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Thread: Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

  1. #131
    now! in shell form Array INA's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by saslou View Post
    You beat me to the post .. .. My father sent me this along with a beautifully worded email not so long ago (my father does not do emotion at all) .. I am grateful.
    Actually, several people beat you to the post. This was the most popular poem throughout the thread.

  2. #132
    hyggelig Array EJCC's Avatar
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    i thank you God for most this amazing


    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
    wich 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 love and wings:and of the gay
    great happening illimitably earth)

    how should tasting touching hearing seeing
    breathing any-lifted from the no
    of all nothing-human merely being
    doubt unimaginable You?

    (now the ears of my ears awake and
    now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

    ee cummings
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do
    you?

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  3. #133
    The Destroyer Array Colors's Avatar
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    I <3 ee cummings, but I've never read this one before, EJCC. Thanks .

  4. #134
    Senior Member Array Saslou's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by InaF3157 View Post
    Actually, several people beat you to the post. This was the most popular poem throughout the thread.
    Oh i can't be arsed to look through 14 pages .. But thanks for pointing it out.

    Well i feel better now knowing it is one of the most popular.
    “I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time to really notice my flower, you hung all your associations with flowers on my flower and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see—and I don't.”
    ― Georgia O'Keeffe

  5. #135
    Senior Member Array RenaiReborn's Avatar
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    I have far too many poems I like, but mainly I like parts. So I shall henceforth give small snippets:

    Love (III) - George Herbert
    Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
    Guilty of dust and sin.
    But quick-eyed Love, ovserving me grow slack
    From my first entrance in,
    Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
    If I lacked any thing."
    (lines 1-6)

    The Vanity of Human Wishes - Samuel Johnson
    The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
    And shows his miseries in distant lands;
    Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,
    While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
    But did not Chance at length for error mend?
    Did no subverted empire mark his end?
    Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?
    Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
    His fall was destined to a barren strand,
    A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
    He left the name, at which the world grew pale,
    To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
    (lines 211-222)

    Adonais - Percy Bysshe Shelley
    He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
    Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
    And that unrest which men miscall delight,
    Can touch him not and torture not again;
    From the contagion of the world's slow stain
    He is secure, and now can never mourn
    A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;
    Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn,
    With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
    (lines 352-360)

    This is just a small sampling of my taste.

  6. #136
    meh Array Salomé's Avatar
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    Default Easter, 1916

    I HAVE met them at close of day
    Coming with vivid faces
    From counter or desk among grey
    Eighteenth-century houses.
    I have passed with a nod of the head
    Or polite meaningless words,
    Or have lingered awhile and said
    Polite meaningless words,
    And thought before I had done
    Of a mocking tale or a gibe
    To please a companion
    Around the fire at the club,
    Being certain that they and I
    But lived where motley is worn:
    All changed, changed utterly:
    A terrible beauty is born.

    That woman's days were spent
    In ignorant good-will,
    Her nights in argument
    Until her voice grew shrill.
    What voice more sweet than hers
    When, young and beautiful,
    She rode to harriers?
    This man had kept a school
    And rode our winged horse;
    This other his helper and friend
    Was coming into his force;
    He might have won fame in the end,
    So sensitive his nature seemed,
    So daring and sweet his thought.
    This other man I had dreamed
    A drunken, vainglorious lout.
    He had done most bitter wrong
    To some who are near my heart,
    Yet I number him in the song;
    He, too, has resigned his part
    In the casual comedy;
    He, too, has been changed in his turn,
    Transformed utterly:
    A terrible beauty is born.

    Hearts with one purpose alone
    Through summer and winter seem
    Enchanted to a stone
    To trouble the living stream.
    The horse that comes from the road.
    The rider, the birds that range
    From cloud to tumbling cloud,
    Minute by minute they change;
    A shadow of cloud on the stream
    Changes minute by minute;
    A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
    And a horse plashes within it;
    The long-legged moor-hens dive,
    And hens to moor-cocks call;
    Minute by minute they live:
    The stone's in the midst of all.

    Too long a sacrifice
    Can make a stone of the heart.
    O when may it suffice?
    That is Heaven's part, our part
    To murmur name upon name,
    As a mother names her child
    When sleep at last has come
    On limbs that had run wild.
    What is it but nightfall?
    No, no, not night but death;
    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.

    ~W.B Yeats
    Last edited by Salomé; 06-21-2009 at 08:22 AM.
    Quote Originally Posted by Ivy View Post
    Gosh, the world looks so small from up here on my high horse of menstruation.

  7. #137
    Allergic to Mornings Array ergophobe's Avatar
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    The Uncertainty of the Poet

    I am a poet.
    I am very fond of bananas.

    I am bananas.
    I am very fond of a poet.

    I am a poet of bananas.
    I am very fond.

    A fond poet of 'I am, I am'-
    Very bananas.

    Fond of 'Am I bananas?
    Am I?'-a very poet.

    Bananas of a poet!
    Am I fond? Am I very?

    Poet bananas! I am.
    I am fond of a 'very.'

    I am of very fond bananas.
    Am I a poet?

    -- Wendy Cope

  8. #138
    Allergic to Mornings Array ergophobe's Avatar
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    For the Poet Laureate:

    Words, Wide Night by Carol Ann Duffy

    Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
    and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
    The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

    This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
    it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
    an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

    La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
    to reach you. For I am in love with you

    and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.

  9. #139
    wholly charmed Array Spartacuss's Avatar
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    An old childhood favorite:

    Tarantella
    by Hilaire Belloc


    Do you remember an Inn,
    Miranda?
    Do you remember an Inn?
    And the tedding and the spreading
    Of the straw for a bedding,
    And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
    And the wine that tasted of tar?
    And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
    (Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
    Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
    Do you remember an Inn?
    And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
    Who hadn't got a penny,
    And who weren't paying any,
    And the hammer at the doors and the din?
    And the hip! hop! hap!
    Of the clap
    Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
    Of the girl gone chancing,
    Glancing,
    Dancing,
    Backing and advancing,
    Snapping of the clapper to the spin
    Out and in--
    And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
    Do you remember an Inn,
    Miranda?
    Do you remember an Inn?

    Never more;
    Miranda,
    Never more.
    Only the high peaks hoar;
    And Aragon a torrent at the door.
    No sound
    In the walls of the halls where falls
    The tread
    Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
    No sound:
    But the boom
    Of the far waterfall like doom.
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  10. #140
    Reason vs Being Array ragashree's Avatar
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    The Circus Animals' Desertion


    I

    I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
    I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
    Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
    I must be satisfied with my heart, although
    Winter and summer till old age began
    My circus animals were all on show,
    Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
    Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

    II

    What can I but enumerate old themes,
    First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
    Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
    Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
    Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
    That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
    But what cared I that set him on to ride,
    I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.

    And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
    'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
    She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
    But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
    I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
    So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
    And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
    This dream itself had all my thought and love.

    And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
    Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
    Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
    It was the dream itself enchanted me:
    Character isolated by a deed
    To engross the present and dominate memory.
    Players and painted stage took all my love,
    And not those things that they were emblems of.

    III

    Those masterful images because complete
    Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
    A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
    Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
    Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
    Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
    I must lie down where all the ladders start
    In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart

    W.B.Yeats


    This is one of the very few Yeats poems I really like and the only one by him of the many poems I have committed to memory. A careful reading of this poem brings home to me why I may be right to feel a bit uneasy with much of his other work - this poem about not being able to write a poem is also something of a confessional about his true motivations for much of his writing, born as they were out of a need to evade looking at himself too deeply. The doubt engendered by this realisation is for me more convincing than a lot of his particular nostalgic idealism, which often seems forced, and too wedded to some very questionable ideology - though doubtless I haven't really read enough to get the full picture. Actually, here's another poem by Yeats that hints at something similar, summed up in the last stanza:


    The Stare's Nest by My Window

    The bees build in the crevices
    Of loosening masonry, and there
    The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
    My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
    Come build in the empty house of the stare.

    We are closed in, and the key is turned
    On our uncertainty; somewhere
    A man is killed, or a house burned.
    Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
    Come build in the empty house of the stare.

    A barricade of stone or of wood;
    Some fourteen days of civil war:
    Last night they trundled down the road
    That dead young soldier in his blood:
    Come build in the empty house of the stare.

    We had fed the heart on fantasies,
    The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
    More substance in our enmities
    Than in our love; O honey-bees,
    Come build in the empty house of the stare.

    -- W. B. Yeats
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