Favourite poem

What is your favourite poem? Post it please. :) I have two favourites, I absolutly love them. One is by one of my favourite singers, Kristine Sa. Another is from my favourite book of all time, Zazoo.

Zazoo:

She swam like no one I had known,
this little girl of mine,
as if into a fish she'd grown---
all silver-finned and fine.
But when the surface glazed with ice
that sealed away her paradise
she couldn't bear my sage advice
on nature's sweet design,
and wept--like no one I had known---
this little girl of mine.

But then she slept in air so clear
that she could hardly help but hear
the sound of someone coasting near
along the bright divide.
When she awoke, two slender skates
sharp-edged for carving figure eights
lay winking in the sunlight by her side--
two glinting blades on midnight boots,
longing to be tried.

And now she flies, on nights so cold
the dry canal ice sounds too old
to creak and crack and barely hold
her blades from slipping through--
this under- and yes, over-water,
liveliest, by far, granddaughter
ever to have worn a skating shoe:
this loveliest,
no longer little
girl I call Zazoo.

____________

Anything Is Possible
Kristine Sa

A crumpled leaf fell from the ground
and landed on a tree.
A drop of rain rippled through the sky,
it had fallen from the sea.
An owl closed his eyes at ten,
and slept throughout the night.
A touch of water kissed a wick,
and lit the candle bright.
Who talks of the impossible?
I say they should wake up.
For bees can very well be stung
by baby buttercups.
Truth is nothing but a lie,
and reality is a dream.
Once awaken, you'll find the world
Is not to what it seems.
To every rule made in life,
an exemption is conceived.
Anything is possible, if only you believe.


:)

Unfortuanately, high school killed the whole concept of poetry for me. When you spend two months pulling apart a poem line by line, it ruins the whole thing.

Yeah, I know how that's like. xD They make you hate it more than appreciate it. The only poems that I was introduced to in school that I still like are Of Mice and Men and any Robert Frost poem, since he's great.

Not really a poetry person, but this one was sad.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S Eliot. You find something new and twisting every time you re-read it. Also, there's a poem the head lady of Governor's School read on our first day there talking about chickens that's really good. I just know it ends "And that's the chicken I want to be" or something.

Also the one about the buzzsaw by Robert Frost is so weird and awesome.

I think the only poetry I've ever liked is stuff from EoFFers.

The Walrus and The Carpenter
by Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

of all poems, this one stuck out to me [for some reason]. it's the only poem from like junior high or high school that i retraced from the internet.

Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

A friend of mine loves Desiderata. :D

Pretty much anything by Robert Frost.

The one Foa mentioned:

'OUT, OUT--'
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them 'Supper'. At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap--
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh.
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all--
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart--
He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!'
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then -- the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little -- less -- nothing! -- and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

Also, I rather like this one:

A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;
I drink alone, for no friend is near.
Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,
For he, with my shadow, will make three men.
The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine;
Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side.
Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave
I must make merry before the Spring is spent.
To the songs I sing the moon flickers her beams;
In the dance I weave my shadow tangles and breaks.
While we were sober, three shared the fun;
Now we are drunk, each goes his way.
May we long share our odd, inanimate feast,
And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky

Li Po for the win.

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock is indeed a great poem.

But this one is probably my favorite ever:

To His Coy Mistress - Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Should'st rubies fine: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An age at last to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in my marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

The Box - Lascelles

Once upon a time in the land of Hushabye
Round about the wondrous days of yore
They came across a sort of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled
"Kindly do not touch, it's war"

A decree was issued round about
All with a flourish and a shout
And gayly colored mascots
Tripping lightly on before
Don't fiddle with this deadly box
Or break its chains, or pick its locks
And please don't ever play about with war

Well the children understood
Children happen to be good
And just as good around the days of yore
They didn't try to pick the locks
Or break into the deadly box
They never tried to play about with war

Mommies didn't either
Sisters, aunts or grannies neither
Because they were sweet
And quiet and gentle
In those wondrous days of yore
Just as much the same as now
They aren't the ones to blame somehow
For opening up that deadly box of war

But someone did

Someone battered in the lid
And spilled the insides out across the floor
A sort of bouncy bumpy ball
Made up of flags and guns and all
With the cheers and the horrors
And the death that go with war

Well it bounced right out
And went bashing all about
And bumping into everything in store
And what was said most unfair
Was that it didn't really seem to care much
Who it bumped, or what or why or for

It bumped the children mainly
And I tell you this quite plainly
It bumps them every day
And more and more
And leaves them dead and burnt and dying
Cause when it bumps it's very very sore
There is a way to stop this ball
It isn't very hard at all
All you need is wisdom and I'm absolutely sure
We could get it back into the box
And bind the chains and lock the locks
But no one seems
To want to save the children anymore

Well that's the way it all appears
It's been bouncing round for years and years
In spite of all the wisdom wizzed
Since those wond'rous days of yore
And the time they came across
The box bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled "Kindly do not touch, it's WAR"

Here is
a test to find
whether your mission earth
is finished:
If you're alive,
it isn't
- Richard Bach, Illusions

Argue
for your limitations
and sure enough,
they're
yours

- Richard Bach, Illusions

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

- Here Dead We Lie by A.E Housman.

These are good:

Irish Patterns in Ink

it cut down flowers
and hid the silver
of her dancing star

as longing unfulfilled
grew blue out of her
and wept in shadow -

loved on paper -
that which loved
the tearing wound

-Dorothy D. Mienko

---

God's Gift

isn't life,
it's the last
string of fireflies
plugged into your mind.

-Bren

If by Rudyard Kipling
My favorite poem ever :D



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, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being 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 imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout 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 breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn 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 foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If 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 everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

I dont think I've ever really read that much poetry, though that one about the Walrus and the Carpenter is good :spin:
We've just started to analyse poems and stuff in school, but it's been pretty tedious so far :(

Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came