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Thread: The Post Your Favorite Poem(s) Thread

  1. #16
    lose my heart on the burning sand coronaradiata's Avatar
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    Yay for all of the Dickinson.



    Guillaume Apollinaire - "Annie"



    Allen Ginsberg - "Wild Orphan"



    and innumerable others...

  2. #17
    The Building - Philip Larkin


  3. #18
    'twas mbc 'twas kollins Michael Michael's Avatar
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    I'm re-reading some John Donne in preparation for my comprehensive exams, and it's awesome to be reminded how sexually explicit he is.

    Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed


  4. #19
    My absolute favorite poem of all time is The Goblin Market by Christina Rosetti. I don't know why but my aunt read it to me when I was young and it has just always been very special to me.



    Another one of my absolute favorites is Carrion Comfort by Gerard Manly Hopkins.

    Last edited by SageBrushFire; 08-14-2010 at 11:34 PM.

  5. #20
    Lyrical acuity and mum-smarts menju56's Avatar
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    I've started reading some more TS Eliot. Wonderful language, not going to pretend I'm understanding it all. But I'm determined!

  6. #21
    oooh I also love Apollinaire! I am not 100% about this translation - especially "J’entends mourir et remourir un chant lointain" - I don't know if it means the song dies and dies again, or if the hearer dies and dies again. Also, the last line, I don't know if it's the mother saying to the child, "look I gave you everything I had worked" or if it's more like, "look, I gave you everything. NOW WORK!"

    Anyway I still love this one, and maybe it is supposed to be ambiguous. Also, the pi-mus fish of Chinese legend swim in couples so closely joined that the same pair of eyes serves both creatures.

    Guillaume Apollinaire
    La porte


    La porte de l’hôtel sourit terriblement
    Qu’est-ce que cela peut me faire ô ma maman
    D’être cet employé pour qui seul rien n’existe
    Pi-mus couples allant dans la profonde eau triste
    Anges frais débarqués à Marseille hier matin
    J’entends mourir et remourir un chant lointain
    Humble comme je suis qui ne suis rien qui vaille

    Enfant je t’ai donné ce que j’avais travaille

    ********************************

    The door

    The door of the hotel smiled terribly
    What does it matter to me oh my mother
    Being the employee for whom alone nothing exists
    Pi-mus couples going in the deep sad water
    Fresh angels disembarked at Marseilles yesterday morning
    I hear die and die again a distant song
    Humble as I am who am nothing worthwhile

    Child I gave to you what I had worked
    I never thought about love when I thought about home

  7. #22
    And here's a good, lighthearted, easy T.S. Eliot poem:

    The Naming of Cats

    The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
    It isn't just one of your holiday games;
    You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
    When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
    First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
    Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
    Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
    All of them sensible everyday names.
    There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
    Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
    Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
    But all of them sensible everyday names.
    But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
    A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
    Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
    Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
    Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
    Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
    Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
    Names that never belong to more than one cat.
    But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
    And that is the name that you never will guess;
    The name that no human research can discover--
    But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
    When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
    The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
    His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
    Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
    His ineffable effable
    Effanineffable
    Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
    I never thought about love when I thought about home

  8. #23
    Senior Member
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    From Hart Crane's "The Bridge":


  9. #24
    condemned to wires and hammers ebby's Avatar
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    Boosting this to post some Auden. I've realised I've been reading more poetry than novels lately, but mostly just the two books I have of Auden's poetry, the little Ted Hughes chapbook that came free with the Guardian at some stage, and the book of Wordsworth poetry I "borrowed" off one of my brothers.

    I've been meaning to branch out and read more poetry, so I'm using this thread to scavenge for ideas of what I'd like to read So, yes, post more of your favourite poems please!


    W.H. Auden - As I walked out one evening

  10. #25
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    I love Auden, booby!

    Here's a recent favorite by Vasko Popa. He wrote a series of Kafka/Borges-ish poems about a Little Box, and this one closes the set.

    "Last News About the Little Box"

    The little box which contains the world
    Fell in love with herself
    And conceived
    Still another little box

    The little box of the little box
    Also fell in love with herself
    And conceived
    Still another little box

    And so it went on forever

    The world from the little box
    Ought to be inside
    The last box of the little box

    But not one of the little boxes
    Inside the little box in love with herself
    Is the last one

    Let’s see you find the world now

  11. #26
    condemned to wires and hammers ebby's Avatar
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    I got quite hooked on Auden, completely by surprise, while fishing around for poems for an audition piece. I'm really loving what I have of his work (mostly "Another Time" and another small pocket poetry book.)

  12. #27
    ForumBound EnjoyJoy's Avatar
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    My favourite poem, Rhapsody on a Windy Night, has already been posted, and uhm, well... The Spell might be my new favourite poem, so thanks for posting that one.
    "A universe that needed someone to observe it in order to collapse it into existence would be a pretty sorry universe indeed."

  13. #28
    holding on for tonight Waylon's Avatar
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    One Art
    by Elizabeth Bishop


  14. #29
    Witchgrass by Louise Glück

    Something
    comes into the world unwelcome
    calling disorder, disorder—

    If you hate me so much
    don’t bother to give me
    a name: do you need
    one more slur
    in your language, another
    way to blame
    one tribe for everything—

    as we both know,
    if you worship
    one god, you only need
    one enemy—

    I’m not the enemy.
    Only a ruse to ignore
    what you see happening
    right here in this bed,
    a little paradigm
    of failure. One of your precious flowers
    dies here almost every day
    and you can’t rest until
    you attack the cause, meaning

    whatever is left, whatever
    happens to be sturdier
    than you personal passion—

    It was not meant
    to last forever in the real world.
    but why admit that, when you can go on
    doing what you always do,
    mourning and laying blame,
    always the two together.

    I don’t need your praise
    to survive. I was here first,
    before you were here, before
    you ever planted a garden.
    And I’ll be here when only the sun and moon
    are left, and the sea, and the wide field.

    I will constitute the field



    From THE WILD IRIS (The Ecco Press, 1992)
    I never thought about love when I thought about home

  15. #30
    Berryman!

    Dream Song 29

    There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
    só heavy, if he had a hundred years
    & more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
    Henry could not make good.
    Starts again always in Henry's ears
    the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

    And there is another thing he has in mind
    like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
    would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
    with open eyes, he attends, blind.
    All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
    thinking.

    But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
    end anyone and hacks her body up
    and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
    He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
    Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
    Nobody is ever missing.

    (warning: this recording is...difficult.)


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