^^^ You have good taste. Mark Strand and Charles Bukowski are two of my favorite non-rhyming poets, as well. My favorite Bukowski poem: Alone with Everybody
W.S. Merwin is my favorite poet, and I’m having a hard time picking one poem to share. Here, have In the Winter of My Thirty-Eighth Year, as it is the Summer of My Thirty-Fourth Year and I’m beginning to relate to it more and more.
Another of my favorites, Charles Wright’s Clear Night
Those last two lines get me every time.
I love me some e.e. cummings, even at his most e.e.emo. Example. (It’s too short to post even a part of without violating copyright). Another, a fall poem, with the beginning:
Richard Siken’s Crush is a lovely book, but my favorite poem in it is called “Road Music.” It’s a poem in three parts.
Here’s part two, though I lack the formatting abilities of the original:
2
He was not dead yet, not exactly —
parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting
for something to happen, something grand, but it isn’t
always about me,
he keeps saying, though he’s talking about the only heart he knows —
He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest
where a heart would fit perfectly
and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place —
well then, game over.
Marginalia by Richard Wilbur. I love the idea of a chain mail of froth.
:: adds note to pulykamell’s file ::
What you do is this. Begin writing your response. When you have the text you want to use as the link, select it. Immediately switch to the tab with the page you want to link to. Select & copy the URL. Return to the SDMB tab. In your message window you should see the image of a globe with a piece of chain at its bottom; click that. Hit CTRL-V. Bob’s your uncle.
That’ll be a fin, and I’ll send someone over to collect.
I’ve always liked Rimbaud’s The Sleeper in the Valley.
Harold Pinter’s best known as a playwright, but this poem, that he wrote for his wife, is one of my favourites. It’s a beautiful one to read aloud because it’s all about sound and breath and the words in it are all so light. I imagine his widow sitting in their garden and feeling the wind upon her neck as if it were him saying these words (quoting just enough to be legal):
What did we hear?
It is the breath we took when we first met.
Listen. It is here.
Disclaimer: I do not know if this poem rhymes in its original language, but since this is a test of my ability to follow Skald’s kind instructions and since I have always loved this particular translation (and the translation doesn’t rhyme) and since I have had a number of beers, I attempt to offer this:
Sonnet XVII Sonnet Xvii - Sonnet Xvii Poem by Pablo Neruda by Pablo Neruda
I am such a Luddite.:smack:
Not at all - that’s lovely.