Favorite Poem

[Edward Appleby]

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" is my emotional favorite. I really love the ideas in Eliot's "The Journey of the Magi", but I just reread it and the language didn't resonate quite as much with me as I remembered. I'm suprised no one's mentioned any of the epic verse classics. I'm hesitant to because I haven't read the three I have in mind (Beowulf, The Odyssey, and The Illiad) in the original.

 

[wEstSidE]

Since someone mentioned the Odyssey and Illiad, I'll rant about them. I'm not a fan of epic poetry, to be honest. I don't want to hear some random Greek guy ramble on how the son of Peleus twice removed from the House of Priam, destroyer of mark ass tricks, winner of sword tossing contest of 283 BCE, slashed the nephew of Some Dude IV with the aid of great Pallas Athena. It's fun at first, but it gets boring as ****. Reading the Greek alphabet isn't too fun either. This is why I appreciate the great poetae novi. They keeps it real. Mad real. Sure, Catullus might be a gay sodomizer who periodically writes poems about women and men being fellators, but at least he doesn't make fart jokes (e.g. Chaucer, Shakespeare). He represents the best of the rich hedonist aesthetic. Catullus mo'fuckin' 2 keepin it scr8 gangsta. Passer, deliciae meae puellae, quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere, cui primum digitum dare appetenti et acris solet incitare morsus, *** desiderio meo nitenti carum nescio quid lubet iocari et solaciolum sui doloris, credo ut tum gravis acquiescat ardor: tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem et tristis animi levare curas! I'll let you translate it yourselves. Also, Catullus mo'fuckin' 58. I'll translate this one for you. CAELI, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa. illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam plus quam se atque suos amauit omnes, nunc in quadriuiis et angiportis glubit magnanimi Remi nepotes. Caelius, our Lesbia, that Lesbia. That same Lesbia, whom Catullus loves above himself and all other (things/people), now (loiters) in the crossroads and alleyways, gobbling the cocks of the descendants of Remus.

 

[Tokyo Slim]

Originally Posted by caelte

Tokyo Slim, Did Bukowski write The Girl Who Made The Rain?
Oh, no. I'm sorry, Those were all written by me in High School. I just mentioned Buk because he's my favorite. I didn't want to give the impression that he wrote any of my angsty drivel.

 

[caelte]

Fern Hill is my all time favorite.
I had a copy laminated so I could keep it with me in my notebook.
Dylan, sorry, but I couldn't figure out how to get your line spacing duped.

Fern Hill

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.​

 

[caelte]

Originally Posted by Tokyo Slim

Oh, no. I'm sorry, Those were all written by me in High School. I just mentioned Buk because he's my favorite.

I didn't want to give the impression that he wrote any of my angsty drivel.

I really love, The Girl Who Made The Rain.

 

[Tokyo Slim]

Originally Posted by caelte

I really love, The Girl Who Made The Rain.
I'm glad you liked it. I liked it too. A little dramatic though, in retrospect. Oh well.

 

[caelte]

Originally Posted by Tokyo Slim

I'm glad you liked it. I liked it too. A little dramatic though, in retrospect. Oh well.


Drama is what it is about.

 

[Tokyo Slim]

Originally Posted by caelte

Drama is what it is about.

That is correct, though if I were to write it over again, a lighter touch would probably be used. I'm not nearly as dramatic as I was in High School either.

 

[caelte]

Originally Posted by Tokyo Slim

That is correct, though if I were to write it over again, a lighter touch would probably be used. I'm not nearly as dramatic as I was in High School either.

Maybe you are more under control.

Your avatar and your concern for Jennifer Connelly make me think you have not lost the drama.

 

[Vintage Gent]

Originally Posted by Edward Appleby

I really love the ideas in Eliot's "The Journey of the Magi", but I just reread it and the language didn't resonate quite as much with me as I remembered.

Interesting. I've come back to "The Journey of the Magi" a great deal recently, enticed by the directness of the language, the fierce concreteness of the images. The poem succeeds because it works so well on a literal level; it's one of Eliot's few poems where the images don't digress into abstraction.

 

[FLMountainMan]

Joseph Auslander's "Riders at the Gates" is pretty cool, but for sheer emo living-in-mom's-basement morbidity, nothing tops Thomas Nashe 1593 "In a Time of Pestilence":

ADIEU, farewell earth's bliss!
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die"”
Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die"”
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye;
I am sick, I must die"”
Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate;
Come, come! the bells do cry;
I am sick, I must die"”
Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, I must die"”
Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky;
I am sick, I must die"”
Lord, have mercy on us!

 

[Connemara]

"Thanatopsis". William Cullen Bryant wrote it when he was 17. Such a beautiful poem.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificient. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods--rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadow green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, and when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like a quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

 

[Earthmover]

Most of my favorites have been mentioned, but here's three that I love that haven't been:

LibertÃ

Sur mes cahiers d'Ã

colier
Sur mon pupitre et les arbres
Sur le sable de neige
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur les pages lues
Sur toutes les pages blanches
Pierre sang papier ou cendre
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur les images dorÃ

es
Sur les armes des guerriers
Sur la couronne des rois
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur la jungle et le dÃ

sert
Sur les nids sur les genêts
Sur l'Ã

cho de mon enfance
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur tous mes chiffons d'azur
Sur l'Ã

tang soleil moisi
Sur le lac lune vivante
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur les champs sur l'horizon
Sur les ailes des oiseaux
Et sur le moulin des ombres
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur chaque bouffÃ

es d'aurore
Sur la mer sur les bateaux
Sur la montagne dÃ

mente
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur la mousse des nuages
Sur les sueurs de l'orage
Sur la pluie Ã

paisse et fade
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur les formes scintillantes
Sur les cloches des couleurs
Sur la vÃ

ritÃ

physique
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur les sentiers Ã

veillÃ

s
Sur les routes dÃ

ployÃ

es
Sur les places qui dÃ

bordent
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur la lampe qui s'allume
Sur la lampe qui s'Ã

teint
Sur mes raisons rÃ

unies
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur le fruit coupÃ

en deux
Du miroir et de ma chambre
Sur mon lit coquille vide
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur mon chien gourmand et tendre
Sur ses oreilles dressÃ

es
Sur sa patte maladroite
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur le tremplin de ma porte
Sur les objets familiers
Sur le flot du feu bÃ

ni
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur toute chair accordÃ

e
Sur le front de mes amis
Sur chaque main qui se tend
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur la vitre des surprises
Sur les lèvres attendries
Bien au-dessus du silence
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur mes refuges dÃ

truits
Sur mes phares Ã

croulÃ

s
Sur les murs de mon ennui
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur l'absence sans dÃ

sir
Sur la solitude nue
Sur les marches de la mort
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Sur la santÃ

revenue
Sur le risque disparu
Sur l'espoir sans souvenir
J'Ã

cris ton nom

Et par le pouvoir d'un mot
Je recommence ma vie
Je suis nÃ

pour te connaÃ

tre
Pour te nommer

Paul Eluard
in PoÃ

sies et vÃ

ritÃ

s, 1942

-----
'Still Falls the Rain'

The Raids, 1940. Night and Dawn.

Still falls the Rain---
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss---
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet
On the Tomb:

Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us---
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain---
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,---those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear---
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain---
Then--- O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune---
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,---dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain---
"Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee."

\t-- Edith Sitwell

----- and,

Schoolchildren - W.H. Auden

\t
\tHere are all the captivities; the cells are real:
\tBut these are unlike the prisoners we know
\tWho are outraged or pining or wittily resigned
\t\tOr just wish all away.

\tFor they dissent so little, so nearly content
\tWith the dumb play of the dog, the licking and rushing;
\tThe bars of love are so strong, their conspiracies
\t\tWeak like the vows of drunkards.

\tIndeed their strangeness is difficult to watch:
\tThe condemned see only the fallacious angels of a vision;
\tSo little effort lies behind their smiling,
\t\tThe beast of vocation is afraid.

\tBut watch them, O, set against our size and timing
\tThe almost neuter, the slightly awkward perfection;
\tFor the sex is there, the broken bootlace is broken,
\t\tThe professor's dream is not true.

\tYet the tyranny is so easy. The improper word
\tScribbled upon the fountain, is that all the rebellion?
\tThe storm of tears shed in the corner, are these
\t\tThe seeds of the new life?

\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tMay 1937

 

[Mr. Checks]

My favorite poem is kept to myself, but here are numbers 2-6:

Roethke: My Papa's Waltz and The Waking
Whitman: Dirge for Two Veterans
Hesse: Beim Schlafengehen
Frost: Choose Something Like a Star

And here's one for Dick Cheney:

"If I were fat, and bald, and short of breath,
I'd live with scarlet Majors
at the Base
And speed glum heroes up the line to death."

 

[caelte]

Originally Posted by Mr. Checks

My favorite poem is kept to myself, but here are numbers 2-6:
And here's one for Dick Cheney:

"If I were fat, and bald, and short of breath,
I'd live with scarlet Majors
at the Base
And speed glum heroes up the line to death."

Where did that come from?