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Thread: The Post Your Favorite Poem(s) Thread

  1. #31
    Lebewohl. dmblue's Avatar
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    Favorite poem today (recently) is Rilke's 'Spaziergang' (the walk, a walk...)

    Schon ist mein Blick am Hügel, dem besonnten,
    dem Wge, den ich kaum begann, voran.
    So Faßt uns das, was wir nicht fasson konnten,
    voller Erscheinung, aus der Ferne an -

    und wandelt uns, auch wenn wirs nicht erreichen,
    in jenes, das wir, kaum es ahnend, sind;
    ein Zeichen weht, erwidernd unserm Zeichen...
    Wir aber spüren nur den Gegenwind.

    So, so powerful and with such an economy of words- but I guess this is the power of poetry in general?! I love the cyclical nature of the poem - I feel that the end refers to the beginning which is answered at the end, which refers to the beginning, &c... Not sure why this poem speaks to me so strongly at the moment, but I keep going back to it and for economy's sake, here's a translation I culled from Google:

    Already my gaze is upon the hill, the sunny one,
    at the end of the path which I've only just begun.
    So we are grasped, by that which we could not grasp,
    at such great distance, so fully manifest—

    and it changes us, even when we do not reach it,
    into something that, hardly sensing it, we already are;
    a sign appears, echoing our own sign . . .
    But what we sense is the falling winds.
    Last edited by dmblue; 08-13-2011 at 07:38 AM. Reason: translation. that'd be nice!?
    Von Herzen möge es wieder zu Herzen gehn'

  2. #32
    That's so Shakespearean... Canoodlefish's Avatar
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    In conjunction with the release of Final Destination 5, I bring you:

    "Never build a dungeon that you cannot get out of."

  3. #33
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    Two short favorites:

    #87, Emily Dickinson:

    A darting fear—a pomp—a tear—
    A waking on a morn
    To find that what one waked for,
    Inhales the different dawn.

    Rubaiyat #44, by Omar Khayyam, FitzGerald translation:

    Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
    And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
    Wer't not a Shame--wer't not a shame for him
    In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

  4. #34
    fluid, affectionate, chaste, mature Mackerel's Avatar
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    Darkness, by Byron


  5. #35
    A Matter Of How You See It Kala's Avatar
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    Triad, by Adelaide Crapsey

    THESE be
    Three silent things:
    The falling snow ... the hour
    Before the dawn ... the mouth of one
    Just dead.

  6. #36
    That's so Shakespearean... Canoodlefish's Avatar
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    I may come near loving you
    When you are dead
    And there is nothing to do
    And much to be said.
    To repent that day will be
    Impossible
    For you and vain for me
    The truth to tell
    I shall be sorry for
    Your impotence:
    You can do and undo no more
    When you go hence,
    Cannot even forgive
    The funeral.
    But not so long as you live
    Can I love you at all.

    – Edward Thomas
    "Never build a dungeon that you cannot get out of."

  7. #37
    A Matter Of How You See It Kala's Avatar
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    Spring and Fall: To a Young Child, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

    Margaret, are you grieving
    Over Goldengrove unleaving?
    Leaves, like the things of man, you
    With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
    Ah! as the heart grows older
    It will come to such sights colder
    By and by, nor spare a sigh
    Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
    And yet you will weep and know why.
    Now no matter, child, the name:
    Sorrow's springs are the same.
    Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
    What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
    It is the blight man was born for,
    It is Margaret you mourn for.

  8. #38
    That's so Shakespearean... Canoodlefish's Avatar
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    True Love
    by Judith Viorst

    It’s true love because
    I put on eyeliner and a concerto and make pungent observations
    about the great issues of the day,
    Even when there’s no one here but him.
    And because
    I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packers
    Even though I am philosophically opposed to football.
    And because
    When he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having
    an affair or lying dead in the middle of the street,
    I always hope he’s dead.

    It’s true love because
    If he said quit drinking martinis but I kept drinking them and
    the next morning I couldn’t get out of bed,
    He wouldn’t tell me he told me.
    And because
    He is willing to wear unironed undershorts
    Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically opposed to ironing.
    And because
    If his mother was drowning and I was drowning and he had to choose
    one of us to save,
    He says he’d save me.

    It’s true love because
    When he went to San Francisco on business while I had to stay home with the
    painters and the exterminator and the baby who was getting the chicken pox,
    He understood why I hated him.
    And because
    When I said that betting on horses was juvenile and irresponsible
    and then the horse I wouldn’t let him bet on paid fifty to one,
    I understood why he hated me,
    And because
    Despite cigarette cough, ingrown toenails, acid indigestion, dandruff, and
    other features of married life that tend to dampen the fires of passion,
    We still feel something
    We can call
    True love.
    "Never build a dungeon that you cannot get out of."

  9. #39
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    Quote Originally Posted by Kala View Post
    Spring and Fall: To a Young Child, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

    Margaret, are you grieving
    Over Goldengrove unleaving?
    Leaves, like the things of man, you
    With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
    Ah! as the heart grows older
    It will come to such sights colder
    By and by, nor spare a sigh
    Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
    And yet you will weep and know why.
    Now no matter, child, the name:
    Sorrow's springs are the same.
    Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
    What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
    It is the blight man was born for,
    It is Margaret you mourn for.
    I've been reading a lot of Hopkins; he's become one of my all-time favorites. His language is so rich and dense and uncompromising.

    Also, the Natalie Merchant song is incredible!

  10. #40
    And in the evening it's. . . Andrea's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Canoodlefish View Post
    True Love
    by Judith Viorst
    This has made me smile big on a really crappy morning. Thanks

  11. #41
    Senior Member uncanny hats's Avatar
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    I've been teaching ESL students how to write poetry.Trying to help ignite sparks with poems that might be relatable. One student was a beauty queen in Central America before coming to the US. Looking for something for her, I went to Marilyn Monroe's poetry. Most of it is run of the mill, some are half decent:

    When the hourglass
    takes off its dress,
    the sand loosens and spreads.
    You cannot find a footing
    in me. They always said
    I was terrible in bed.
    They taught my body
    to squeeze grapes.
    Warm wine pours out.
    And once or twice,
    a slick skin.
    And this one, I asked the student to start with Marilyn's first two lines and go from there.

    Life-
    I am of both your directions
    Existing more with the cold frost
    Strong as a cobweb in the wind
    Hanging downward the most
    Somehow remaining
    those beaded rays have the colours
    I've seen in paintings-ah life
    they have cheated you
    thinner than a cobweb's thread
    sheerer than any-
    but it did attach itself
    and held fast in strong winds
    and singed by the leaping hot fires
    life-of which at singular times
    I am both of your directions-
    somehow I remain hanging downward
    the most
    as both of your directions pull me.
    Why I love Marilyn Monroe
    Last edited by uncanny hats; 02-11-2013 at 04:20 PM.

  12. #42
    Senior Member uncanny hats's Avatar
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    When I grow up, I want to write poetry like this.

    Love at Thirty-two Degrees

  13. #43
    And in the evening it's. . . Andrea's Avatar
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    This is one of my all time favorites. I'm teaching it in class on Thurs. It always makes me feel a delicious sense of irony to dissect it with students.

    Introduction to Poetry

    Billy Collins

    I ask them to take a poem
    and hold it up to the light
    like a color slide

    or press an ear against its hive.

    I say drop a mouse into a poem
    and watch him probe his way out,

    or walk inside the poem's room
    and feel the walls for a light switch.

    I want them to waterski
    across the surface of a poem
    waving at the author's name on the shore.

    But all they want to do
    is tie the poem to a chair with rope
    and torture a confession out of it.

    They begin beating it with a hose
    to find out what it really means.

  14. #44
    'If you existed, I'd divorce you.' spyk_'s Avatar
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    Death and the Moon by Carol Ann Duffy

    (for Catherine Marcangeli)

    The moon is nearer than where death took you
    at the end of the old year. Cold as cash
    in the sky's dark pocket, its hard old face
    is gold as a mask tonight. I break the ice
    over the fish in my frozen pond, look up
    as the ghosts of my wordless breath reach
    for the stars. If I stood on the tip of my toes
    and stretched, I could touch the edge of the moon.

    I stooped at the lip of your open grave
    to gather a fistful of earth, hard rain,
    tough confetti, and tossed it down. It stuttered
    like morse on the wood over your eyes, your tongue,
    your soundless ears. Then as I slept my living sleep
    the ground gulped you, swallowed you whole,
    and though I was there when you died,
    in the red cave of your widow's unbearable cry.

    and measured the space between last words
    and silence, I cannot say where you are. Unreachable
    by prayer, even if poems are prayers. Unseeable
    in the air, even if souls are stars. I turn
    to the house, its windows tender with light, the moon,
    surely, only as far again as the roof. The goldfish
    are tongues in the water's mouth. The black night
    is huge, mute, and you are further forever than that.

  15. #45
    Vilest of the vile Homogenik's Avatar
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    Devant deux portraits de ma mère

    Ma mère, que je l'aime en ce portrait ancien,
    Peint aux jours glorieux qu'elle Ă©tait jeune fille,
    Le front couleur de lys et le regard qui brille
    Comme un éblouissant miroir vénitien !

    Ma mère que voici n'est plus du tout la même;
    Les rides ont creusé le beau marbre frontal;
    Elle a perdu l'Ă©clat du temps sentimental
    Où son hymen chanta comme un rose poème.

    Aujourd'hui je compare, et j'en suis triste aussi,
    Ce front nimbé de joie et ce front de souci,
    Soleil d'or, brouillard dense au couchant des années.

    Mais, mystère de coeur qui ne peut s'éclairer !
    Comment puis-je sourire à ces lèvres fanées ?
    Au portrait qui sourit, comment puis-je pleurer ?

    — Émile Nelligan


    I don't like the english translation but here it is :


    Before Two Portraits of My Mother - Emile Nelligan

    I love my mother's portrait as she once
    Was painted in her girlhoods glorious prime:
    The forehead lily-white, the eyes that shine
    With a Venetian mirrors brilliance!

    Her other picture is a world away;
    Wrinkles have ploughed the marble of her brow:
    Lost is romance's rapture, distant now
    The rose-red poem of her wedding day.

    It saddens me today as I compare;
    This brow haloed with joy, and that with care;
    Gold sun, and thick mist at the years' eclipse.

    But, O unfathomed mystery of the heart!
    How can I smile at those poor faded lips?
    How for the smiling face can teardrops start?


    I'd suggest this instead (I don't care about rhymes):

    My mother, how I love her in this ancient portrait,
    Painted in her girlhood's glorious prime,
    Forehead lily-white and eyes that shine
    Like the sparkle of a Venetian mirror

    My mother here is no longer the same;
    Wrinkles have carved the marble of her brow;
    She has lost the sparkle of a romantic past
    When her hymen sang like a rose-red poem.

    Today I compare, with sadness in my heart,
    This brow surrounded with joy and this brow full of worry,
    Golden sun, thick mist at the years' eclipse

    But, one heart's mystery which cannot be solved!
    How can I smile to those faded lips?
    To the portrait which smiles, how can I cry?
    Last edited by Homogenik; 02-28-2013 at 03:40 AM.

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