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Your Favorite Poem

ShintoShinto __BANNED USERS
edited January 2009 in Debate and/or Discourse
Post your favorite poem and discuss.


































I WILL FEAST ON YOUR SOUL IF YOU POST MORE THAN ONE.

I'll get mine up in a minute.

Shinto on
«13

Posts

  • edited October 2007
    I don't think you'd appreciate it if I tried to post the entire Iliad, so I think I'll just say that's my favorite poem and leave it at that.

    sdrawkcaB emaN on
  • WerewulfyWerewulfy Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

    "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
    Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!"

    He took his vorpal sword in hand:
    Long time the manxome foe he sought—
    So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
    And stood awhile in thought.

    And, as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
    Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

    One, two! One, two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
    He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

    "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
    O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
    He chortled in his joy.

    'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

    By Lewis Carroll

    It's simply entertaining, I don't search poems for deep meaning or universal understanding. This is the perfect poem for me.

    Werewulfy on
  • DocDoc Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited October 2007
    I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
    Round and round they sped.
    I was disturbed at this;
    I accosted the man.
    "It is futile," I said,
    "You can never-"
    "You lie," he cried,
    And ran on.

    Doc on
  • SamiSami Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Roses are red
    Violets are violet
    This poem doesn't rhyme
    So let's just fuck already

    ^^^ ORIGINAL WORK ^^^

    Sami on
    Preacher wrote:
    That's the kicker, not only is our healthcare not cutting mustard we are overpaying for shitty healthcare. We have the olive garden of healthcare.
  • VeegeezeeVeegeezee Registered User
    edited October 2007
    The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
    by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    (an excerpt)

    It is an ancient Mariner,
    And he stoppeth one of three.
    "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
    Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

    The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
    And I am next of kin;
    The guests are met, the feast is set:
    May'st hear the merry din."

    He holds him with his skinny hand,
    "There was a ship," quoth he.
    "Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"
    Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

    He holds him with his glittering eye--
    The Wedding-Guest stood still,
    And listens like a three years' child:
    The Mariner hath his will.

    The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
    He cannot choose but hear;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
    The bright-eyed Mariner.

    "The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
    Merrily did we drop
    Below the kirk, below the hill,
    Below the lighthouse top.

    The bride hath paced into the hall,
    Red as a rose is she;
    Nodding their heads before her goes
    The merry minstrelsy.

    The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
    Yet he cannot choose but hear;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
    The bright-eyed Mariner.

    "And now the storm-blast came, and he
    Was tyrannous and strong:
    He struck with his oértaking wings,
    And chased us south along.

    With sloping masts and dipping prow,
    As who pursued with yell and blow
    Still treads the shadow of his foe,
    And forward bends his head,
    The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
    And southward aye we fled.

    And now there came both mist and snow,
    And it grew wondrous cold:
    And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
    As green as emerald.

    And through the drifts the snowy clifts
    Did send a dismal sheen:
    Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
    The ice was all between.

    The ice was here, the ice was there,
    The ice was all around:
    It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
    Like noises in a swound!

    At length did cross an Albatross,
    Thorough the fog it came;
    As if it had been a Christian soul,
    We hailed it in God's name.

    It ate the food it neér had eat,
    And round and round it flew.
    The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
    The helmsman steered us through!

    And a good south wind sprung up behind;
    The Albatross did follow,
    And every day, for food or play,
    Came to the mariner's hollo!

    In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
    It perched for vespers nine;
    Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
    Glimmered the white Moon-shine."

    "God save thee, ancient Mariner!
    From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
    Why look'st thou so?"--With my cross-bow
    I shot the albatross.

    I memorized this poem when I was in fifth grade, and most of it has stuck with me ever since. Now I kind of have a thing for seafaring poetry, probably as a direct result.

    Veegeezee on
  • SamiSami Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Doc wrote: »
    I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
    Round and round they sped.
    I was disturbed at this;
    I accosted the man.
    "It is futile," I said,
    "You can never-"
    "You lie," he cried,
    And ran on.

    I really like this, who wrote it?

    Sami on
    Preacher wrote:
    That's the kicker, not only is our healthcare not cutting mustard we are overpaying for shitty healthcare. We have the olive garden of healthcare.
  • edited October 2007
    Werewulfy wrote: »
    It's simply entertaining, I don't search poems for deep meaning or universal understanding. This is the perfect poem for me.

    I'm pretty sure the Iliad is vastly superior in this regard. Hell, even the Odyssey -- if you're into that kind of thing.

    sdrawkcaB emaN on
  • deadonthestreetdeadonthestreet Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Sami wrote: »
    Doc wrote: »
    I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
    Round and round they sped.
    I was disturbed at this;
    I accosted the man.
    "It is futile," I said,
    "You can never-"
    "You lie," he cried,
    And ran on.

    I really like this, who wrote it?
    Stephen Crane

    He is so awesome.

    deadonthestreet on
  • MikeManMikeMan Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Speaking of sunsets,
    last night's was shocking.
    I mean, sunsets aren't supposed to frighten you, are they?
    Well, this one was terrifying.
    Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
    It wasn't natural.
    One climax followed another and then another
    until your knees went weak
    and you couldn't breathe.
    The colors were definitely not of this world,
    peaches dripping opium,
    pandemonium of tangerines,
    inferno of irises,
    Plutonian emeralds,
    all swirling and churning, swabbing,
    like it was playing with us,
    like we were nothing,
    as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
    this for which nothing could have prepared us
    and for which we could not have been less prepared.
    The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
    And when it was finally over
    we whimpered and cried and howled.
    And then the streetlights came on as always
    and we looked into one another's eyes--
    ancient caves with still pools
    and those little transparent fish
    who have never seen even one ray of light.
    And the calm that returned to us
    was not even our own.

    -James Tate

    MikeMan on
    HOW DO YOU FUCK UP BAGELS. YOU BOIL THE WATER. PUT IN THE NOODLES
  • CycloneRangerCycloneRanger Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    My favorite poem is the Rime of the Ancient Mariner as well.

    I've never memorized it, though—that would be quite an undertaking.

    CycloneRanger on
    MWO User Name: Gorn Arming
    StarCraft II User Name: DeadMenRise
  • Fuzzy Cumulonimbus CloudFuzzy Cumulonimbus Cloud Communications expert for the millennial generation Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    The Road Not Taken
    by: Robert Frost

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim,
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
    I took the one less traveled by
    And that has made all the difference.

    Fuzzy Cumulonimbus Cloud on
  • Anonymous RobotAnonymous Robot Registered User
    edited October 2007
    The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot
    S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
    a persona che mai tomasse al mundo,
    questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
    Ma per cio che giammai di questo fondo
    non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
    senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

    --[Epigraph]

    Let us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky
    Like a patient etherised upon a table;

    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats
    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
    Streets that follow like a tedious argument

    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question...
    Oh, do not ask, ' What is it? '
    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time

    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;

    Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, ' Do I care? ' and, ' Do I dare? '
    Time to turn back and descend the stair,
    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

    (They will say: ' How his hair is growing
    thin! ')

    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--

    (They will say: ' But how his arms and legs are thin! ')

    Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
    For I have known them all already, known them all--

    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
    I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all--

    The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
    And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
    When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
    Then how should I begin
    To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all--
    Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
    (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
    Is it perfume from a dress

    That makes me so digress?
    Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
    And should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?

    * * * * *

    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
    And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
    Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
    Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

    * * * * *

    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

    Smoothed by long fingers,
    Asleep...tired...or it malingers,
    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

    Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
    But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
    Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
    I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;

    I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
    I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
    And in short, I was afraid.
    And would it have been worth it, after all,

    After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
    Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
    Would it have been worth while,
    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

    To have squeezed the universe into a ball
    To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
    To say: ' I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
    Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you
    all'--

    If one, settling a pillow by her head,
    Should say: ' That is not what I meant at all.
    That is not it at all. '
    And would it have been worth it, after all,

    Would it have been worth while,
    After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
    After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
    the floor---

    And this, and so much more?--
    It is impossible to say just what I mean!
    But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen;
    Would it have been worth while

    If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
    And turning toward the window, should say,
    ' That is not it at all,
    That is not what I meant at all. '



    * * * * *

    No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
    Am an attendant lord, one that will do
    To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
    Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
    Deferential, glad to be of use,

    Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
    Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
    At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
    Almost, at times, the Fool.

    I grow old...I grow old...

    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
    Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
    When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
    By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

    Anonymous Robot on
    Sigs shouldn't be higher than 80 pixels - Elki.

    photo02-film.jpg
  • Fuzzy Cumulonimbus CloudFuzzy Cumulonimbus Cloud Communications expert for the millennial generation Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    I think Robert Frost regretted the road he took and voices that in the poem.
    Kind of like, no matter what path you take, you will look back and say, "Crap."

    Fuzzy Cumulonimbus Cloud on
  • thorgotthorgot Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    The trouble with a kitten is that
    Eventually it becomes a cat

    thorgot on
    campionthorgotsig.jpg
  • ElJeffeElJeffe Moderator, ClubPA mod
    edited October 2007
    I also dig Jabberwocky, just because it evokes such brilliant imagery with nothing but nonsense words.

    Generally, I don't get poetry.

    ElJeffe on
    Maddie: "I named my feet. The left one is flip and the right one is flop. Oh, and also I named my flip-flops."

    I make tweet.
  • astrobstrdastrobstrd So full of mercy... Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot
    S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
    a persona che mai tomasse al mundo,
    questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
    Ma per cio che giammai di questo fondo
    non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
    senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

    --[Epigraph]

    Let us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky
    Like a patient etherised upon a table;

    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats
    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
    Streets that follow like a tedious argument

    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question...
    Oh, do not ask, ' What is it? '
    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time

    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;

    Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, ' Do I care? ' and, ' Do I dare? '
    Time to turn back and descend the stair,
    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

    (They will say: ' How his hair is growing
    thin! ')

    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--

    (They will say: ' But how his arms and legs are thin! ')

    Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
    For I have known them all already, known them all--

    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
    I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all--

    The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
    And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
    When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
    Then how should I begin
    To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all--
    Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
    (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
    Is it perfume from a dress

    That makes me so digress?
    Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
    And should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?

    * * * * *

    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
    And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
    Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
    Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

    * * * * *

    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

    Smoothed by long fingers,
    Asleep...tired...or it malingers,
    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

    Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
    But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
    Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
    I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;

    I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
    I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
    And in short, I was afraid.
    And would it have been worth it, after all,

    After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
    Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
    Would it have been worth while,
    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

    To have squeezed the universe into a ball
    To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
    To say: ' I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
    Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you
    all'--

    If one, settling a pillow by her head,
    Should say: ' That is not what I meant at all.
    That is not it at all. '
    And would it have been worth it, after all,

    Would it have been worth while,
    After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
    After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
    the floor---

    And this, and so much more?--
    It is impossible to say just what I mean!
    But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen;
    Would it have been worth while

    If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
    And turning toward the window, should say,
    ' That is not it at all,
    That is not what I meant at all. '



    * * * * *

    No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
    Am an attendant lord, one that will do
    To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
    Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
    Deferential, glad to be of use,

    Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
    Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
    At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
    Almost, at times, the Fool.

    I grow old...I grow old...

    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
    Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
    When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
    By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

    Since my favorite is already listed, I'll list my close #2



    Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
    How little that which thou deny'st me is;
    Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
    And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;
    Confess it, this cannot be said
    A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
    And this, alas, is more than we would do.

    Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
    Where we almost, nay more than married are.
    This flea is you and I, and this
    Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
    Though parents grudge, and you, we'are met,
    And cloistered is these living walls of jet.
    Though use make you apt to kill me,
    Let not to this, self murder added be,
    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

    Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
    Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
    In what could this flea guilty be,
    Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
    Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
    Find'st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;
    'Tis true, then learn how false, fears be;
    Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
    Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

    -"The Flea", John Donne

    astrobstrd on
  • KilroyKilroy timaeusTestified Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    The Road Not Taken
    by: Robert Frost

    I love this poem simply for the fact that so many people read it completely the wrong way.

    As for my favorite... hmm...

    I'll give my vote to Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott."
    Part I.


    On either side the river lie
    Long fields of barley and of rye,
    That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
    And thro' the field the road runs by
    To many-tower'd Camelot;
    And up and down the people go,
    Gazing where the lilies blow
    Round an island there below,
    The island of Shalott.

    Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
    Little breezes dusk and shiver
    Thro' the wave that runs for ever
    By the island in the river
    Flowing down to Camelot.
    Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
    Overlook a space of flowers,
    And the silent isle imbowers
    The Lady of Shalott.

    By the margin, willow-veil'd
    Slide the heavy barges trail'd
    By slow horses; and unhail'd
    The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
    Skimming down to Camelot:
    But who hath seen her wave her hand?
    Or at the casement seen her stand?
    Or is she known in all the land,
    The Lady of Shalott?

    Only reapers, reaping early
    In among the bearded barley,
    Hear a song that echoes cheerly
    From the river winding clearly,
    Down to tower'd Camelot:
    And by the moon the reaper weary,
    Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
    Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
    Lady of Shalott."


    Part II.

    There she weaves by night and day
    A magic web with colours gay.
    She has heard a whisper say,
    A curse is on her if she stay
    To look down to Camelot.
    She knows not what the curse may be,
    And so she weaveth steadily,
    And little other care hath she,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    And moving thro' a mirror clear
    That hangs before her all the year,
    Shadows of the world appear.
    There she sees the highway near
    Winding down to Camelot:
    There the river eddy whirls,
    And there the surly village-churls,
    And the red cloaks of market girls,
    Pass onward from Shalott.

    Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
    An abbot on an ambling pad,
    Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
    Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
    Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
    And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
    The knights come riding two and two:
    She hath no loyal knight and true,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    But in her web she still delights
    To weave the mirror's magic sights,
    For often thro' the silent nights
    A funeral, with plumes and lights
    And music, went to Camelot:
    Or when the moon was overhead,
    Came two young lovers lately wed;
    "I am half-sick of shadows," said
    The Lady of Shalott.


    Part III.

    A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
    He rode between the barley-sheaves,
    The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
    And flamed upon the brazen greaves
    Of bold Sir Lancelot.
    A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
    To a lady in his shield,
    That sparkled on the yellow field,
    Beside remote Shalott.

    The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
    Like to some branch of stars we see
    Hung in the golden Galaxy.
    The bridle-bells rang merrily
    As he rode down to Camelot:
    And from his blazon'd baldric slung
    A mighty silver bugle hung,
    And as he rode his armour rung,
    Beside remote Shalott.

    All in the blue unclouded weather
    Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
    The helmet and the helmet-feather
    Burn'd like one burning flame together,
    As he rode down to Camelot.
    As often thro' the purple night,
    Below the starry clusters bright,
    Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
    Moves over still Shalott.

    His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
    On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
    From underneath his helmet flow'd
    His coal-black curls as on he rode,
    As he rode down to Camelot.
    From the bank and from the river
    He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
    "Tirra lirra," by the river
    Sang Sir Lancelot.

    She left the web, she left the loom,
    She made three paces thro' the room,
    She saw the water-lily bloom,
    She saw the helmet and the plume,
    She look'd down to Camelot.
    Out flew the web and floated wide;
    The mirror crack'd from side to side;
    "The curse is come upon me," cried
    The Lady of Shalott.


    Part IV.

    In the stormy east-wind straining,
    The pale-yellow woods were waning,
    The broad stream in his banks complaining,
    Heavily the low sky raining
    Over tower'd Camelot;
    Down she came and found a boat
    Beneath a willow left afloat,
    And round about the prow she wrote
    The Lady of Shalott.

    And down the river's dim expanse--
    Like some bold seër in a trance,
    Seeing all his own mischance--
    With a glassy countenance
    Did she look to Camelot.
    And at the closing of the day
    She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
    The broad stream bore her far away,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Lying, robed in snowy white
    That loosely flew to left and right--
    The leaves upon her falling light--
    Thro' the noises of the night
    She floated down to Camelot:
    And as the boat-head wound along
    The willowy hills and fields among,
    They heard her singing her last song,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
    Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
    Till her blood was frozen slowly,
    And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
    Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
    For ere she reach'd upon the tide
    The first house by the water-side,
    Singing in her song she died,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Under tower and balcony,
    By garden-wall and gallery,
    A gleaming shape she floated by,
    A corse between the houses high,
    Silent into Camelot.
    Out upon the wharfs they came,
    Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
    And round the prow they read her name,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Who is this? and what is here?
    And in the lighted palace near
    Died the sound of royal cheer;
    And they cross'd themselves for fear,
    All the knights at Camelot:
    But Lancelot mused a little space;
    He said, "She has a lovely face;
    God in his mercy lend her grace,
    The Lady of Shalott."

    Kilroy on
  • LocusLocus Trust Me AlbanyRegistered User regular
    edited October 2007
    I prefer my poetry simple. No flowery language. Straight and to the point. Though I do have a soft spot for "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

    "This Is Just To Say," by William Carlos Williams

    I have eaten
    the plums
    that were in
    the icebox

    and which
    you were probably
    saving
    for breakfast.

    Forgive me
    they were delicious
    so sweet
    and so cold.

    Locus on
  • DocDoc Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited October 2007
    Locus wrote: »
    "This Is Just To Say," by William Carlos Williams

    I have eaten
    the plums
    that were in
    the icebox

    and which
    you were probably
    saving
    for breakfast.

    Forgive me
    they were delicious
    so sweet
    and so cold.

    Same author, also good:

    so much depends
    upon

    a red wheel
    barrow

    glazed with rain
    water

    beside the white
    chickens.

    Doc on
  • INeedNoSaltINeedNoSalt Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Kilroy wrote: »
    The Road Not Taken
    by: Robert Frost

    I love this poem simply for the fact that so many people read it completely the wrong way.

    How is it meant to be read?

    I don't even know what my favorite poem is, but it is probably some pretty mainstream poem that everyone reads in English, and so I would not feel like I am deep and original in my taste.

    INeedNoSalt on
    sometimes you just gotta do a thing
  • KilroyKilroy timaeusTestified Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    I almost posted "This is Just to Say." William Carlos Williams is an amazing writer, both with poetry and short stories.

    Oh, and curse you and your one poem per person rule, Shinto. Curse. You.

    Edit:
    How is it meant to be read?

    Most high-schools tend to teach that Frost is praising marching to the beat of a different drum, not taking the past of least resistance, etc. In reality, he's making fun of the poets who touted those ideas (aka, most of his contemporaries).

    Kilroy on
  • MurmexMurmex Registered User
    edited October 2007
    suilimeA wrote: »
    Werewulfy wrote: »
    It's simply entertaining, I don't search poems for deep meaning or universal understanding. This is the perfect poem for me.

    I'm pretty sure the Iliad is vastly superior in this regard. Hell, even the Odyssey -- if you're into that kind of thing.

    I'm not sure. For me at least, some parts of the Iliad were a definite struggle and not in the least entertaining (Catalogue of Ships anyone?). I think the formulaic composition also made it more dull to read.

    At any rate, epic poetry is a completely different form of entertainment from Jabberwocky, and it is a bit of a stretch to call the one vastly superior to the other.

    Murmex on
  • HachfaceHachface Not the Minister Farrakhan you're thinking of Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    One Art

    The art of losing isn't hard to master;
    so many things seem filled with the intent
    to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

    Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
    of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
    The art of losing isn't hard to master.

    Now practice losing farther, losing faster:
    places, names, and where it was you meant
    to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

    I lost my mother's watch, and look! my last,
    or next to last, of three loved houses went.
    The art of losing isn't hard to master.

    I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
    some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
    I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

    --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
    I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
    the art of losing's not too hard to master
    though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

    --Elizabeth Bishop

    Like all good poetry, this one is best appreciated if read aloud. Elizabeth Bishop has such amazing control of sound, and this poem in particular is notable if for no other reason than writing a good villanelle is fucking hard.

    Hachface on
    Unipine
  • elevatureelevature Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    The Cinnamon Peeler, by Michael Ondaatje:
    If I were a cinnamon peeler
    I would ride your bed
    and leave the yellow bark dust
    on your pillow.

    Your breasts and shoulders would reek
    you could never walk through markets
    without the profession of my fingers
    floating over you. The blind would
    stumble certain of whom they approached
    though you might bathe
    under the rain gutters, monsoon.

    Here on the upper thigh
    at this smooth pasture
    neighbour to your hair
    or the crease
    that cuts your back. This ankle.
    You will be known among strangers
    as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

    I could hardly glance at you
    before marriage
    never touch you
    - your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
    I buried my hands
    in saffron, disguised them
    over smoking tar,
    helped the honey gatherers...

    When we swam once
    I touched you in the water
    and our bodies remained free,
    you could hold me and be blind of smell.
    You climbed the bank and said

    this is how you touch other women
    the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
    And you searched your arms
    for the missing perfume

    and knew

    what good is it
    to be the lime burner's daughter
    left with no trace
    as if not spoken to in the act of love
    as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

    You touched
    your belly to my hands
    in the dry air and said
    I am the cinnamon
    peeler's wife. Smell me.

    elevature on
  • saggiosaggio Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    My favourite poet is Jim Morrison (don't laugh, he's awesome!). My favourite work, though, is definitely Paradise Lost by John Milton.

    Book I, line 242-270
    Milton wrote:
    "Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,"
    Said then the lost Arch Angel, "this the seat
    That we must change for Heav'n, this mournful gloom
    For that celestial light? Be it so, since hee
    Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid
    What shall be right: fardest from him is best
    Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supream
    Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields
    Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail
    Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
    Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
    A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
    The mind is its own place, and in it self
    Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.

    What matter where, if I be still the same,
    And what I should be, all but less then hee
    Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
    We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
    Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
    Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
    To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
    Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.
    But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
    Th' associates and copartners of our loss
    Lye thus astonisht on th' oblivious Pool,
    And call them not to share with us their part
    In this unhappy Mansion, or once more
    With rallied Arms to try what may be yet
    Regaind in Heav'n, or what more lost in Hell?"

    saggio on
    3DS: 0232-9436-6893
  • DiscGraceDiscGrace Registered User
    edited October 2007
    I had a tough time choosing between this and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock ... fortunately I read the thread and someone made the choice for me. :) This song made me all choked up the first time I read it ... still does, sometimes.

    XVII (I do not love you ...)
    Pablo Neruda


    I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
    or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
    I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
    in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

    I love you as the plant that never blooms
    but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
    thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
    risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
    I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
    so I love you because I know no other way

    than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
    so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
    so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

    DiscGrace on
    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • edited October 2007
    Murmex wrote: »
    suilimeA wrote: »
    Werewulfy wrote: »
    It's simply entertaining, I don't search poems for deep meaning or universal understanding. This is the perfect poem for me.

    I'm pretty sure the Iliad is vastly superior in this regard. Hell, even the Odyssey -- if you're into that kind of thing.

    I'm not sure. For me at least, some parts of the Iliad were a definite struggle and not in the least entertaining (Catalogue of Ships anyone?).

    Yeah, I'm definitely one of the few people I know who actually enjoyed that part (OK, the only person).
    I think the formulaic composition also made it more dull to read.

    You best be not hatin' on Homeric epithets, because then I will be forced to drown you in the wine-dark sea.

    sdrawkcaB emaN on
  • strakha_7strakha_7 Registered User
    edited October 2007
    I read Julian May's Saga of Pliocene Exile a long time ago. It ends with the quote from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets (Burnt Norton):

    "...the beginning,
    And the end and the beginning were always there
    Before the beginning and after the end.
    And all is always now."

    I liked the quote so much, and how it seemed to capture that whole story and, later, how I feel about life at times (during my more spiritual moments) that I went out and found out what else that poem had to say. I liked it all.

    Burnt Norton, first of the Four Quartets:
    I

    Time present and time past
    Are both perhaps present in time future,
    And time future contained in time past.
    If all time is eternally present
    All time is unredeemable.
    What might have been is an abstraction
    Remaining a perpetual possibility
    Only in a world of speculation.
    What might have been and what has been
    Point to one end, which is always present.
    Footfalls echo in the memory
    Down the passage which we did not take
    Towards the door we never opened
    Into the rose-garden. My words echo
    Thus, in your mind.
    But to what purpose
    Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
    I do not know.
    Other echoes
    Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
    Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
    Round the corner. Through the first gate,
    Into our first world, shall we follow
    The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
    There they were, dignified, invisible,
    Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
    In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
    And the bird called, in response to
    The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
    And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
    Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
    There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
    So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
    Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
    To look down into the drained pool.
    Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
    And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
    And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
    The surface glittered out of heart of light,
    And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
    Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
    Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
    Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
    Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
    Cannot bear very much reality.
    Time past and time future
    What might have been and what has been
    Point to one end, which is always present.



    II

    Garlic and sapphires in the mud
    Clot the bedded axle-tree.
    The trilling wire in the blood
    Sings below inveterate scars
    Appeasing long forgotten wars.
    The dance along the artery
    The circulation of the lymph
    Are figured in the drift of stars
    Ascend to summer in the tree
    We move above the moving tree
    In light upon the figured leaf
    And hear upon the sodden floor
    Below, the boarhound and the boar
    Pursue their pattern as before
    But reconciled among the stars.

    At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
    Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
    But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
    Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
    Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
    There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
    I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
    And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
    The inner freedom from the practical desire,
    The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
    And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
    By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
    Erhebung without motion, concentration
    Without elimination, both a new world
    And the old made explicit, understood
    In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
    The resolution of its partial horror.
    Yet the enchainment of past and future
    Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
    Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
    Which flesh cannot endure.
    Time past and time future
    Allow but a little consciousness.
    To be conscious is not to be in time
    But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
    The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
    The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
    Be remembered; involved with past and future.
    Only through time time is conquered.



    III

    Here is a place of disaffection
    Time before and time after
    In a dim light: neither daylight
    Investing form with lucid stillness
    Turning shadow into transient beauty
    With slow rotation suggesting permanence
    Nor darkness to purify the soul
    Emptying the sensual with deprivation
    Cleansing affection from the temporal.
    Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
    Over the strained time-ridden faces
    Distracted from distraction by distraction
    Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
    Tumid apathy with no concentration
    Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
    That blows before and after time,
    Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
    Time before and time after.
    Eructation of unhealthy souls
    Into the faded air, the torpid
    Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
    Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
    Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
    Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

    Descend lower, descend only
    Into the world of perpetual solitude,
    World not world, but that which is not world,
    Internal darkness, deprivation
    And destitution of all property,
    Desiccation of the world of sense,
    Evacuation of the world of fancy,
    Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
    This is the one way, and the other
    Is the same, not in movement
    But abstention from movement; while the world moves
    In appetency, on its metalled ways
    Of time past and time future.



    IV

    Time and the bell have buried the day,
    The black cloud carries the sun away.
    Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
    Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
    Clutch and cling?

    Chill
    Fingers of yew be curled
    Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
    Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
    At the still point of the turning world.



    V

    Words move, music moves
    Only in time; but that which is only living
    Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
    Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
    Can words or music reach
    The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
    Moves perpetually in its stillness.
    Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
    Not that only, but the co-existence,
    Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
    And the end and the beginning were always there
    Before the beginning and after the end.
    And all is always now. Words strain,
    Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
    Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
    Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
    Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
    Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
    Always assail them. The Word in the desert
    Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
    The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
    The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

    The detail of the pattern is movement,
    As in the figure of the ten stairs.
    Desire itself is movement
    Not in itself desirable;
    Love is itself unmoving,
    Only the cause and end of movement,
    Timeless, and undesiring
    Except in the aspect of time
    Caught in the form of limitation
    Between un-being and being.
    Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
    Even while the dust moves
    There rises the hidden laughter
    Of children in the foliage
    Quick now, here, now, always—
    Ridiculous the waste sad time
    Stretching before and after.

    strakha_7 on
    Want a signature? Find a post by ElJeffe and quote a random sentence!
    ElJeffe wrote: »
    Zero tolerance policies are almost invariably terrible.

    One might say I have zero tolerance for them.
  • Evil MultifariousEvil Multifarious Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    You're not even supposed to enjoy the catalogue of ships. Freak.

    Evil Multifarious on
    Inquisitor wrote: »
    I fucking hate you Canadians.
  • lunasealunasea Registered User
    edited October 2007
    Nature's first green is gold,
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf's a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf.
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day.
    Nothing gold can stay.

    - Robert Frost

    lunasea on
  • Bad KittyBad Kitty Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Keeping Quiet

    Now we will count to twelve
    and we will all keep still.

    This one time upon the earth,
    let's not speak any language,
    let's stop for one second,
    and not move our arms so much.

    It would be a delicious moment,
    without hurry, without locomotives,
    all of us would be together
    in a sudden uneasiness.

    The fishermen in the cold sea
    would do no harm to the whales
    and the peasant gathering salt
    would look at his torn hands.

    Those who prepare green wars,
    wars of gas, wars of fire,
    victories without survivors,
    would put on clean clothing
    and would walk alongside their brothers
    in the shade, without doing a thing.

    What I want shouldn't be confused
    with final inactivity:
    life alone is what matters,
    I want nothing to do with death.

    If we weren't unanimous
    about keeping our lives so much in motion,
    if we could do nothing for once,
    perhaps a great silence would
    interrupt this sadness,
    this never understanding ourselves
    and threatening ourselves with death,
    perhaps the earth is teaching us
    when everything seems to be dead
    and then everything is alive.

    Now I will count to twelve
    and you keep quiet and I'll go.

    --Pablo Neruda

    I also love Pablo Neruda. This and sonnet XVII are my favourites.

    Bad Kitty on
  • MedopineMedopine __BANNED USERS
    edited October 2007
    You fit into me
    Like a hook into an eye.

    A fish hook
    an open eye.

    - Margaret Atwood

    Medopine on
  • RaakamRaakam Too many years... CanadalandRegistered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Nobody's mention The Raven yet? Still, my favorite is:
    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 sepulchre
    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 sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

    Just something about this gets me. Maybe the imagery, or the fact that it sounds like a fairy tale, but it's so heart breaking.

    Also, I've been meaning to try and find a specific poet. He's modern, has a website, and it's mostly humorous stuff. He had a poem called The Last Cigarette I think, and many other poems that were brilliant. I've been unable to find him, maybe someone knows who I'm talking about.

    Raakam on
    My padherder
    they don't it be like it is but it do
  • MedopineMedopine __BANNED USERS
    edited October 2007
    Poe's command of language and sounds is so fucking awesome.

    Medopine on
  • DocDoc Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited October 2007
    Poe is one of those guys that everyone likes, yet nobody in higher education is supposed to fess up to it, for whatever reason.

    Doc on
  • RaakamRaakam Too many years... CanadalandRegistered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Oh, finally found the poet I was referencing earlier. Billy Collins. Absolutely genius, that man.

    Raakam on
    My padherder
    they don't it be like it is but it do
  • monikermoniker Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    I don't have a favorite poem, (it sort of depends on my mood which one I prefer) but I do have a favorite poet.
    I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.
    Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
    (All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to ashes.)
    I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: "Omaha."


    I need to buy his unabridged works. So many good poems.

    moniker on
    tea-1.jpg
  • nescientistnescientist Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening:

    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village, though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there's some mistake.
    The only other sound's the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.

    -Robert Frost

    I love this so much, if only for the last stanza.

    nescientist on
    Carl Sagan wrote:
    The sky calls to us. If we do not destroy ourselves, we will one day venture to the stars.
  • MosanaMosana Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    I love this poem to bits:

    An Austrian army, awfully arrayed,
    Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade.
    Cossack commanders cannonading come,
    Dealing destruction's devastating doom.
    Every endeavor engineers essay,
    For fame, for fortune fighting - furious fray!
    Generals 'gainst generals grapple - gracious God!
    How honors Heaven heroic hardihood!
    Infuriate, indiscrminate in ill,
    Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill.
    Labor low levels longest, lofiest lines;
    Men march 'mid mounds, 'mid moles, ' mid murderous mines;
    Now noxious, noisey numbers nothing, naught
    Of outward obstacles, opposing ought;
    Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed,
    Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest.
    Reason returns, religious right redounds,
    Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.
    Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train,
    Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
    Vanish vain victory! vanish, victory vain!
    Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were
    Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier?
    Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell!
    Zeus', Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal,
    Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!

    -Alaric Alexander Watts, The Siege of Belgrade

    Mosana on
  • HozHoz Registered User regular
    edited October 2007
    moniker wrote: »
    I don't have a favorite poem, (it sort of depends on my mood which one I prefer) but I do have a favorite poet.
    I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.
    Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
    (All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to ashes.)
    I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: "Omaha."


    I need to buy his unabridged works. So many good poems.
    The only poem I read that's his is my favorite.

    Grass
    PILE the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
    Shovel them under and let me work—
    I am the grass; I cover all.

    And pile them high at Gettysburg
    And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
    Shovel them under and let me work.
    Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
    What place is this?
    Where are we now?

    I am the grass.
    Let me work.
    Kilroy wrote: »
    Most high-schools tend to teach that Frost is praising marching to the beat of a different drum, not taking the past of least resistance, etc. In reality, he's making fun of the poets who touted those ideas (aka, most of his contemporaries).
    What makes you believe the high-school standard isn't right?

    I did some light research and there's a quote from him where he says he got the idea from a friend who was presented with a choice but would regret whatever choice he made.

    Hoz on
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