Who are your favourite poets/poems?

Wilde

Although this is the Literature forum, I can't find a Poetry one, I am wondering what everyones favourite poets/poems. If possible include a quote.

My favourite Poets are e.e. cummings, T.S Eliot, Charles Bukowski, Leonard Cohen, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Allen Ginsburg.

Howl by Allen Ginsburg.
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz"

Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson
"Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me"

On The Fire Suicides Of The Buddhists by Charles Bukowski (entire poem)
"They only burn themselves to reach Paradise"
- Mne. Nhu

original courage is good,
motivation be damned,
and if you say they are trained
to feel no pain,
are they
guarenteed this?
is it still not possible
to die for somebody else?

you sophisticates
who lay back and
make statements of explanation,
I have seen the red rose burning
and this means more.

A Thousand Kisses Deeps by Leonard Cohen

"I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat.
I´m just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet,
Who loved you with his frozen love
His second-hand physique -
With all he is, and all he was
A thousand kisses deep."

Tar.Aldarion

I too like dickenson, my favourite poem is the listeners - Walter De La Mare, bit overdone in JC though! and A drinking song - Yeats

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

-- Walter De La Mare


Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

-- W.B. Yeats

cyning

I personally can not abide Ginsberg: however I love Sylvia Plath, Heaney,
Dickinson . Probably one of my favourite poem is Plath's Child:

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks

The passion and love that shines through her poems is only matched by the utter deperation that can be seen.

Also Heaney's Digging has stuck with me since my JC days: about realising your true potential through whatever means you can:

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it

Ann22

Walter De La Mare's 'Silver' ...'and moveless fish in the water gleam, by silver reeds in a silver stream'.
Wordsworth's 'Daffodils' 'Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze'.
Oliver Goldsmith's 'The Village Schoolmaster' -'And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all he knew'.
This one is very special and magical...Patrick Kavanagh's 'A Christmas Childhood'.

My father played the melodion
Outside at our gate;
There were stars in the morning east;
And they danced to his music.
Across the wild bogs his melodion called
To Lennons and Callans.
As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry
I knew some strange thing had happened.
Outside in the cow-house my mother
Made the music of milking;
The light of her stable-lamp was a star
And the frost of Bethlehem made it twinkle.
A water-hen screeched in the bog,
Mass-going feet
Crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,
Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel.
My child poet picked out the letters
On the grey stone,
In silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,
The winking glitter of a frosty dawn.
Cassiopeia was over
Cassidy's hanging hill,
I looked and three whin bushes rode across
The horizon - the Three Wise Kings.
An old man passing said:
"Can't he make it talk" -
The melodion, I hid in the doorway
And tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat.
I nicked six nicks on the door-post
With my penknife's big blade -
There was a little one for cutting tobacco.
And I was six Christmases of age.
My father played the melodion,
My mother milked the cows,
And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned
On the Virgin Mary's blouse.

(I couldn't decide on any particular lines to quote)

zenmonk

Plath is great but so dense in style, I like Raymond Carver alot, Heaney is our greatest poet, Kavanagh, Frost, Larkin.

I love this poem by bukowski



there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?


and this one by Carver

[FONT=Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif]What The Doctor Said


He said it doesn't look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong


- Raymond Carver
[/FONT]

henryporter

Don't read poetry often enough - it seems to suffer the same fate as the Irish language in that the methods of teaching it in schools leads to near complete repulsion in later life (well thats the way it was in the 80's). Having said that when i get to moments of overcoming the idea of reading poetry to pass an exam I quite enjoy Roger McGough, and living in Monaghan I would have to say Kavanagh knew a thing or two - nothing as evocative as 'Advent'. Thens there's the debate about Bob Dylan....

Wilde

henryporter wrote: »

Thens there's the debate about Bob Dylan....

If your referring to his songs possibly being considered poetry, than I agree!

Particularly Subterranean Homsick Blues or The Hurricane.
"Johnny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again"

henryporter

As he (Dylan) said himself; 'I'm a poet, and I know it; hope I don't blow it!'

More seriously though anything that Dylan wrote between the years 1963-1966 is poetry, for instance;

''Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.''

Lizzykins

I love Kavanagh and coincidentally it's the 105th anniversary of his birth today! One of my kids has a birthday today and one has a birthday on Oct 16th which is the birthday of my other great favourite Oscar Wilde. A bit trivial I know but what the hell.

In Memory of my Father.
Every old man I see reminds me of my father
When he had fallen in love with death
One time when sheaves were gathered.

Miss Lockhart

Tar.Aldarion wrote: »

I too like dickenson, my favourite poem is the listeners - Walter De La Mare, bit overdone in JC though! and A drinking song - Yeats

I adore Emily Dickenson - my favourite is "I felt a funeral in my brain", or maybe "Hope is the thing with feathers". The Listeners also ranks in my top 10.

Ann22 wrote: »

This one is very special and magical...Patrick Kavanagh's 'A Christmas Childhood'.

That is also a wonderful poem - thoroughly enjoyed reading it agian!

henryporter wrote: »

Don't read poetry often enough - it seems to suffer the same fate as the Irish language in that the methods of teaching it in schools leads to near complete repulsion in later life (well thats the way it was in the 80's). Having said that when i get to moments of overcoming the idea of reading poetry to pass an exam I quite enjoy Roger McGough, and living in Monaghan I would have to say Kavanagh knew a thing or two - nothing as evocative as 'Advent'. Thens there's the debate about Bob Dylan....

I've had sort of the opposite experience.... While I don't read much poetry either, I loved poetry in school and most of my favourites are JC or LC poems as that's what I have been exposed to. It certainly didn't turn me off though - quite the opposite really.

Anyway, honorable mentions for The Pomegranate, This Moment and Child of Our Time by Eavan Boland.

My all time favourite is La Belle Dame Sans Merci by Keats

BossArky

Tar.Aldarion wrote: »

my favourite poem is The Listeners - Walter De La Mare

+1.

On Raglan Road by Patrick Kavanagh is stuck in my head too. The last verse is epic.

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

PADRAGON

Some great stuff there.
Heres a couple that spring to mind.

Song from the silent woman.

Give me a look,give me a face,
that makes simplicity a grace,
robes loosely flowing,hair as free,
such sweet neglect more taketh me,
than all the adulteries of art,
they strike mine eyes,
but not my heart...

Inniskeen road / July evening

...theres the half talk code of mysteries,
and the wink and elbow language of delight...

Surprised by joy

...my hearts best treasure was no more.

getz

EMILY BRONTE, no coward soul is mine,

Eliot Rosewater

I dont consider myself a nationalist by a long shot, but these lines always make me emotional. I think its the way Yeats generalizes at first then hits you hard with a list of executed rebels:

Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Easter 1916, WB Yeats.

zesman

Here's three Irish poets for you, I'm surprised no one has mentioned them, so in no particular order

1. Michael Hartnett
2. Dermot Bolger
3. Francis Ledgewidge

Data_Quest

Despite school I still love the Romantic poets Shelley and Keats:

Shelley:

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptorwell those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear --

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

And Keats:

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thou express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Fad

First Death In Nova Scotia by Elizabeth Bishop.

It describes a situation that I experienced at the same age. One of the few poems I ever enjoyed

Muffin top

Yeats is my favourite. But for a change, some Emily Bronte:

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored our earth to joy

Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!

I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me
And revelled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought star followed star
Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.

Why did the morning dawn to break
So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight
His fierce beams struck my brow:
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down, yet through their veil
I saw him blazing still;
And steep in gold the misty dale
And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow then
To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!

It would not do the pillow glowed
And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.

The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.

O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;
O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn

That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!

Emily Bronte

Bratach Bán

Heaney does it for me, usually. Although, Austin Clarker has an elegant, simple style that I really like, too:

When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And Oh, she was the Sunday
In every week.


The Planter's Daughter

Hank_Jones

Emily Dickinson & Robert Frost.

Helping me discover Frost is probably one of the only things that I am grateful to the secondary education system for.

Dickinson:

God Gave a Loaf to Every Bird

God gave a loaf to every bird,
But just a crumb to me;
I dare not eat it, though I starve,--
My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove the feat
That made the pellet mine,--
Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.

It might be famine all around,
I could not miss an ear,
Such plenty smiles upon my board,
My garner shows so fair.
I wonder how the rich may feel,--
An Indiaman--an Earl?
I deem that I with but a crumb
Am sovereign of them all.



and Frost:

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

K4t

I'm not really into poetry myself but I do have a few favourites like Kipling's 'If' and Frost's 'The road not taken' which we have framed in the house. However, I also think many musicians' lyrics can be deemed poetic such as Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, Leonard Cohen and my favourite, Cat Stevens.

Eliot Rosewater

K4t wrote: »

Simon and Garfunkel

It's a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.

And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.

Valmont

I really enjoy reading anything by Robert Service and John Keats. I haven't really read much poetry past that. Anything I covered for the LC put me off so I try to forget Seamus Heaney. Too many bad memories.

'Ol Jack Chance

People were talking about Bob Dylan a few posts up,
I like his actual poem about Woody Guthrie, the full thing is here:
http://www.bobdylan.com/#/songs/last-thoughts-woody-guthrie

And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush

and Bukowski's The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

damselnat

I'm going to nominate another Bukowski one, I wouldn't say my favourite poem, but definitely one of those ones that sticks in your head:
Freedom


he drank wine all night of the
28th, and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and loved
the way she told him things that seemed true
but were not, and he knew the color of each
of her dresses
and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of
each heel
as well as the leg shaped by it.

and she was out again and when he came home,and
she'd come back with that special stink again,
and she did
she came in at 3 a.m in the morning
filthy like a dung eating swine
and
he took out a butchers knife
and she screamed
backing into the rooming house wall
still pretty somehow
in spite of love's reek
and he finished the glass of wine.

that yellow dress
his favorite
and she screamed again.

and he took up the knife
and unhooked his belt
and tore away the cloth before her
and cut off his balls.

and carried them in his hands
like apricots
and flushed them down the
toilet bowl
and she kept screaming
as the room became red

GOD O GOD!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

and he sat there holding 3 towels
between his legs
no caring now whether she left or
stayed
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.

and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
another wine



Talking of poetry in school, I remember one my friend was doing for his A Levels, I think it was called "Giant Puffballs", for the life of me can't remember who the poet was, the poem really stuck in my head though, I remember thinking it was good at the time, but the reason I remember it was because it was a poem about taking a sh1t in the woods, does anyone know who wrote it???

getz

Muffin top wrote: »

Yeats is my favourite. But for a change, some Emily Bronte:

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored our earth to joy

Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!

I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me
And revelled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought star followed star
Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.

Why did the morning dawn to break
So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight
His fierce beams struck my brow:
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down, yet through their veil
I saw him blazing still;
And steep in gold the misty dale
And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow then
To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!

It would not do the pillow glowed
And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.

The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.

O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;
O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn

That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!

Emily Bronte

i think that one was from her ;gondal;saga she composed with her sister anne,brilliant

IvyTheTerrible

Data_Quest wrote: »

Despite school I still love the Romantic poets Shelley and Keats:

Shelley:

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptorwell those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear --

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

I was just going to come into this thread to post this poem! I love it, I have since school.

Valmont

IvyTheTerrible wrote: »

I was just going to come into this thread to post this poem! I love it, I have since school.

Having read it today and yesterday I agree, it is a delight to read out loud. Makes my mouth all mushy. I must go and buy a Shelley book!

Muffin top

It is so uplifting.

Reading some Wordswoth and Yeats today:

When you are old - Yeats

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

argosy2006

Enough For Today

Dance rehearsals can go on past midnight, but this time I stopped at ten. "I hope you don't mind," I said, looking up into space, "but that's enough for today."
A voice from the control room spoke. "You okay?"
"A little tired, I guess," I said.
I slipped on a windbreaker and headed down the hall. Running footsteps came up behind me. I was pretty sure who they belonged to. "I know you too well," she said, catching up with me. "What's really wrong?"
I hesitated. "Well, I don't know how this sounds, but I saw a picture today in the papers. A dolphin had drowned in a fishing net. From the way its body was tangled in the lines, you could read so much agony. Its eyes were vacant, yet there was still that smile, the one dolphins never lose, even when they die..." My voice trailed off.
She put her hand lightly in mine. "I know, I know."
"No, you don't know all of it yet. It's not just that I felt sad, or had to face the fact that an innocent being had died. Dolphins love to dance -- of all the creatures in the sea, that's their mark. Asking nothing from us, they cavort in the waves while we marvel. They race ahead of ships, not to get there first but to tell us, 'It's all meant to be play. Keep to your course, but dance while you do it.' "So there I was, in the middle of rehearsal, and I thought, 'They're killing a dance.' And then it seemed only right to stop. I can't keep the dance from being killed, but at least I can pause in memory, as one dancer to another. Does that make any sense?"
Her eyes were tender. "Sure, in its way. Probably we'll wait years before everyone agrees on how to solve this thing. So many interests are involved. But it's too frustrating waiting for improvements tomorrow. Your heart wanted to have its say now."
"Yes," I said, pushing the door open for her. "I just had this feeling, and that's enough for today."

By Michael jackson

Lizzykins

I'm not a fan of Yeats at all but I absolutely love that poem