Fuzzies, forgive me if this is a repeat of a thread in some other forum.

To everyone else: Ok, sorry about the title. It's misleading for a couple reasons:

1. Almost nobody has ONE FAVORITE poem. In this thread, please share one that you like very much, or you think may not have been read by the other readers in this thread.

2. For this thread, please only share poems written by somebody else, and let us all know who wrote it.

I'll start with a poet who has always strongly influenced me, e e cummings:

"somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond"

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands


-Toad.

Furthermore - please try to review the poem and examine it for literary terms - don't just say, 'This is a pretty poem,' tell us WHY it's pretty!

"You never know when someone is thinking of you with a sponge in their hand."
-~hope~

Ok, sensible suggestion.

WHY THIS POEM IS SO DARN GOOD:

Firstly, I admire cumming's use of language. He deliberately goes outside the normal usage of words, so that nothing more is left than a sense. Many poets use words to create an image, but cummings goes beyond: after creating the image, he removes all residue of the word. Examples: line 2, 7, 15, 16, 20. This is what I try to do in my own writing.

Second: the progression of images is like watching a movie. The images move (like a montage) from eyes to the speaker as a flower, to the flower itself opening and then closing and surrounded by snow, to a closer consideration of the flower (as the object of affection), to the rain. Within the eyes of the beloved, we see the entire progression of the seasons from the viewpoint of a rose.

-Toad.

g'day

Yes, this is a repeat topic. It has been posted in the general discussion forum thrice.

Here, here and here.

Interesting topic nonetheless, I reckon it would be more interesting if the threads could be combined, all of them, then we'd have a larger collection of favorite poems. We could also do a review bit, wherein we could discuss about each poem..


----------------------------------------------
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?
"drops of Jupiter", by Train
----------------------------------------------

Hmm...combining all threads may be a tough ask as I come to think about it. I am copying my favorite poem here from the previous thread

My favorite poem

...is a sonnet.

Why I like this one?

I never read poetry, but I stumbled across it when I watched patch the movie "Patch Adams" and 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


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.


----------------------------------------------
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?
"drops of Jupiter", by Train
----------------------------------------------

Would Shakespeare be as lovely when translated into German? So the work of Pablo Neruda deserves presentation in his native language:

Love Sonnet XVII
by Pablo Neruda

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y
lleva dentro de si, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendis de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber como, ni cuando, ni de donde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asi te amo porque no si amar de otra manera,

sino asi de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mia,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueno.

All great poems. I like reading poetry in different languages. And, on rare ocassions, I listen to some French rap! To hi-jack a thought from Shawshank Redemption: I like to think that the words are too beautiful to be described in English.

Favourite poem - as is said, there are many. I still quite like Kabir's one. This one's a recent favourite:

God’s Grandeur
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89).

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.


Now, why do I like it? Because of its pure genius. Its emotional and technical. I can literally go through the poem bit by bit and describe the thing that attracts me about each line - each word. From the very first line: just the idea of this great electrical current charging the earth. For those literary critics out there - try to notice how many different poetical techniques are used in this masterpiece. There are very few that I can think of that are not in the poem.

Have patience awhile; slanders are not long-lived. Truth is the child of time; erelong she shall appear to vindicate thee.~ Immanuel Kant
Dos moi pou sto kai kino taen gaen. ~Archimedes

Elizabeth Barret Browning.

Most people know only Sonnet 43 from Sonnets from the Portuguese - and it's worthy of being a favorite - but I also love the sense and meaning of 6 and 14. The way she captured the essence of love, and the insecurities are breathtaking. The entire collection (read it here) spans the early, tentative realization of her feelings - and his - and the full culmination of that love.

I can't read these without being touched.


VI

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore--
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.



XIV

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"--
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.


XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.



~~I'll be back - with something completely different!

-----
What's done can not be undone.
Lady MacB

Let America Be America Again
Langston Hughes


Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

I shall be back later with why this is one of my favourite poem.

¤Deep in the valley, carved on the rock, three little words, Forget Me Not.¤

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high.
Where knowledge is free.
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls.
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection.
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit.
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action.
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake
-- Rabindranath (Tagore) Thakur (1861 - 1941), from Gitanjali

*****

What I love about this poem is the sense of immense responsibility it instils in the minds of the patriotic Indian. It is almost like a curious affirmation which the mind makes in its constant search for truth. I would have loved to have the Indian version of this poem as the national anthem of our country (India) more than the present day anthem also written by Rabindranath (Tagore) Thakur.

Moreover what I like about this particular poem and all his other translations is that, Thakurda manages to have the same impact in his translations as much as the powerful imagery and meaning in the original Bengali writings. In his prose works I especially love Gora (Gora is an Indian terminology for the white man, very much like "white man" of the native american term usage) This book is about an orphaned Irish child adopted by an Indian Bramhin family, who believes despite his white complexion, that he is a Brahmin, and is convinced that the redemption of modern India can be achieved only as its people return to their roots in Hinduism and tradition. Makes an extremely compelling reading.

-

much love, light and laughter,
ananya.

*~Come play with my children feel the peace and Scatter some joy.~*
~*Blowing out someone else's candle doesn't make your's burn any brighter.*~
*** Heck was created for those who refuse to believe in Gosh. ***

i always knew this day would come, but yesterday, i did not think it would be today.
samurai death poem meditation

we often live like we will live forever but this reminds me that we are herea s hort time and to live fully with clear intent.
p

William Blake is one of my favorite poets.

Here I have two selections from Songs of Innocence and Experience. Taken together, I think they are his greatest work.

"The Lamb"

Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed,
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee
Little Lamb God bless thee


"The Tyger"

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Robert Frost

Love and a Question

A stranger came to the door at eve,
And he spoke the bridegroom fair.
He bore a green-white stick in his hand,
And, for all burden, care.
He asked with the eyes more than the lips
For a shelter for the night,
And he turned and looked at the road afar
Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch
With, 'Let us look at the sky,
And question what of the night to be,
Stranger, you and I.'
The woodbine leaves littered the yard,
The woodbine berries were blue,
Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
'Stranger, I wish I knew.'

Within, the bride in the dusk alone
Bent over the open fire,
Her face rose-red with the glowing coal
And the thought of the heart's desire.

The bridegroom looked at the weary road,
Yet saw but her within,
And wished her heart in a case of gold
And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give
A dole of bread, a purse,
A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,
Or for the rich a curse;

But whether or not a man was asked
To mar the love of two
By harboring woe in the bridal house,
The bridegroom wished he knew.

For some reason Robert Frost's poetry has always appealed to me more than many other poets. This poem just seems to talk about love so simply. It kind of has an elegant feel because of the word usage. Other than that, I don't know what else to say about it.

~Meg (P.S. Go to my website!)

Rubber Duckie, you're the one, You make bathtime lots of fun, Rubber Duckie, I'm awfully fond of you; (woh woh, bee doh!)

Freneau, "On Observing a Large Red-Streak Apple”
and later

Longfellow, "A Psalm of Life"

Simple, lyrical, uplifting poems. Life goes on after death is the theme of the Red Streak Apple, and my sig say it all about Longfellow.

Not the deepest or most meaningful or the best poems by far, I know. But sometimes in life, it's the simple one that speak and matter.

Life is real--life is earnest--/ And the grave is not the goal:/ Dust thou art, to dust returnest,/ Was not spoken of the soul. (5-8) Longfellow "A Psalm of Life"

"And if anyone says in a loud voice "Bother, it's Eeyore" I can drop out again."

And Tomorrow

by Tupac Shakur

Today is filled with anger, fueled with hidden hate.
Scared of being outkast, afraid of common fate.
Today is build on tragedies which no one want's to face.
Nightmares to humanity and morally disgraced.
Tonight is filled with Rage, violence in the air.
Children bred with ruthlessness cause no one at home cares.
Tonight I lay my head down but the pressure never stops,
knowing that my sanity content when I'm droped.
But tomorrow I see change, a chance to build a new,
build on spirit intent of heart and ideas based on truth.
Tomorrow I wake with second wind and strong because of pride.
I know I fought with all my heart to keep the dream alive.

The above is ONE of my favorite poems. It is not by a Victorian poet, nor does it make sense to all.
But, it applies to me, so this is why I like it. Most do not read Tupac Shakurs poetry, but if one took time one would see that there are a few good pieces by him.


***Sinister

The North Wind Doth Blow

The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the robin do then,
Poor thing?

He'll sit in a barn,
To keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing.

-- Anon.

-------------------------


This is a small poem, which I learnt when I was in the 3rd grade, (1981-82) for some reason this poem comes to my mind, one poem I always been carrying with me...
...Probably when i was learning it.( I was in no mood of memorising it, for a test) and after my mother and father giving no room for play and recreation I memorized it in an irritating, cursing and in a melowed annoying tone (my dad wouldn't stand any of the nonsense), my elder sister found it cute and humorous, the way I recited it in a painful, and an irritating tone, such that she started mimicking me...The mimickery went on for quite a few days. (I thought it would never end...!!)

Now when I think of the poem...it makes me smile and giggle and the best part is I miss that mimickery... Such id life..




LEO ZEF Says Hi!!

---

Dont Be Afraid To Take Risks,
For You Are The Spirit, That's Eternal
And Can Never Be Hurt

[This message was edited by Cevi on 03-10-04 at 03:02 PM.]

this one is fabulous because at the time of it's publication, it was supposed to have been written by a cockroach named Archy. Because Archy was not able to use the shift key, there is no punctuation or capitalization. Plus, the message is fantastical. It shows how, however differing someone's purpose or love or dreams might be-- they all have a fundamental element of success that everyone can identify with...

-----
the lesson of the moth-- by archy

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires
why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

I fell in love with this at first read.

She walks in Beauty
- Lord Byron

She walks in beauty like the night
of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
meets in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
had half impair'd the nameless grace
which waves in every raven tress,
or softly lightens o'er her face -
where thoughts serenely sweet express
how pure, how dear their dwelling - place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
so soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
the smiles that win, the tints that glow,
but tells in days of goodness spent,
a mind at peace with all below,
a heart whose love is innocent.


--------Sanya--------
Stella Splendens
December 22, 1985-March 27, 2003
Rest In Peace
..lost time is gone forever

Oh, I most certainly agree Sanya, Byron has always been a favourite of mine since I memorised 'The Destruction of Sennacherib' when I was younger, infact I have a whole collection of his work that I've been meaning to read through, but for now, here's but:

A Fragment

When, to their airy hall, my father's voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountains side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

1803

Grant.

Stella Splendens
December 22, 1985 - March 27, 2003
RIP
...Always.