Joyce Kilmer's "Trees"---
"Poems are made by fools like me; but only God can make a tree."
Great line there.
Winkin Blinkin and Nod
When I was young I really liked that poem and I thought poems were wonderful after it was first read to me.
'Invictus' helped to give me strength when I needed it the most..
Raven-Edgar Allen Poe...why? Because I knew that gothic, victorian world was the one I wish to live in...but alas, born too late. x)
Les A. Murray who uses rhymes with lines whose rhythm is irregular. His rhymes are not too predictable or emphatic,
however they make you FEEL and they sound just like the most beatiful music.
In English we usually use a pattern of rhythm and rhymes. From Shakespaere onwards many poets used a number of irregularities.
Good poets use irregularities to slow or speed up a line, to capture the particular tone or emphasis they want. By the late 19th century many poets writing in English language had abandoned traditional verse for 'free verse'. Les Murray resisted this change and decided to update the traditional metres. I think he has done it beautifuly.
i would say either 'supermarket in california' by allen ginsberg or 'drinking alone by moonlite' by li po. they both still transform me when read.
I can't remember the name of the poet. Ralph Ellison, I think. It was really short, just two words:
a poem called Nameless.
You won't find it anywhere.
I wrote and it's 10 pages.
Longest poem I ever wrote.
It took 2 1/2 days of non-stop writing.
I was so drain when done.
EPIC by PATRICK KAVANAGH, 1938
I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."
That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance
Hard to pick just one, I think all good poetry does.
But perhaps for now,
The Journey, by Mary Oliver.
A poem called "The Buried Life" by Matthew Arnold.
And one called "The Day is Done" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don’t make sense
You're making it hard for me to choose just one....
I think, if I want to go with one not mentioned yet, I'd have to say W. H. Auden's The More Loving One.
Most recently, though, I've been rereading The Second Coming (William Butler Yeats) and that's working its magic on me.
My third grade teacher wrote a poem on the back of her picture.
It said: Good better best
never let it rest
til your good is better
and your better best.
God bless all,
Alfred Tennyson - The charge of the light brigade
Because of how it depicts the fragility of life and the injustice of war.
It was "Footsteps of Angels" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for me.
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
Although I like some of the poems mentioned I would say Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. That poem describes my choice in life; and that has made a difference.
The Ballad of Reading Gaol - Oscar Wilde
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
These lines always stuck with me
My favorite poem of all time is The Highwayman by Afred Noyes. The bittersweet tale stays with you long after the poem is finished. That, to me, makes for a perfect poem.
I love this poem. It helped me through the three pet deaths I've had to deal with in one year. This Poem can apply to anything/anyone that you loved so dearly and who has passed. it reminds me that I am special enough to have been "given" the people and pets in my life so I can care for them until their job is done here on Earth. It especially helped me when my horse, Ben passed unexpectedly.....Here's the Hub that describes that.
The Grandest Foal
I'll lend you for a little while,
My grandest foal, God said.
For you to love while he's alive,
And mourn for when he's dead.
It may be one or twenty years,
Or days or months, you see.
But will you, til I take him back,
Take care of him for me?
He'll bring his charms to gladden you
And should his stay be brief,
You'll have those treasured memories,
As solace for your grief.
I cannot promise he will stay,
Since all from earth return.
But there are lessons taught on earth
I want this foal to learn.
I've looked the wide world over
In my search for teachers true.
And from the throngs that crowd life's lanes,
With trust, I have selected you.
Now will you give him all your love?
Nor think the labor vain,
Nor hate me when I come
To take him back again?
I know you'll give him tenderness
And love will bloom each day.
And for the happiness you've known,
You will forever-grateful stay.
But should I come and call for him
Much sooner than you'd planned.
You'll brave the bitter grief that comes,
And maybe understand.
It was not a poem written by a famous poet, but a love letter in the form of a poem. It was written for me. It changed my view of people putting their passion into words. I had no idea that I could put down words like this or that someone would feel so deeply to be creative about it. So this love letter instilled a love of poetry and for that one lover I will always be grateful, probably your first love never really leaves.
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot - My AP Literature teacher my senior year of high school recited the poem aloud several times throughout the year and it became more poignant each time. You could hear a pin drop for several seconds after he completed each reading.
Also, "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver.
Poem, song and speech, "Wear Sunscreen," song recorded by Baz Luhrmann from a 1997 speech by Mary Schmich.
Do Not Go Gentle....
And you, my father, 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.
Pablo Neruda - La Muerta.(The Dead Woman) This poem is one of the most beautiful i have ever heard. It was translated into english in the movie Truly Madly Deeply and is such a moving account of death and carrying on after the loss of a loved one.
I am - John Clare. Most powerful poem I've ever read. Too many modern poems lack this kind of emotion. Search it on Google, its worth reading and it rhymes:)
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
This Poem changed my life. After reading this, I knew God loved me, and he is the final Judge.
ST PETER AT THE GATE
St Peter stood guard at the golden gate, with solemn mien and air sedate. When up to the top of the golden stair, a man and a woman ascended there. Applied for admission, they came and stood, before St Peter so great and good. In hopes the city of peace to win, and asked St Peter to let them in.
The woman was tall, and lank, and thin, with a scraggly beardlet upon her chin. The man was short and thick and stout, his stomach was built so it rounded out. His face was pleasant, and all the while, he wore a kindly and pleasant smile.
The choirs in the distance, the echoes awoke, and the man kept still, while the woman spoke.
"O thou who guards the gate," said she "we two cam hither, beseeching thee, to let us enter the heavenly land, and play our harps with the angle band. Of me; St Peter, there is no doubt, there is nothing from heaven to bar me out. I've been to meeting three times a week, and almost always I'd rise and speak. I've told the sinners about the day, when they repent of their evil way. I told my neighbors, I've told them all, 'bout Adam and Eve, and the primal fall. I've shown them what they'd have to do, if they'd pass in with the cholsen few. I've marked their path of duty clear, laid out the plan for the whole career. I've talked and talked to em loud and long, for my lungs are good, and my voice is strong. So good St Peter you'll clearly see, the gate of heaven is open for me.
But my old man...I regret to say, hasn't walked in exactly the narrow way. He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he's got. And I don't know if he will pass or not. He never would pray with an earnest vin, or go to revival, or join in a hymn. So I had to leave him in sorrow there, while I, with the chosen, united in prayer. He ate what the pantry chanced to afford, While I, in my purity, sang to the Lord. And if cucumbers were all he got, It's a chance if he merited them or not. But O St Peter, I love him so; to the pleasures of heaven , please let him go. I've done enough, a saint I've been, wont that atone? Cant you let him in?
By my grim gospel, I know tis so, that the unrepentant must try below. But isn't there some way you can see, that he may enter, who's dear to me? It's narrow gospel by which I pray, but the chosen expect to find some way, of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you, so that their relations can amble through?
And say...St Peter...it seems to me, the gate isn't kept as it ought to be. You ought to stand by the opening there, and never sit down in that easy chair. And say...St Peter...my sight is dimmed, But I don't like the way your whiskers are trimmed. They're cut too wide and outward toss, they'd look better narrow, cut straight across. Well, we must be going, our crown to win, so open, St Peter and we'll pass in."
St Peter sat quiet and stroked his staff, but , in spite of his office, he had to laugh. Then said with a fiery gleam in his eye, "Who's tending this gateway, you or I?" And then he arose in his stature tall, and pressed a button upon the wall, and said to an imp, who came all aglow, "Escort this woman to the regions below."
The man stood still a piece of stone, stood sadly, gloomily, there alone. A lifelong settled idea he had, that his wife was good and he was bad. He thought if the woman went down below, that he would certainly have to go. That if she went to the regions dim, there wasn't a ghost of a chance for him.
Slowly he turned, by habit bent, to follow wherever the woman went. St Peter, standing on duty there, Observed that the top of his head was bare. He called the gentleman back and said: "Friend, how long have you been wed?" "Thirty years"(he said with a heavy sigh). And then he thoughtfully added, "Why?"
St Peter was silent. With head bent down, he raised his hand and scratched his crown. Then, seeming a different thought to take, slowly, half to himself, he spake: "Thirty years with that woman there, no wonder the man hasn't any hair. Swearing is wicked, smoking's not good, he smoked and swore...I should think he would.
Thirty years with that tongue so sharp? O Angel Gabriel, give him a harp. A jeweled harp with a golden string. Good Sir, pass in where the angels sing. Gabriel, give him a seat alone, one with a cushion up near the Throne. Call up some angels to play their best. Let him enjoy the music and rest. See that on the finest ambrosia he feeds, he had about all the hell he needs. It isn't just hardly the thing to do, to roast him on earth and the future too."
They gave him a harp with golden strings, a glittering robe and a pair of wings. And he said as he entered the Realms of Day "Well this beats cucumbers, anyway." And so the Scriptures had come to pass. The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.
JOSEPH BERT SMILEY
"A Fool's Prayer" by Edward R. Sill
The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the Monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"'T is not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'T is by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept--
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say--
Who knows how grandly it had rung!
"Our faults no tenderness should ask.
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders -- oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!"
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"
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