet 29 - William Shakespeare 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.
  • So many. This morning it is robert Louis Steven's Requiem Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie: Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you 'grave for me: Here he lies where he long'd to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.
  • It's really hard to choose. One thing I can tell for sure though, is that I am absolutely endeared to the poems of Robert Frost, and then to Emily Dickinson; but then again, there have been poems from various poets which I really love.... I guess I'll just choose the best that I know so well.... (forgive me, it isn't just one) a.) Robert Frost's "Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening" b.) Emily Dickinson's "Presentiment" c.) William Shakepeare's "Sonnet 138" (I'm not sure of the number, but the said sonnet ends with these words: "Give to them thy fingers Me thy lips to kiss") and lastly... d.) William Blake's "The Sick Rose" Please do forgive me. I really have trouble deciding....
  • the raven
  • My favorite poem from another poet is "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. Although, many of my favorites are the ones I've written. His poem influenced me to write many of my notables. Go to Poetry.com and you may find me. (M. A. Collins)
  • easily "Litany" by Billy Collins: Litany You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine... -Jacques Crickillon You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight. However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air. It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk. And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse. It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof. I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table. I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman's tea cup. But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
  • The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe.
  • What, no votes for Ozymandias? http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1904.html
  • It's a short one, and it goes a little something like this... Little Johnny was a chemist Who is alive no more Because what he thought was H20 Was H2SO4 And for anyone who doesn't know what H2SO4 is...it's sulfuric acid
  • This is my favorite. Empowering and carged with personal responsibility: Invictus by Mr. William Earnest 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 bloodgeonings 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.
  • No doubt it is 'Dulce Et Decorum Est' by Wilfred Owen which means 'sweet and honourable to die for one's country'. It is a poem which shows the true bloody-ness of war and explains the true horror. If you are going to read this i wudnt be eating if i were you. The road not taken by Robert Frost is also a favourite which is about the choices we have to make in our lives and on our own.
  • Joy, bright spark of divinity, Daughter of Elysium, Fire-inspired we tread Thy sanctuary. Thy magic power re-unites All that custom has divided, All men become brothers Under the sway of thy gentle wings. Whoever has created An abiding friendship, Or has won A true and loving wife, All who can call at least one soul theirs, Join in our song of praise ; But any who cannot must creep tearfully Away from our circle. All creatures drink of joy At nature's breast. Just and unjust Alike taste of her gift ; She gave us kisses and the fruit of the vine, A tried friend to the end. Even the worm can fell contentment, And the cherub stands before God ! Gladly, like the heavenly bodies Which He set on their courses Through the splendour of the firmament ; Thus, brothers, you should run your race, As a hero going to conquest. You millions, I embrace you. This kiss is for all the world ! Brothers, above the starry canopy There must dwell a loving Father. Do you fall in worship, you millions ? World, do you know your Creator ? Seek Him in the heavens ! Above the stars must He dwell. Don't agree with the god parts, but it's still beautiful. It's the Ode To Joy - by Friedrich Schiller
  • I also like "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. My other favorite is one I wrote. "The Season of You" Whenever you think I am not with you, I am. In knowing one another and sharing a part of ourselves with each other, we can never truly be apart. You have touched my life in a way that no other person can. And when, for one reason or another, our season of being together ends, a part of me will still be with you. And I shall take a part of you with me. We are but clay, waiting to be molded by those who come into our lives. Some will stay, and be a part of that mold forever. Some will go, and only leave a piece of them behind. But I can never be the same person I was before you. And you will not be the same person before me. So do not be saddened that our season has ended. Be happy knowing that we are, I am, and you will be.
  • This is not my one favourite as I have many but i thought it appropiate for the Question and Answers of Answer Bag, I usually write my own poems but will not inflict them on the AB populace yet Poem lyrics of If by Rudyard Kipling. 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 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!
  • A Carrion by Charles Baudelaire (La Charogne) Do you remember the thing we saw, my soul, That summer morning, so beautiful, so soft: At a turning in the path, a filthy carrion, On a bed sown with stones, Legs in the air, like a lascivious woman, Burning and sweating poisons, Opened carelessly, cynically, Its great fetid belly. The sun shone on this fester, As though to cook it to a turn, And to return a hundredfold to great Nature What she had joined in one; And the sky saw the superb carcass Open like a flower. The stench was so strong, that you might think To swoon away upon the grass. The flies swarmed on that rotten belly, Whence came out black battalions Of spawn, flowing like a thick liquid Along its living tatters. All this rose and fell like a wave, Or rustled in jerks; One would have said that the body, fun of a loose breath, Lived in this its procreation. And this world gave out a strange music, Like flowing water and wind, Or a winnower's grain that he shakes and turns With rhythmical grace in his basket. The forms fade and are no more than a dream, A sketch slow to come On the forgotten canvas, and that the artist completes Only by memory. Behind the boulders an anxious bitch Watched us with angry eyes, Spying the moment to regain in the skeleton The morsel she had dropped. — And yet you will be like this excrement, This horrible stench, O star of my eyes, sun of my being, You, my angel, my passion. Yes, such you will be, queen of gracefulness, After the last sacraments, When you go beneath the grasses and fat flowers, Moldering amongst the bones. Then, my beauty, say to the vermin Which will eat you with kisses, That I have kept the shape and the divine substance Of my decomposed loves!
  • Well I like 'Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I know it is rather long to be considered poetry. It is probably more like verse. But I think it is just beautiful and full of hidden meanings. It is too long to post on here but I'll give you a link so you can go and read it if you want to. http://oak.cats.ohiou.edu/~rodina/rhyme_of_the_ancient_mariner.htm
  • Even though Love That Dog is sort of for kids, I LOVE it. It has a series of poems and very emotinal once you get into the book.
  • The Lady of Shalott.
  • I have a few, and I cannot choose between them. Intimations of Immortality - William Wordsworth The Road Less Travelled - Robert Frost The Raven - Edgar Allen Poe
  • "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.)
  • I also still quite like a poem that I penned myself taken from an old website of mine. Girl on the Wall. Sitting there on the wall, waiting...all alone. She looks so pretty, I want to take her home. She looks at her watch, her friends are late. Could this be the gift, sent from fate? Uncertain whether they are coming at all. I wonder if I should so bold,dare to ask her name? Is this real or just a fantasy? That girl over there! Never have I wanted something so pretty, so fair. That girl over there, she has just gone, Tired of waiting, waiting for so long. I wonder if next time I will get my change, To get to hold her in my arms and give that special glance. Taken from www.freewebs.com/vampyre_eyes
  • I was going to say Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright, ...but you know, I have four poems on my walls, and its not one of them: Footprints, Don't walk in front of me, Anyway, and Children Learn What They Live. Now that I really think about it, I have lots of favorites, and which one I like best depends on my mood. Sometimes I like one of my own the best, othertimes a famous one, othertimes an obscure one, like this one that my aunt published: Dear Lord Make me like a melody that falls softly on the ears of those around me. Without knowing why people start humming it.
  • "Corrandes d'exili." Catalan poetry, actually.
  • A Dream By E.A. Poe In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past? That holy dream - that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afar What could there be more purely bright In Truth's day-star?
  • I have two. One is Wodwo by Ted Hughes and the other is To His Lost Lover by Simon Armitage. You can see the second at one of my blogs: http://frombooksofpoems.blogspot.com/2006/12/to-his-lost-lover-by-simon-armitage.html I'll add Wodwo onto the site when I get a chance...
  • The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
  • "The Garden of Prosperine" by S.C. Swineburne, 1866 my favorite part is- From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no man lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.
  • i like poems,none to post though,sorry
  • The 'Very' Poem- By BAM Very bored Even Ignored Rightly some say Yet should it be that way? Very tired Erratically admired Real Mishape Yearning for escape Vertically challenged Envisage, imagine Robust I am not Yet easily forgot Hope you like it, that took a LOT of effort from a very lazy person
  • I love Emily Dickinson. Wild Nights—Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury! Futile—the Winds— To a heart in port— Done with the Compass— Done with the Chart! Rowing in Eden— Ah, the Sea! Might I but moor—Tonight— In Thee! ---------------- 14 One Sister have I in our house, And one, a hedge away. There's only one recorded, But both belong to me. One came the road that I came— And wore my last year's gown— The other, as a bird her nest, Builded our hearts among. She did not sing as we did— It was a different tune— Herself to her a music As Bumble bee of June. Today is far from Childhood— But up and down the hills I held her hand the tighter— Which shortened all the miles— And still her hum The years among, Deceives the Butterfly; Still in her Eye The Violets lie Mouldered this many May. I spilt the dew— But took the morn— I chose this single star From out the wide night's numbers— Sue—forevermore! 67 Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host Who took the Flag today Can tell the definition So clear of Victory As he defeated—dying— On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Burst agonized and clear! 84 Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a "Diver"— Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest. Her heart is fit for home— I—a Sparrow—build there Sweet of twigs and twine My perennial nest. 211 Come slowly—Eden! Lips unused to Thee— Bashful—sip thy Jessamines— As the fainting Bee— Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums— Counts his nectars— Enters—and is lost in Balms. 213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly? Did the "Paradise"—persuaded— Yield her moat of pearl— Would the Eden be an Eden, Or the Earl—an Earl? 214 A taste a liquor never brewed— From Tankards scooped in Pearl— Not all the Vats on the Rhine Yield such an Alcohol! Inebriate of Air—am I— And Debauchee of Dew— Reeling—thro endless summer days— From inns of Molten Blue— When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee Out the Foxglove's door— When Butterflies—renounce their "drams"— I shall but drink the more! Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats— And Saints—to windows run— To see the little Tippler Leaning against the—Sun— 249 Wild Nights—Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury! Futile—the Winds— To a heart in port— Done with the Compass— Done with the Chart! Rowing in Eden— Ah, the Sea! Might I but moor—Tonight— In Thee! 253 You see I cannot see—your lifetime— I must guess— How many times it ache for me—today—Confess— How many times for my far sake The brave eyes film— But I guess guessing hurts— Mine—get so dim! Too vague—the face— My own—so patient—covers— Too far—the strength— My timidness enfolds— Haunting the Heart— Like her translated faces— Teasing the want— It—only—can suffice! 271 A solemn thing—it was—I said— A woman—white—to be— And wear—if God should count me fit— Her blameless mystery— A hallowed thing—to drop a life Into the purple well— Too plummetless—that it return— Eternity—until— I pondered how the bliss would look— And would it feel as big— When I could take it in my hand— As hovering—seen—through fog— And then—the size of this "small" life— The Sages—call it small— Swelled—like Horizons—in my vest— And I sneered—softly—"small"! 280 I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading—treading—till it seemed That Sense was breaking through— And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum— Kept beating—beating—till I thought My Mind was going numb And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space—began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here— And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down— And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing—then— 288 I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—Too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know! How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog— To tell one's name—the livelong June— To an admiring Bog! 303 The Soul selects her own Society— Then—shuts the Door— To her divine Majority— Present no more— Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing— At her low Gate— Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling Upon her Mat— I've known her—from an ample nation— Choose One— Then—close the Valves of her attention— Like Stone— 315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees— Prepares your brittle Nature For the Ethereal Blow By fainter Hammers—further heard— Then nearer—Then so slow Your Breath has time to straighten— Your Brain—to bubble Cool— Deals—One—imperial—Thunderbolt— That scalps your naked Soul— When Winds take Forests in their Paws— The Universe—is still— 324 Some keep the Sabbath going to Church— I keep it, staying at Home— With a Bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome— Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice— I just wear my Wings— And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church, Our little Sexton—sings. God preaches, a noted Clergyman— And the sermon is never long, So instead of getting to Heaven, at last— I'm going, all along. 326 I cannot dance upon my Toes— No Man instructed me— But oftentimes, among my mind, A Glee possesseth me, That had I Ballet knowledge— Would put itself abroad In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe— Or lay a Prima, mad, And though I had no Gown of Gauze— No Ringlet, to my Hair, Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds, One Claw upon the Air, Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls, Nor rolled on wheels of snow Till I was out of sight, in sound, The House encore me so— Nor any know I know the Art I mention—easy—Here— Nor any Placard boast me— It's full as Opera— 341 After great pain, a formal feeling comes— The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs— The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round— Or Ground, or Air, or Ought— A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone— This is the Hour of Lead— Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow— First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go— ------------ She dealt her pretty words like Blades— How glittering they shone— And every One unbared a Nerve Or wantoned with a Bone— She never deemed—she hurt— That—is not Steel's Affair— A vulgar grimace in the Flesh— How ill the Creatures bear— To Ache is human—not polite— The Film upon the eye Mortality's old Custom— Just locking up—to Die.
  • 1. I´m walking down a road. There is a deep hole in the pavement. I fall into it. I´m lost... I´m without hope. It´s not my fault. It takes ages to get out of it. 2. I´m walking down the same road. There is a deep hole in the pavement. I pretend that I don´t see it. I fall into it again. I cannot believe that I´m in the same place again. But it´s not my fault. It still takes very long to get out of it. 3. I´m walking down the same road. There is a deep hole in the pavement. I see it. I still fall into it ... it´s a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It´s my own fault. I get out of it immediately. 4. I´m walking down the same road. There is a deep hole in the pavement. I walk around it. 5. I walk down a different road.
  • I have no idea why but I have always like The Cremation Of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service Audio Link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lBkuz1TlVc Text Link http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Bluffs/8336/robertservice/sam.html
  • This poem was given to me shortly after I started firefighting..It was a way for all of us to keep perspective on the job. What we were there for and to FINISH the job and get the hell back to the station.... I Want To Tell You Lies Kalvere I want to tell that little boy his Mom will be just fine I want to tell that dad we got his daughter out in time I want to tell that wife her husband will be home tonight I don't want to tell it like it is, I want to tell them lies You didn't put their seat belts on, you feel you killed your kids I want to say you didn't ... but in a way, you did You pound your fists into my chest, you're hurting so inside I want to say you'll be OK, I want to tell you lies You left chemicals within his reach and now it's in his eyes I want to say your son will see, not tell you he'll be blind You ask me if he'll be OK, with pleading in your eyes I want to say that yes he will, I want to tell you lies I can see you're crying as your life goes up in smoke If you'd maintained that smoke alarm, your children may have woke Don't grab my arm and ask me if your family is alive Don't make me tell you they're all dead, I want to tell you lies I want to say she'll be OK, you didn't take her life I hear you say you love her and you'd never hurt your wife You thought you didn't drink too much, you thought that you could drive I don't want to say how wrong you were, I want to tell you lies You only left her for a moment, it happens all the time How could she have fell from there? You thought she couldn't climb I want to say her neck's not broke, that she will be just fine I don't want to say she's paralyzed, I want to tell you lies I want to tell this teen his buddies didn't die in vain Because he thought that it'd be cool to try to beat that train I don't want to tell him this will haunt him all his life I want to say that he'll forget, I want to tell him lies You left the cabinet open and your daughter found the gun Now you want me to undo the damage that's been done You tell me she's your only child, you say she's only five I don't want to say she wont see six, I want to tell you lies He fell into the pool when you just went to grab the phone It was only for a second that you left him there alone If you let the damn phone ring perhaps your boy would be alive But I don't want to tell you that, I want to tell you lies The fact that you were speeding caused that car to overturn And we couldn't get them out of there before the whole thing burned Did they suffer? Yes, they suffered, as they slowly burned alive But I don't want to say those words, I want to tell you lies But I have to tell it like it is, until my shift is through And then the real lies begin, when I come home to you, You ask me how my day was, and I say it was just fine I hope you understand, sometimes, I have to tell you lies
  • The Raven: By, Edgar Allen Poe. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
  • Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps copying my work, Miss. What shall I do? Go and sit in the hall, dear. Go and sit in the sink. Take your books on the roof, my lamb. Do whatever you think. Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps taking my rubber, Miss. What shall I do? Keep it in your hand, dear. Hide it up your vest. Swallow it if you like, love. Do what you think best. Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps calling me rude names, Miss. What shall I do? Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear. Run away to sea. Do whatever you can, my flower. But don't ask me! By Allan Ahlberg
  • i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth) how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any--lifted from the no of allnothing--human merely being doubt unimaginable You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened) -e.e.cummings
  • Either Nothing Gold Can Stay or The Road Not Taken, both are by Robert Frost. Nothing Gold Can Stay Nature's first green is gold Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
  • "Twas the night before Christmas"...lol
  • One that is written for me.
  • Too many to choose from. I would like to share this instead. My Favourite Koan - Buddha said: "I consider the positions of kings and rulers as that of dust motes. I observe treasures of gold and gems as so many bricks and pebbles. I look upon the finest silken robes as tattered rags. I see myriad worlds of the universe as small seeds of fruit, and the greatest lake in India as a drop of oil on my foot. I perceive the teachings of the world to be the illusion of magicians. I discern the highest conception of emancipation as a golden brocade in a dream, and view the holy path of the illuminated ones as flowers appearing in one's eyes. I see meditation as a pillar of a mountain, Nirvana as a nightmare of daytime. I look upon the judgment of right and wrong as the serpentine dance of a dragon, and the rise and fall of beliefs as but traces left by the four seasons."
  • My favorite poem would have to be The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
  • ONE ART by: Elizabeth bishop The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
  • One of my own actually. I started it, but I just never seem to get the chance to finish it... Passion pulses through my veins, Raging like a shot of cocaine I'm picturing things unheard of, All the things I've ever dreamed of It's pierced my being as if with a knife, And forever altered my entire life It captures so much of my breath, And gives the high of crystal meth If it ever went away, there's nothing I wouldn't give, Just simply to have this passion once more to relive It's everlasting I truely believe, But its origin I may never conceive It seems as if a never-ending rope, To pull me up and help me cope Within this feeling, I loose sense of time, And it seems to even make me rhyme I grasp the concept of the world, But the aspects of reality in my head are swirled I sometimes dream of beautiful people, Standing at a shining steeple At night I sit and stare at the sky, And once in a while I begin to cry Just like this passion, I see a star, And wish I could hold it inside a jar In my eyes it isn't an object but a glamorous sign, Of a life for me one day so divine
  • Definitely "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal blade in hand Long time the manxome foe he sought-- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhilt in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
  • The Peace of Wild Things When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. — Wendell Berry
  • I will also toot my own horn here. I wrote this for my son. I wrote it as a children's book with pictures and a binding. I love it and he'll have it for the rest of his life. I hope you enjoy it too. Our Garden We work in a garden My mother and me, We dig in the soil We plant little seeds. We put in food, We water them in. We pray for sunshine, We watch them begin. They grow slowly at first, They just peak through the soil. They reach toward the light, They are worth all the toil. Tiny leaves appear first, Just two to a stem. Then low and behold, There are flowers on them. Some flowers are big. Some flowers are small. Some are quite colorful, Some not at all. We love our garden, My mother and me. We dig in the soil, We plant little seeds. By Jeanne Romero
  • T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" -- It's amazing, amazing poetry. Eliot inspires. It's long so I'll only Copy & Paste Part I I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu. Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? 'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 'They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40 Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55 I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson! 'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 'That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? 'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? 'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, 'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'
  • I agree with 'Firebrand' - 'If', by Rudyard Kipling. I have a framed copy of the poem, hung up on the wall of the lounge in my house. JamesD ;-)
  • Wow, we've got an amazing collection here! And yet several of my very favorites have not yet been mentioned.. no Auden, no Thomas, no Larkin.. Allow me to enter one more: The World State Oh, how I love Humanity, With love so pure and pringlish, And how I hate the horrid French, Who never will be English! The International Idea, The largest and the clearest, Is welding all the nations now, Except the one that's nearest. This compromise has long been known, This scheme of partial pardons, In ethical societies And small suburban gardens— The villas and the chapels where I learned with little labour The way to love my fellow-man And hate my next-door neighbour. - G.K. Chesterton
  • My teacher read our class this poem. I thought this was really neat. I read some more of his poems at fstguide.com. Dan Going Down the Drain by Derby Hampton My journey started in the tub, I was slick with soapy foam. So slick I slithered down the drain, leaving suddenly my home. I quickly glided down a pipe, almost like a water slide. The pipe then ended in the sea, I was swept out by high tide. A pirate boat just happened by, I was hauled aboard the ship. So now I’m with a rowdy crew, going on a long sea trip. Each day I must attend a class at the Pirate Trainee School. Today I’m reading treasure maps – school has never been so cool.
  • There are many, and they change on a regular basis. In common with many, The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost is almost always near the top of the list. It's difficult to beat that 'Benny Hill' of 17th century poetry, Robert Herrick, of which 'The Vine' is a favourite, as it makes me laugh, but it's more than a bit naughty (as were some of his others). At present, my cynical nature makes me especially love Dorothy Parker's - Unfortunate Coincidence By the time you swear you're his, Shivering and sighing, And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying - Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying. Wit, poetry and a sad cynicism all in one.
  • FERN HILL by Dylan Thomas Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace. Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
  • To Autumn 1. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 5 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, 10 For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. 2. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15 Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 3. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 25 And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. --John Keats (1819) The poem is a perfect combination of imagery, concrete details, sound, and metaphor. Keats uses devices like alliteration (starting several words with the same sound) and assonance (repeated vowel sounds) and onomatopoeia (when the word sounds like what it represents, like "bubble"). I love the richness at the very beginning of the poem: "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness / Close bosom friend of the maturing sun." The repetition of "s" "m" and "f" sounds slows down the lines and creates a feeling of soothing richness. I also love the personification of Autumn in the second stanza sleeping and taking a break from her duties "Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, / Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours." "Oozings" is a very tactile word, and it's a stretch just to imagine taking the time to watch apple juice oozing out of a cyder-press (which squeezes apples for juice) for *hours*! Finally, each stanza gives a different phase of autumn: the end of summer when everything is becoming ripe, the harvest, and the approach of winter, and Keats assures us we needn't mourn "the songs of Spring," because Autumn, which is traditionally associated with death, has her own beauty and "music too." This was Keats' last completed poem (he still wrote some unfinished works) before his death from tuberculosis at 26, and while he doesn't talk about himself in the poem, he does remind us to experience every season, every moment (even watching a cyder-press) as fully as possible b/c all we have is the present.
  • i've always like the ballad of the harp weaver by edna st vincent millay
  • A Poison Tree by William Blake. I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright, And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole, When the night had veiled the pole. In the morning, glad I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
  • Morning song He speaks: Come, my laid lady, whom I wooed with words, And called my Star-- Since you proved that you loved me, I Know what you are? For, knowing what I am, I have a rod To measure by If you mistake what I gave you for love, you are More beast than I. And having eased in you my ambiguous lusts I now can prove That you're a dupe who let me wallow you And call it love. If I have feet of clay, yet you are now The dirt they trod -- And in that moment when I brought you down, I was a god! Katherine Anne Porter
  • Entdeckung an Einer Jungen Frau by Bertolt Brecht and Idea of Order at Key West by Wallace Stevens
  • Do not go gentl into that good night..Dylan Thomas 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 that 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
  • "Much Madness is Divinest Sense" by Emily Dickinson Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. 'T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain.
  • I was walking a circle. I used to repeat it to annoy my bro., but it stuck and I will never forget it because of the memories. I was walking a circle when I spied a piece of paper when I spied a piece of paper colored yellow green and red, when i picked it up i noticed that it also had some writing, this is what the writing said (then it starts over).
  • "Footprints in the sand" One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was walking along the beach with the Lord. Across the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand: one belonging to him, and the other to the Lord. When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in the sand. He noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints. He also noticed that it happened at the lowest and saddest times in his life. This really bothered him and he questioned the Lord about it. "Lord, You said that once I decided to follow you, You'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me. "The Lord replied, "My son, My precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I Carried You".
  • My favourite poem currently is 'We remember your childhood well' by Caroline Duffy. Nobody hurt you. Nobody turned off the light and argued with somebody else all night. The bad man on the moors was only a movie you saw. Nobody locked the door. Your questions were answered fully. No. That didn't occur. You couldn't sing anyway, cared less. The moment's a blur, a Film Fun laughing itself to death in a coal fire. Anyone's guess. Nobody forced you. You wanted to go that day. Begged. Here are the pictures, look at you. Look at us all, smiling and waving, younger. The whole thing's inside your head. What you recall are impressions; we have the facts. We called the tune. The secret police of your childhood were older and wiser than you, bigger than you. Call back the sound of their voices. Boom. Boom. Boom. Nobody sent you away. That was an extra holiday, with people you seemed to like. He was firm, there was nothing to fear. There is none but yourself to blame if it all ends in tears. What does it matter now? No, no, nobody left the skidmarks of sin on your soul and laid you wide open to Hell. You were loved. Always. We did what was best. We remember your childhood well. Why? I really relate to it. It strikes a chord in me.
  • I like Rudyard Kipling's "If", even if it is a bit overquoted... I find it a good guide to how life should be approached and a source of inspiration. 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 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!

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