Quote your favorite poems

[Kraj]

Inspired by Friday's new sig...

How about a thread where we share some of our favorite poems or excerpts from poems? Maybe even offer a tidbit about why we like it or what it means to us? Might be fun...

In college I had a large, black binder that I used to keep all my important class materials in. Whenever I found a piece of a poem or a quote I liked, I'd print it out in an interesting font and tape it to the binder. By the time I graduated it was pretty well covered. One of the centerpieces was from Edna St. Vincent Millay:

"Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand
Come see my shining palace built upon the sand"

Anyone care to share their favorites?

 

[fuzzygeek]

Robert F Kogan wrote the following and I read it in my youth:

To smash the simple atom
All mankind was intent
Now, any day
The atom may
Return the compliment

 

[jsanders]

can we wite our own?

 

[fuzzygeek]

I write the VBA
To satisfy my id
Compile and run
Bill and dun
Is my simple bid

 

[Friday]

Shelley was always my favorite...still is.

For after the rain when with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

From "The Cloud"

 

[Silverblood]

Raindrops are all the tears I cannot shed
Cannot shed cause mine have run dry...

Who cares about a simple mind these days
They don't care, why should I...

They don't like me, why should I like them....

Cause that's the only way they might like me......



Writer unknown

 

[Mile-O]

A selection of favourites:

My Last Duchess

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myselfthey turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart -- how shall I say? -- too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -- all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, -- good! but thanked
Somehow -- I know not how -- as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" -- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Holy Willie's Prayer

O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven an’ ten to Hell
A’ for Thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill
They’ve done before Thee !

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here before Thy sight,
For gifts an’ grace
A burning and a shining light
To a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation ?
I, wha deserv’d most just damnation
For broken laws
Sax thousand years ere my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s cause !

When from my mither’s womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung’d me deep in hell
To gnash my gooms, and weep, and wail
In burning lakes,
Whare damnèd devils roar and yell,
Chain’d to their stakes.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample :
I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example
To a’ Thy flock !

But yet, O Lord ! confess I must :
At times I’m fash’d wi fleshly lust ;
An’ sometimes, too, in warldly trust,
Vile self gets in ;
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defiled wi’ sin.

O Lord ! yestreen, Thou kens, wi’ Meg―
Thy pardon I sincerely beg―
O, may’t ne’er be a living plague
To my dishonour !
An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun avow―
Wi’ Leezie’s lass, three times, I trow―
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her,
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e’en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high should turn
That he’s sae gifted :
If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne
Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou has a chosen race !
But God confound their stubborn face
An’ blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An’ open shame !

Lord, mind Gau’n Hamilton’s deserts :
He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at cartes,
Yet has sae monie takin arts
Wi’ great and sma’,
Frae God’s ain Priest the people’s hearts
He steals awa.

And when we chasten’d him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
And set the warld in a roar
O’ laughin at us :
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an’ potatoes !

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r
Against that Presbyt’re of Ayr !
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo’ their heads !
Lord, visit them, an’ dinna spare,
For their misdeeds !

O Lord, my God ! that glib-tongu’d Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh are quakin
To think how we stood sweatin, shakin,
An’ pish’d wi’ dread,
While he, wi’ hingin lip an’ snaking,
Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him !
Lord, visit him wha did employ him !
And pass not in Thy mercy by them
Nor hear their pray’r,
But for Thy people’s sake destroy them,
An’ dinna spare !

But, Lord, remember me and mine
Wi’ mercies temporal and divine,
That I for grace an’ gear may shine
Excell’d by nane ;
And a’ the glory shall be Thine―
Amen, Amen !

The Road Less 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.

A Gull

A seagull stood on my window-ledge today,
said nothing, but had a good look inside.
That was a cold inspection I can tell you!
North winds, icebergs, flash of salt
crashed through the glass without a sound.
He shifted from leg to leg, swivelled his head.
There was not a fish in the house - only me.
Did he smell my flesh, that white one? Did he think
I would soon open the window and scatter bread?
Calculation in those eyes is quick.
'I tell you, my chick, there is food everywhere.'
He eyed my furniture, my plants, an apple.
Perhaps he was a mutation, a supergull.
Perhaps he was, instead, a visitation
which only used that tight form forward body
to bring the waste and dread of open waters,
foundered voyages, matchless predators
into a dry room. I knew nothing.
I moved; I moved an arm. When the thing saw
the shadow of that, it suddenly flapped,
scuttered claws along the sill, and was off,
silent still. Who would be next for those eyes,
I wondered, and were they ready, and in order?

Thrushes

Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn,
More coiled steel than living - a poised
Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs
Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce,
a stab
Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing.
No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states,
No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab
And a ravening second.

Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained
Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats
Gives their days this bullet and automatic
Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth
That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own
Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which
Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it
Or obstruction deflect.

With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback,
Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk,
Carving at a tiny ivory ornament
For years: his act worships itself - while for him,
Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and
above what
Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils
Orgy and hosannah, under what wilderness
Of black silent waters weep.

 

[Mile-O]

And a couple of my own:

Going Gentle

Your God, no doubt, secured a place
To welcome in your weathered face
That spoke no evil, showed no fear
Of death as it was drawing near.

Atropos spoils what sisters spin:
The love, the life, woman within;
And in one breath all lights have flown
Leaving memories, and flesh, and bone.

Azrael's wings fly soon this date
Guiding you to that graceful gate
Floating free like an autumn leaf
Going gentle into our grief.

Down By Magdalena

In Heaven, there could only be one place
Among the arms of Holiness that night
Which saw my love, nay! my Magdalena
Taken from me. As I lay weeping by
Her side, staring at her sweet, empty face
And cursing Him; His apathy. That light
In which He bathes, has blinded Him: saner?
Never He - only life with which to die!
Yet, despite the years He grants unto us
I know they have no meaning, but in length
For being together in love is strength
As is, in love again, apart. The fuss
Between is just a path of years run straight
To be down with my love, a life too late.

 

[reclusivemonkey]

"If" (Brother Square Toes) by Rudyard Kipling. Surely *everyone* has read that. And I must admit I am fond of Philip Larkin;

Toads
Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?

Six days of the week it soils
With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
That's out of proportion.

Lots of folk live on their wits:
Lecturers, lispers,
Losels, loblolly-men, louts-
They don't end as paupers;

Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-
they seem to like it.

Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets - and yet
No one actually starves.

Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that's the stuff
That dreams are made on:

For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,

And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.

I don't say, one bodies the other
One's spiritual truth;
But I do say it's hard to lose either,
When you have both.

When asked by a radio interviewer what inspired him to come up with the image of a toad for work, Larkin replied "Sheer genuis".

 

[Mile-O]

I am fond of Philip Larkin

What about his work though?

 

[reclusivemonkey]

What about his work though?

LOL, OK so I have a penchant for men who look like Eric Morcombe...

 

[Rich]

I wandered lonely as a star
not looking where
I got knocked down
by a car

 

[Friday]

I wandered lonely as a star
not looking where
I got knocked down
by a car

and the author is?

 

[Mile-O]

Shitspeare

 

[BarryMK]

With apologies to Dylan Thomas I changed his famous eulogy for his father into one for my son at his funeral.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Youth 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 son, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

[selenau837]

Here is a poem from my favorite li'l poet!! *proud Mommie smile*

Sunday

Sunday is a fun day.
Sunday is a no school day.
It is a family time day.
You get to spend a lot of time with your
family on Sunday.

---Morgan M. (my daughter)

 

[Mile-O]

Sunday

Sunday is a fun day.
Sunday is a no school day.
It is a family time day.
You get to spend a lot of time with your
family on Sunday.

---Morgan M. (my daughter)

Well it's certainly better than the poetry of the recent Nobel Prize for Literature winner:

Democracy

There's no escape.
The big pricks are out.
They'll fuck everything in sight.
Watch your back.

 

[TessB]

Not a major poetry fan myself, but after watching this recited in Four Weddings and a Funeral, I found I was quite struck by

W.H. Auden's "Stop All the Clocks"

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

 

[selenau837]

Well it's certainly better than the poetry of the recent Nobel Prize for Literature winner:

Thank you, I hope.

Here is another!

NO

No to this, not to that!
Too many no's!
No Talking!
No Running!
No days off!
No to everything!

---M. Mason

 

[Kraj]

Well it's certainly better than the poetry of the recent Nobel Prize for Literature winner:

I am officially dissillusioned of the Nobel Prize

A couple more of my favorites:

Edgar Allan Poe
Annabel Lee (excerpt)

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

Tamerlane (excerpt)

I have no words- alas!- to tell
The loveliness of loving well!

I also like Blake, although there's not much in the way of small pieces that stand out. For longer poems, Poe's "The Raven" is a classic and Samuel Coleridge Taylor's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" is very cool. I'm also a fan a Walt Whitman:
Song of Myself (excerpt)

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.