My current favourite (and, apparently, half of England’s) is also a Larkin:
Others - Wallace Stevens, *Emperor of Ice Cream *seconded, but also
As with many others posting in this thread, it would be very hard for me to name just one favourite poem.
I’ve always had a fondness for **Ozymandias, ** and even had the opportunity to reference it here on the SDMB once in reference to a bust of Lenin re-discovered in the centre of Antarctica where it did seem quite appropriate.
I saw at least one reference to **Fern Hill, ** and echo an appreciation for that poem, and for Dylan Thomas generally, and that would include Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. (Rage, rage against the dying of the light).
Lastly, I’d mention Yeats. Two other posters included He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven and also **The Second Coming, ** both of which resonate with me, and I’ll add a third The Lake of Innisfree:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evenings full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
This past year I had the opportunity to travel in Ireland, and spent time in Sligo. While there, I went to Drumcliffe where Yeats is buried and where there is a magnificent three dimensional bronze memorial of Yeats crouching with the spread “cloth of heaven” and the words to the poem impressed into it. I also drove down quite the road to get near to Innisfree. One of the many pictures that I took is now my wallpaper on my computer.
I read your link. That poem absolutely kicks ass…in the best possible way, I mean.
Sailboat
When I first read Sonnet 26, it reached across the centuries and captured exactly how I felt.
The golf links lie so near the mill,
That almost every day,
The laboring children can look out,
And watch the men at play
(Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn)
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
(William Blake, from Auguries of Innocence)
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
(William Wordsworth, from Lines Written in Early Spring)
I have been blessed with the friendship of two very talented writers, so anything they write. Garon Whited, though he focuses more on short sci-fi/fantasy stories and my BFF, Thvia Cossey. The following is a semi-recent work of hers:
He with his fiery sword
She with her scrying chalice
Action, abstraction
And polar opposition
Each fearing the damage the other could do
Holding back trust; the unshakeable foundation
Holding tight the insecurities; eventual destruction
Preventing the flow of limitless possibilities
Remember the ashes!
Let go of their previous form
There is no wisdom
In recreating what has been intentionally shed
There is no place for past trauma
In the imagines of what may or may not be
Leave the embers to burn
Let Boreas gather them up
To scatter the ashes about the earth
Until there is no evidence
Of what they once were
Allow the phoenix to manifest
Give it form and purpose
Find the collective energies
Seek out the common dreams
Grow with these, achieve fulfillment
Freely accept, nurture and love
Perfection has never existed
Let him be the yang
Let her be the yin
For this is what they are
Of course - my favorite favorite of all is the one Thvia wrote when she found me a-musing. I’ll have to find that one…
I really like Billy Collins and this is one of my favorites.
Questions About Angels
by Billy Collins. Cut because of copyright with link at bottom.
Of all the questions you might want to ask
about angels, the only one you ever hear
is how many can dance on the head of a pin.
No curiosity about how they pass the eternal time
besides circling the Throne chanting in Latin
or delivering a crust of bread to a hermit on earth
or guiding a boy and girl across a rickety wooden bridge.
<snip>
It is designed to make us think in millions,
billions, to make us run out of numbers and collapse
into infinity, but perhaps the answer is simply one:
one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,
a small jazz combo working in the background.
She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful
eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over
to glance at his watch because she has been dancing
forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.
Maybe somebody can help me remember the name of a poem that I read many years ago and just loved.
It’s about a beekeeper and there is a line that goes something like “and I will have a cottage…be happy…” or something like that.
I’ve searched for it online to no avail and would love to read it again!
It’s not The Lake of Innisfree from post #122?
A new day, a new favorite poem. But some bits and pieces never seem to leave my brain.
Ezra Pound’s Fourth Canto is just unbeatable. Here Pound blends the legend of Itys with the murder of the troubadour Cabestan. They occur in Pound in the same time and place.
And by the curved, carved foot of the couch,
claw-foot and lion head, an old man seated
Speaking in the low drone... :
Ityn!
Et ter flebiliter, Ityn, Ityn!
And she went toward the window and cast her down,
"All the while, the while, swallows crying:
Ityn!
"It is Cabestan's heart in the dish."
"It is Cabestan's heart in the dish?"
"No other taste shall change this."
And she went toward the window,
the slim white stone bar
Making a double arch;
Firm even fingers held to the firm pale stone;
Swung for a moment,
and the wind out of Rhodez
Caught in the full of her sleeve.
. . . the swallows crying:
'Tis. 'Tis. Ytis!
Here’s another nod to Housman. He was a solid poet, and happened here to translate one of the most beautiful poems in the Latin language, Horace’s Ode iv, 7, written at the end of his life.
My wife and I like it so much, we incorporated it into our wedding ceremony.
And, because it’s fucking cold outside, here is one more from Ezra Pound.
I can’t let that last Pound citation go by without mentioning Robert W. Service’s A Song of Winter Weather:
(last stanza)
Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it’s hard for a hero
From language that’s rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
With sky that’s a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
Of the RAIN,
THE COLD,
AND THE MUD.
Here’s my favorite by Pound. The River-Merchant’s Wife.
Well, mostly by Pound…a very loose translation of an 8th-century Chinese poet.
Sailboat
My favorite has always been the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translated by Edward Fitzgerald. Some excerpts:
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes–or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two–is gone.
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d
Of the Two Worlds so wisely–they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass’d the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return’d to me,
And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:”
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop’d we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help–for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
========================
Also, I like Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess”. Rather chilling:
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
the curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ‘twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or, “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say—too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—
E’en that would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Uh, yeah… :smack:
Thank You!!
Belated but elated–thanks for the poems, posters.
Here’s one that cracked my 10-year old right up–see line 12.
Here’s another by an old Yankee subversive:
http://nongae.gsnu.ac.kr/~songmu/Poetry/TellAllTheTruthButTEllItSlant.htm
No problem. I’m just happy I know the answer to a question once in a while. 
My soul is wrapped in harsh repose
Midnight descends in raven-colored clothes
But soft, behold
A sunlight beam
Butting a swath of glimmering glean
My heart expands
'Tis grown a bulge in it
Inspired by her beauty…effulgent.
-Some really talented poet who worked as a writer on Angel