I think everyone has a favorite piece of poetry - something they probably get inspired by everytime they need motivation, or a piece which encourages them to try out a similar style; to expand their horizons..
Erhm.. my point being: Which one's yours?

Please limit your posts at 1 or 2 poems. Sentra


--------Sanya--------

Do what you think and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.-Richard Bach

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too. - Omar Khayyam -Peace-

[This message was edited on 10-18-03 at 06:09 PM.]

Mine would be this one by Robert Frost. I forgot what it's called, but it's about a newly married couple, and the bridegroom coming to a house for a place to stay. I really don't know why I like it so much. I guess it could be because it's one of the first poems I read when I first got interested in poetry.

-Megan Jean
(I love the color yellow!)

Personally, I enjoy reading a lot of the spoken word poetry...the emotion seems to be more freely expressed. However, I suppose I don't have a real favorite...I enjoy many kinds for different reasons.

-Hellsangel

I know what it's called now!! It's called Love and a Question.

-Megan Jean
(I love the color yellow!)

thanks to http://www.majesty.org/tract/footprints.html

"Someday this will all make sense."

http://www.angelfire.com/nj/mandysue/index.html

If-Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you,
are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
but make allowance for their doubting too.
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or be lied about don’t deal in lies,
Or be hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good nor talk too wise.

If you can dream, and not make dreams your master,
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with triumph and disaster,
And treat those two impostors just the same.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken,
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or see the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn out tools.

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew,
To serve long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you,
Except the will, which says to them hold on.

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings nor lose the common touch,
If neither foe nor loving friend can hurt you,
And all men count with you, but none too much.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute,
With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the earth and all there is in it,
And which is more you’ll be a man my son.

Edit - please limit your post to 1 or possibly 2 poems. This will allow reading the thread to be much smoother.

[This message was edited on 10-18-03 at 05:54 PM.]

I like 'The Raven' by Edgar Allan Poe. The bird makes me laugh- it's funny.... hehe... Sorry
Check it out......

The Road goes ever on and on,
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and erands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
-Tolkein

-A friend

To Celia-Ben Johnson(1572-1637)

Drink to me only with thine eyes
and I will pledge with mine;
Or leave but a kiss in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
doth ask a drink divine
But might I of Jove's nectar sup
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear
Not of itself but thee!

-----------------
The Way Through the Woods( Rudyard Kipling,1865-1936)

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago
Weather and rain have undone it again,
and now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees
It is underneath the coppice and heath
And the thin anemones
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods
And the badgers roll at ease
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late
When the night air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate
(They fear not men in the woods,
because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet
And the swish of a skirt in the dew
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods...
But there is no road through the woods.
-----------------------------------

[This message was edited on 10-18-03 at 05:57 PM.]

Saul Stacey Williams- Gypsie Girl.

Mi hermanita Selena moon send me the words once, and I barely glanced at them. But at her insistance I went looking for his book. Couldn't find it. Asked around found someone with it... it comes with a CD of the author reading his work. Almost died when that poem she liked soooo much came on. It's electric baby.

Other than that, I like to read lots of poetry. I never really got the chance to read a lot of poems/poetry while I was growing up. I like poems that hold emotions and meanings. I'm not a total fan of Shakespeare or Lord Byron, or any of the old 'masters'. I like to read and see what I like by myself. I love anthologies that have different poets.

I wish my local book store had a better poetry section.

Harv
P.S. Non vinceranno.
click here!

And I'll do anythin' you ever dreamed to be complete/Little pieces of the nothin' that fall/Put your arms around me/What you feel is what you are/And what you are is beautiful
-Goo Goo Dolls,Slide

My Favorite poem is Song of Myself by Walt Whitman.

Here is a section from the poem *because the whole poem is rather long..*

All goes onward and outward...and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe....
and am not contained between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and every one good,
The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself;
They do not know how immortal, but I know.

Every kind for itself and its own....for me mine male and female,
For me all that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweetheart and the old maid....for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Who need be afraid of the merge?
Undrape....you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
An am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless....and can never be
shaken away.

woohoo, go walt!

always ~
duDette (kari)
~~~~****~~~~
"Kari, you can't have the hate without the love"-Harv

"Sometimes we meet people that seem to understand us even though we don't try to explain ourselves or our actions."~KenyJackson

In light of redevelopments I found this and wanted to offer the thread to others, one of my favourite's is Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats:

Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

El Salvador

Hmm...I'm not sure that I have a favorite piece of poetry...but the authors that inspire me are Sylvia Plath, e.e. cummings, and Emily Dickinson. Also, all of you guys. So many poems on here have inspired me so much, and made me want to become a writer.


Love,
Stargirl

This poem by Robert Frost gives me chills everytime I read it. It brings back reminders of where I've been, what I've done, and where I am today. Most of you will never have a clue as to what I'm talking about.You might not want to know. So anyhow, this is my poem.

Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.



[This message was edited on 10-18-03 at 10:11 PM.]

Way too many to mention! But, here's one of the shorter ones.

Small Beginnings

A traveller through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows;
And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs;
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,
A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.
He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; ‘t was old, and yet ‘t was new;
A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.
It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.
The thought was small; its issue great; a watch-fire on the hill;
It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown, - a transitory breath, -
It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last.

--Charles Mackay


And one I found quite recently:


Mirror, Mirror

A young spring-tender girl
combed her joyous hair
'You are very ugly' said the mirror.
But,
on her lips hung
a smile of dove-secret loveliness,
for only that morning had not
the blind boy said,
'You are beautiful'?

--Spike Milligan



Some of my favorites:
The Cry of a Dreamer
The Invitation
The Children's Hour

~~* Wisdom begins in wonder. - Socrates *~~ . . . Aude Sapere ~*~ Dare to Know

Luke Havergal

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal —
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies —
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this —
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, for the winds are tearing them away, —
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal —
Luke Havergal.

-- Edwin Arlington Robinson

My favorite poem

...is a sonnet. I never read poetry, but I stumbled across it when I watched patch adams. This is the poem which Robin Williams narrates to Monica Potter. I love each and every word of it, and the atmosphere it creates, it defines love itself

Love Sonnet XVII
-by Pablo Neruda

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

translated by Stephen Tapscott, Copyright Pablo Neruda 1959, and Heirs of Pablo Neruda Copyright 1986, by the University of Texas Press.

Inspire, so that people aspire to have this desire. please! do not tire, for you aren't an ordinary person sire, you are a work of art, dire!
-D_w's mantra

El Salvador:

I quite enjoy a poem called
"Ode to a Grecian Urn Summarised". Although I can't, for the life of me, recall who wrote it.

Ode to a Grecian Urn Summarised

Gods chase,
Round vase
What say?
What play?
Don't know
Nice though.

Most amusing wee piece!

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
~Forever Fuzziesareourfriends~

http://www.freewebs.com/fuzziesareourfriends/index.htm

http://www.neopets.com/refer.phtml?username=mattnz99
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

I recall three (sentra: I'm posting just two, OK? ), though I don’t have a particular favourite and there might be some more:
[This one’s long, so a link would have to do:]
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

THE HIGHWAYMAN by Alfred Noyes:

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding- Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
Trot-trot; trot-trot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Trot-trot, trot-trot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
Trot-trot, in the frosty silence! Trot-trot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed,
With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding- riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Hospital Interview? by our Fair_GwenofAir from QL:

It's odd to think that some hospitals
have existed for years upon years.
How do they keep from crumbling
under the weight of pain and tears?
What would it be like to interview one?
What stories would the screams tell?
Would we be able to understand
the tales the tears would yell?
What percentage of each teardrop
is absorbed into the ground?
What percentage of teardrops
fall without sign or sound?
How many tears are truly unselfish?
How many screams live in the walls?
Would anyone really be able to handle
the stories told by the halls?
What would it be like to interview
a bright, clean hospital room?
Would its breath smell strongly
of lemon-scented doom?
It seems that as often as possible,
all hospital employees,
grab their cleaning supplies
and get down on their knees.
They use Lysol to sterilize the blood
and a good mop to clear the tears,
but no amount of cleaning or scrubbing
washes away painful years.
If a hospital was interviewed,
the world would hear it's story
and everyone would recognize it
as a ghost in all it's glory.


~ "People didn’t fit in slots - prostitute, housewife, saint - like sorting the mail. We were so mutable, fluid with fear and desire, ideals and angles, changeable as water." -by Janet Fitch, in her book “White Oleander” ~

LAY YOUR SLEEPING HEAD, MY LOVE

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephermeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's sensual ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreadful cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but not from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless.
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.
--W.H. Auden

Also, about anything by Auden, especially
In Praise of Limestone,the whole poem here.

Also for any writer, or really any artist, would learn something from section V of T.S. Eliot's East Coker (from the Four Quartets). Also, of course, anyone who is getting older or anyone who is thinking about how they're going to spend their life, or anyone who thinks that eventually they may die:

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

We must learn to love life without ever trusting it. G.K. Chesterton
Where are we going? And why are we in this handbasket?

Oh now then, I have many which I'd consider my favourites, I have to say though that the following wins each time I'm asked this.

Annabelle Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
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;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

~~~~Littera scripta manet~~~ the written word remains. (the saying continues; The weak word perishes)