Favorite Poem

Originally Posted by DocHolliday

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A special one, just for SF:

If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again,
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much,
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.

Another:
Woman wants monogamy;
Man delights in novelty.
Love is woman's moon and sun;
Man has other forms of fun.
Woman lives but in her lord;
Count to ten, and man is bored.
With this the gist and sum of it,
What earthly good can come of it?

And the classic:
I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I'm under the table,
after four I'm under my host.

-- Dorothy Parker


Asked to use the word horticulture in a sentence, Dorothy Parker reportedly replied, "you can lead a horticulture but you cant make her think."

Can't find a good translation of Tu Fu's "After Rain" but it's final line: "A lone goose sails into the void" has always been a favorite.

I must also admit my love of Sandberg. Witness:

14. Nights Nothings Again

WHO knows what I know\t
when I have asked the night questions\t
and the night has answered nothing\t
only the old answers?\t

Who picked a crimson cryptogram,\t
the tail light of a motor car turning a corner,\t
or the midnight sign of a chile con carne place,\t
or a man out of the ashes of false dawn muttering "hot-dog" to the night watchmen:\t
Is there a spieler who has spoken the word or taken the number of night's nothings? am I the spieler? or you?\t

Is there a tired head\t
the night has not fed and rested\t
and kept on its neck and shoulders?\t

Is there a wish\t
of man to woman\t
and woman to man\t
the night has not written\t
and signed its name under?\t

Does the night forget\t
as a woman forgets?\t
and remember\t
as a woman remembers?\t

Who gave the night\t
this head of hair,\t
this gipsy head\t
calling: Come-on?\t

Who gave the night anything at all\t
and asked the night questions\t
and was laughed at?\t

Who asked the night\t
for a long soft kiss\t
and lost the half-way lips?\t
who picked a red lamp in a mist?\t

Who saw the night\t
fold its Mona Lisa hands\t
and sit half-smiling, half-sad,\t
nothing at all,\t
and everything,\t
all the world ?\t

Who saw the night\t
let down its hair\t
and shake its bare shoulders\t
and blow out the candles of the moon,\t
whispering, snickering,\t
cutting off the snicker .. and sobbing ..\t
out of pillow-wet kisses and tears?\t

Is the night woven of anything else\t
than the secret wishes of women,\t
the stretched empty arms of women?\t
the hair of women with stars and roses?\t
I asked the night these questions.\t
I heard the night asking me these questions.\t

I saw the night\t
put these whispered nothings\t
across the city dust and stones,\t
across a single yellow sunflower,\t
one stalk strong as a woman's wrist;\t

And the play of a light rain,\t
the jig-time folly of a light rain,\t
the creepers of a drizzle on the sidewalks\t
for the policemen and the railroad men,\t
for the home-goers and the homeless,\t
silver fans and funnels on the asphalt,\t
the many feet of a fog mist that crept away;\t

I saw the night\t
put these nothings across\t
and the night wind came saying: Come-on:\t
and the curve of sky swept off white clouds\t
and swept on white stars over Battery to Bronx,\t
scooped a sea of stars over Albany, Dobbs Ferry, Cape Horn, Constantinople.\t

I saw the night's mouth and lips\t
strange as a face next to mine on a pillow\t
and now I know ... as I knew always ...\t
the night is a lover of mine ...\t
I know the night is ... everything.\t
I know the night is ... all the world.\t

I have seen gold lamps in a lagoon\t
play sleep and murmur\t
with never an eyelash,\t
never a glint of an eyelid,\t
quivering in the water-shadows.\t

A taxi whizzes by, an owl car clutters, passengers yawn reading street signs, a bum on a park bench shifts, another bum keeps his majesty of stone stillness, the forty-foot split rocks of Central Park sleep the sleep of stone whalebacks, the cornices of the Metropolitan Art mutter their own nothings to the men with rolled-up collars on the top of a bus:\t
Breaths of the sea salt Atlantic, breaths of two rivers, and a heave of hawsers and smokestacks, the swish of multiplied sloops and war dogs, the hesitant hoo-hoo of coal boats: among these I listen to Night calling:\t
I give you what money can never buy: all other lovers change: all others go away and come back and go away again:\t
I am the one you slept with last night.\t
I am the one you sleep with tonight and tomorrow night.\t
I am the one whose passion kisses\t
keep your head wondering\t
and your lips aching\t
to sing one song\t
never sung before\t
at night's gipsy head\t
calling: Come-on.\t
These hands that slid to my neck and held me,\t
these fingers that told a story,\t
this gipsy head of hair calling: Come-on:\t
can anyone else come along now\t
and put across night's nothings again?\t

I have wanted kisses my heart stuttered at asking,\t
I have pounded at useless doors and called my people fools.\t
I have staggered alone in a winter dark making mumble songs\t
to the sting of a blizzard that clutched and swore.\t
It was the night in my blood:\t
open dreaming night,\t
night of tireless sheet-steel blue:\t
The hands of God washing something,\t
feet of God walking somewhere.

--Rudyard Kipling, "An Imperial Rescript", 1890.--

NOW this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,
To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need,
He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat,
That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set.

The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew—
Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe.
And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil,
And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil.

And the young King said:—“I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek:
“The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak;
“With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line,
“Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood—sign!”

The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby,
And a wail went up from the peoples:—“Ay, sign—give rest, for we die!”
A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl,
When—the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the council-hall.

And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain—
Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane.
And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke;
And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke:—

“There’s a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone;
“We’re going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own,
“With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top;
“And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop.”

And an English delegate thundered:—“The weak an’ the lame be blowed!
“I’ve a berth in the Sou’-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road;
“And till the ’sociation has footed my buryin’ bill,
“I work for the kids an’ the missus. Pull up? I be damned if I will!”

And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran:—
“Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man.
“If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit;
“But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt.”

They passed one resolution:—“Your sub-committee believe
“You can lighten the curse of Adam when you’ve lightened the curse of Eve.
“But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and pen,
“We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen.”

Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held—
The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled,
The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands,
The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands.

Originally Posted by Vintage Gent

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Interesting thing about some of the choices here. I have a deal with my daughter. For every poem of 12 lines or more that she memorizes, I give her $5. So far she's memorized, among others, three of the poems cited here: "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," "Ozymandias," and "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." And she's working on "The Second Coming."

I've got $10 for this one, send me a PM for the propper address to send the paper:

Robert E. Lee,
Farewell to The Army of Northern Virginia​

Drinking Alone Under The Moon by Li Bai

Among the flowers from a pot of wine
I drink alone beneath the bright moonshine.
I raise my cup to invite the moon, who blends
Her light with my shadow and we're three friends.
The moon does not know how to drink her share;
In vain my shadow follows me here and there.
Together with them for the time I stay
And make merry before spring's spend away.
I sing the moon to linger with my song;
My shadow disperses as I dance along.
Sober, we three remain cheerful and gay;
Drunken, we part and each goes his way.
Our friendship will outshine all earthly love;
Next time we'll meet beyond the stars above

I've read this poem by Li-Young Lee dozens of times, torn it apart, love it. Oh, and Christina Rosetti's "Goblin Market" is utterly salacious. A great read aloud, as is Hopkins's "Windhover".

The Windhover:
To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird -- the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shà er plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.



Persimmons - Li-Young Lee

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew on the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet
all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down,
I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.
Naked: I've forgotten.
Ni, wo: you me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat
but watched the other faces.


My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang. The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father would stay up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents' cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He's so happy that I've come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.

Originally Posted by Étienne

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At least in France, it is quite accepted that not all poetry has to be in verse. Charles Baudelaire wrote a entire book called Petits Poëmes en prose (yes, "poëmes" and not "poèmes") more than a hundred years ago.

Anyway, back to the original topic.

Arthur Rimbaud - Le Dormeur du val.

C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière,
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est Ã

tendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côtÃ

droit.

Learnt it by heart in school. The last line still takes me by surprise, even though I have read it many times, even though there are forewarnings.

Originally Posted by Swann

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Herbsttag

Herr, es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten, voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin, und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.


Rainer Maria Rilke, 21.9.1902, Paris

Thank you. I had forgotten this one. Such sadness. I suppose we all associate one poem or another with particular periods of our lives? There are poems I can't read any more.

Let's add a little Prà vert for good measure:

Le cancre



Il dit non avec la tête
Mais il dit oui avec le coeur
Il dit oui à ce qu'il aime
Il dit non au professeur
Il est debout
On le questionne
Et tous les problèmes sont posà s
Soudain le fou rire le prend
Et il efface tout
Les chiffres et les mots
Les dates et les noms
Les phrases et les pièges
Et malgrà les menaces du maà tre
Sous les huà es des enfants prodiges
Avec des craies de toutes les couleurs
Sur le tableau noir du malheur
Il dessine le visage du bonheur.



Jacques Prà vert

Probably not up to the high standards presented thusfar, but I'm a fan of the more "earthy" poems. Bukowski and such. Ice Cream Truck Music : Another Beautiful Morning In A Little Town Green, so much green outside. Grass blades and leaves twisting gently, as the cool morning whispers across the peeling white paint on the bedroom windowpane. The sun has just come out and it is warming the sidewalk for the children, so that they can skip barefoot to the corner to catch the ice-cream truck. You think fondly of the music the ice-cream truck plays as it floats on the breeze. It twinkles its quaint little melody, horribly out of tune, down the street. The street with the same sidewalk you used to run down. The same grass that tickled your bare toes. But that was another lifetime, decades before you knew what a deadline was, or how to dress for success. The music still manages to lift your spirits though, and remind you what its like not to worry. You sing softly while brushing your hair, and the air from the open window teases your skin into goosebumps. Looking back at the bed, you see his chest rise and fall steadily beneath your white silk sheets. You've been "together" since High School, and sometimes you wonder why you aren't married. He says he has a problem with the formality. Whatever that means. He sure is sweet though, and a good boyfriend. If such a thing exists, he might be Mr. Right He is still asleep because its his 26th birthday, and he has the day off. You think of what you will make for breakfast. Maybe waffles, or blueberry pancakes with lots of maple syrup. Maybe he will stay dreaming long enough for you to surprise him with breakfast in bed. Just thinking about it makes you smile with anticipation. You know he won't wake up for awhile yet - so you creep off to the kitchen. And as the door closes, eyes still closed, he catches himself smiling. And why not? A Poem for Stardust She was perfect for me, I was just awakening to girls, especially ones like her. Someone who, given enough time could make the entire world fall in love with her. Her sparkled pastel nails glistened in the glow from the street lamps, her eyes were the color of the moon, she was tall and aloof and beautiful. And Stardust was her name. All the boys stared longingly at her, admiring her as they would the Mona Lisa. They loved the idea of having her over for dinner displaying her to their parents, making their fathers proud. She just laughed and smiled and chatted, while secretly vowing that she would never return. We sat and talked one night, our parents knew each other. About life and school and juvenile delinquency. And we decided to change the world. We ran recklessly up and down the farmers market, for hours. Having more fun than is allowed on a school night. Upturning carts of vegetables, playing catch with porcelain lawn ornaments. Being young together. I remember her smile it seemed to have a brilliant light, that chased away all the shadows. We would sneak out late at night, to meet up and walk, talk, and whisper. Holding hands, in the grass, she wrapped me up in her arms. She told me, while laying there, about her troubles. How she was too pretty, too friendly, too smart and funny. Coming from anyone else it wouldn't have been sad, She looked me in the eyes, hers were moist with tears, and made me promise that I wouldn't fall in love with her. I agreed, and as we walked back down the road to her house, her hand reached out for me. But as she was talking my hand, she also took away my heart. THE GIRL WHO MADE THE RAIN I found her in the pounding rain, gun to her temple. Sitting on the steps of her favorite church. She's put something in her arm, I beg her Not to pull the trigger, but she's much better. She understands the world, And she laughs it away with a crash of thunder. She says, that I can't keep on saving her forever. As long as we're both here I'll love her, protect her, resent her, hate her, save her, ignore her, and respect her. With her tears, She made the rain come down, And she makes the skies gray. And when she's angry the heavens thunder, And that's why I can't leave her. I love her. She's bleeding, and shaking, beautiful, and fragile; A pretty doll floating in the gutter. \t\t\t****** In the morning light she bends reflected, warped and twisted, like the world's not real. She can't stand the way he always saves her, can't stand the way that he makes her feel. Half on the couch, half out of her mind. Arm in the fire, tied off and tired. Sleeping and dreaming and screaming and dying. A tragic young beauty succumbs in the night. \t\t\t****** Everyone says words as they brush past the casket. Nobody really seems all that suprised. I hear whispers and gossip around in the service; They judge me, condemn me, mock me and justify. "After all with her lifestyle? Its to be Expected. Why didn't he help her, and how could he let her? Is it all his fault? Did he just let her die?" I stood at the box and remembered her eyes, It stopped raining forever the minute I cried.

Kerouac is my favorite author but I've never been fond of his poems. I recited my favorite poem, Carl Sandburg's "Government" to my ninth grade class but I don't think I really understood it. I like reading the lyrical sound of Irish poetry (as Gaeilge) even if I can't understand it; I think the best quality a language can possess is its propensity for beautiful expression.

Ballad of the Landlord by Langston Hughes is very good too:

Landlord, landlord,
My roof has sprung a leak.
Don't you 'member I told you about it
Way last week?

Landlord, landlord,
These steps is broken down.
When you come up yourself
It's a wonder you don't fall down.

Ten Bucks you say I owe you?
Ten Bucks you say is due?
Well, that's Ten Bucks more'n I'l pay you
Till you flx this house up new.

What? You gonna get eviction orders?
You gonna cut off my heat?
You gonna take my furniture and
Throw it in the street?

Um-huh! You talking high and mighty.
Talk on-till you get through.
You ain't gonn a be able to say a word
If I land my fist on you.

Police! Police!
Come and get this man!
He's trying to ruin the government
And overturn the land!

Copper's whistle!
Patrol bell!
Arrest.

Precinct Station.
Iron cell.
Headlines in press:

MAN THREATENS LANDLORD
TENANT HELD NO BAIL
JUDGE GIVES NEGRO 90 DAYS IN COUNTY JAIL

I actually love Auden's Funeral Blues and think of John Hannah reciting it in 4 Weddings when I read it. It makes me cry everytime.

My vote is for My Suburban Girl.

I love some of the more obvious ones: The Walrus and the Carpenter, The Wasteland, also the Second Coming.

But my favorite is Kipling's "If"

I keep a copy on my wall in the office and look at it when I am under stress and want to kill the asshole controller of the company because he's bitching because I didn't fill some inane ******* form out in triplicate.

It's a great poem for managers and people in positions of leadership.

rdawson, that's a really charming piece. My vote goes for Pushkin, who unfortunately wrote nothing in English, but he did write in French:

Couplets Quand un poète en son extase Vous lit son ode ou son bouquet, Quand un conteur traÃ

ne sa phrase, Quand on Ã

coute un perroquet, Ne trouvant pas le mot pour rire, On dort, on baille en son mouchoir, On attend le moment de dire: Jusqu'au plaisir de nous revoir. Mais tête-à -tête avec sa belle, Ou bien avec des gens d'esprit, Le vrai bonheur se renouvelle, On est content, l'on chante, on rit. Prolongez vos paisibles veilles, Et chantez vers la fin du soir A vos amis, à vos bouteilles: Jusqu'au plaisir de nous revoir. Amis, la vie est un passage Et tout s'Ã

coule avec le temps, L'amour aussi n'est qu'un volage, Un oiseau de notre printemps; Trop tôt il fuit, riant sous cape— C'est pour toujours, adieu l'Espoir! On ne dit pas dès qu'il s'Ã

chappe: Jusqu'au plaisir de nous revoir. Le temps s'enfuit triste et barbare Et tôt ou tard on va lá-haut. Souvent — le cas n'est pas si rare — Hasard nous sauve du tombeau. Des maux s'Ã

loignent les cohortes Et le squelette horrible et noir S'en va frappant à d'autres portes: Jusqu'au plaisir de nous revoir. Mais quoi? je sens que je me lasse En lassant mes chers auditeurs, Allons, je descends du Parnasse— II n'est pas fait pour les chanteurs, Pour des couplets mon feu s'allume, Sur un refrain j'ai du pouvoir, C'est bien assez — adieu, ma plume! Jusqu'au plaisir de nous revoir,​

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Tokyo Slim,

Did Bukowski write The Girl Who Made The Rain?