I have many, but this is a perennial favourite of mine.
Listen to the Mustnt’s
Listen to the Mustn’ts, child,
Listen to the Dont’s
Listen to the Shouldnt’s
The Impossibles, the Won’ts
Listen to the Never Have’s
Then listen close to me -
Anything can happen, child,
Anything can be!
-Shel Silverstein
For some reason I like “The Charge of the Light Brigade”. No real reason to it.
So post it! (I know it’s fairly long)
Oh, and welcome aboard!
Well, this thread seems more appropriate for IMHO, but I’ll submit my favorite poet and poem is…
Daffodils
William Wordsworth
I WANDER’D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch’d in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
I like that poem, VB. Your’s too, Peta. I actually thought about that one, and then decided on another. Here’s one of my favorites:
The Wayfarer
by Stephen Crane
The wayfarer,
Perceiving the path to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
“Ha,” he said,
“I see that no one has passed here in a long time.”
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
“Well,” he mumbled at last,
“Doubtless there are other roads.”
Peronsally, either “The Hollow Men” or “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot work fine for me.
I really only like comic poetry, like Pope’s “The Rape of the Lock” and:
For Anne Gregory
W.B. Yeats
“Never shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair”
“But I can get a hair dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.”
“I heard an old religious man
Just yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.”
So sarcastic!
[hijack]
I couldn’t find the poem (because I can’t remember the name or poet) about the lover searching his mistress’ room and finding her chamber pot. Can anyone identify it? And wasn’t there a responding poem written by a woman?
[/hijack]
I have two favorites…I’ll do it in two posts, since one is really long.
Hope is a Thing With Feathers
Emily Dickenson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Second one…
The Lady of Shalott
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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."
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.
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 red-cross 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.
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,
Dead-pale 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.”
Wow, Falcon! Are you fingers sore?
Let me kiss’em for you. Smooch!
MY grandfather, whose parents wouldn’t let him go past the eighth grade, was nevertheless a well read man in his later years. He loved “Evangeline” by Longfellow, and after reading chunks of it in the seventh grade so did I.
In the eighth grade Evangeline saved my butt in an English literature class. We were supposed to do a dramatic reading in front of the class and I forgot completely about the assignment. All I had with me was my textbook, so while the first readers are up there(and my name starts with an E so I don’t have much time)I thumb desperately through the book, and the only thing remotely satisfactory is Evangeline. So when my turn comes I march up to the front and read the last section, where she finds Gabriel dying in the poor hospital. The quiver in my voice came from fear I can tell you, but I must have put on a good act, because when I got my grade and comments from the teacher it said “A- , obviously well prepared” There is a God I think.
Nice choice, Falcon…hmmm…VB’s taken that set of fingers–I’ll kiss the other hand.
Here’s my favorite:
Ozymandius
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said–“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
–Percy Bysshe Shelley
I’m also rather attached to Poe’s “The Raven”, which I have been called upon to read in several English courses–the best audience reaction was when I did the Raven’s “nevermores” in a “Polly wanna cracker” parrot voice (while keeping the rest of the poem in all the proper dramatic tones, of course).
I would have said Shelley’s Ozymandias, or something from e. e. cummings (there are a few there), but Falcon’s choice reminded me of this. Yes, it’s very bleak, but it has more power than just about anything I know of.
John Keats (1795–1821). Poetical Works. 1884.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
*** There’s a slightly different version at http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/keats15.html
This one is better, I think. ***
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Balance did that while I was typing! I’m glad I missed the simulpost!
Wow…I get to read poetry and have my hands kissed by VB and Balance! I like this!!!
Stephen Crane
Not sure of the name, The wayfarer or maybe the monster)
As I wandered in the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
It is bitter-bitter," he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
I don’t know, it just makes me happy
No deep meaning whatsoever, but its pretty funny.
"Stick Boy and Match Girl in Love: by Tim Burton
Stick Boy liked Match Girl.
He liked her alot.
He liked her cute figure
He thought she was hot.
But could the flame burn for a match and a stick
It did quite literally.
He burned up pretty quick.
To be read in a mild WC Fields voice.
The Raven’s Reply
By: Peter Veale
Swaggering home in raven fashion.
Feeling rather bold and dashing.
Thought I’d do some poet bashing.
Saw this light above a door.
A sign that E.A. Poe was poring.
O’er some problem, bleak and boring.
Like, how to rhyme with “Ullalume”,
or find a maiden named “Lenore”.
And when I heard the nutter mutter,
“Oh, my lost Lenore!”
I tapped my beak,
upon his door.
Presently, the joyous mortal,
opened up his gloomy portal.
Eyed me with misgiving,
and inquired what my my visit was for.
I said I was a poor old raven,
tuckered out and seeking haven.
Might I rest a while upon,
the bust of Pallais, o’er his door?
“The bust? Well if you must…”, he answered,
clearly shaken to the core.
“But what news have you,
of Lenore?”
“By Jeeze”. I mused. “By flaming golly.
This man is clearly off his trolley.
I’ll play upon his melancholy.
As I perch above his door.”
I said, “Dear brother Poe, I’m sorry,
for I cannot ease your worry.
Except for some small provision,
that you might bring me from your store.”
“A piece of steak
would do me nicely,
even oaffal if you’re poor.”
“Oh, then I might remember more.”
“Corrupt and greedy bird, he chided.”
“Is my sorrow, thus derided?”
“One who’s lost a love as I did.”
“Om the night’s Plutonion shore.”
“Regards your attitude as callous,
so, pray quit the bust of Pallais”.
“Where you seem quite disposed,
to spend half the dreary night, or more.”
“And pray, clean up the raven droppings,
from my floor.”
“Before, you’re banished,
from my door.”
I stared him out, I wouldn’t waver.
“Clean up the floor? Do me a favor!”
So I finally got to savor,
some small offering from his store.
He fed me, but I kept on stalling.
Told him I was past recalling.
Anything of his fair maiden,
anything of lost Lenore.
I broke the wretched fellow’s spirit,
with my croaks of; “Nevermore…”.
And I’m immortalized,
for sure…
I know it’s bordering on cliché, but I like E.A. Poe’s The Raven. Most people I’ve heard recite or read it pace it as “1-2-3-4-5-6-7. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7”, totally ignoring the punctuation. I hate hearing it that way. The poem is a man telling a sad tale of his loss. He takes a random occurrance and reads in all sorts of metaphysical things, until it drives him mad. Try reading it this way: First, start off very calmly; as if this is a stranger who feels compelled to tell you his story. He sounds reasonable at first, almost apologetic. He mentions the “quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore” (i.e., “magick” books. He’s trying to summon the spirit of Lenore) in an almost embarrassed tone.
In the second and third stanzas he lapses into reverie, setting up the scene so that we can fully appreciate his story.
Then he investigates, still rational. When the bird speaks, he realizes that he’s “linking fancy unto fancy” and arriving at a fantastic conclusion. He almost saves himself.
But then he asks direct questions of Lenore. He must know rationally what the answer will be, given that the bird only seems to know one word, but he asks anyway. It’s too late. His loss of the love of his life, the late night, the fanciful conjectures convince him that the bird is a messenger from the Great Beyond.
He loses control, shouts at the bird. He’s lost his grasp on reality. And the bird, who still sits on the bust of Pallas (Pallas Athena, the goddess of knowledge) has become his tormentor. The last stanza sees him utterly bitter and bereft in his own private hell, with his own private demon.
Read it like that, shouting as he shouts, and it gains a new richness that is unheard when people vocalize it by rote. You can also savor Poe’s wonderful choices of words and scenes. Bleak December. Winter, the time of death. Midnight. The witching hour. Purple/violet. Colours of royalty… and often of death. “Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Pluto – the god of the underworld. Lordly name. Is the raven a “lord” of Hades? Geez, this poem is jam-packed with double-entendres! Seek and ye shall find!
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore – While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'tis some visitor, " I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door–
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow – vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore–
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before: So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating. “'tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door–
That it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, "Sir, " said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore: But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”-- here I opened wide the door–
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before: But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word “Lenore!”–
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore–
“'tis the wind an nothing more!”
Open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just a bove my chamber door–
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beeing Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculplured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpoor. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more then muttered, “Other friends have flown before – On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utteres is it only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore – Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never - nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door, Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking, “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er But whose velvet, violet lining with lamplight gloating o’er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God has lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee Respite – respite the nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird of devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whatever tempest tossed thee ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted – On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore – Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird of devil! By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore-- Tell his soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore – Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting – "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor, And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
Read this one recently, and it sort of stuck with me. I don’t have a “favorite poem,” because it’s impossible to narrow it down that far, but this has a place on my ever-lengthening list.
Sea of Faith
Once when I was teaching “Dover Beach”
to a class of freshmen, a young woman
raised her hand and said, “I’m confused
about this ‘Sea of Faith.’” “Well,” I said,
“let’s talk about it. We probably need
to talk a bit about figurative language.
What confuses you about it?”
“I mean, is it a real sea?” she asked.
“You mean, is it a real body of water
that you could point to on a map
or visit on a vacation?”
“Yes,” she said. “Is it a real sea?”
Oh Christ, I thought, is this where we are?
Next year I’ll be teaching them the alphabet
and how to sound words out.
I’ll have to teach them geography, apparently,
before we can move on to poetry.
I’ll have to teach them history, too–
a few weeks on the Dark Ages might be instructive.
“Yes,” I wanted to say, “it is.
It is a real sea. In fact it flows
right into the Sea of Ignorance
IN WHICH YOU ARE DROWNING.
Let me throw you a Rope of Salvation
before the Sharks of Desire gobble you up.
Let me hoist you back up onto this Ship of Fools
so that we might continue our search
for the Fountain of Youth. Here, take a drink
of this. It’s fresh from the River of Forgetfulness.”
But of course I didn’t say any of that.
I tried to explain in such a way
as to protect her from humiliation,
tried to explain that poets
often speak of things that don’t exist.
It was only much later that I wished
I could have answered differently,
only after I’d betrayed myself
and been betrayed that I wished
it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith
that you could wade out into,
dive under its blue and magic waters,
hold your breath, swim like a fish
down to the bottom, and then emerge again
able to believe in everything, faithful
and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions,
happy to have them simply answered.
–John Brehm