I’m sure that no one really cares…but…my favorite peom happens to be The Owl and the Pussy Cat by Edward Lear. I have always wanted to have it read at my funeral, but then again, I’ve always wanted to be burried in a hope cheast.
that one by Philip Larkin that goes “they fuck you up, your mum and dad…”
The Owl and the Pussycat.
While we’re talking about Wilfred Owen – I’ve always found this one profoundly chilling.
S.I.W.
I will to the King,
And offer him consolation in his trouble,
For that man there has set his teeth to die,
And being one that hates obedience,
Discipline, and orderliness of life,
I cannot mourn him.
W. B. Yeats
I The Prologue
Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad
He’d always show the Hun a brave man’s face;
Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,-
Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad.
Perhaps his mother whimpered how she’d fret
Until he got a nice safe wound to nurse.
Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse…
Brothers-would send his favourite cigarette.
Each week, month after month, they wrote the same,
Thinking him sheltered in some Y. M. Hut,
Because he said so, writing on his butt
Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim.
And misses teased the hunger of his brain.
His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand
Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand
From the best sandbags after years of rain.
But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,
Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld
For torture of lying machinally shelled,
At the pleasure of this world’s Powers who’d run amok.
He’d seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol.
Their people never knew. Yet they were vile.
‘Death sooner than dishonour, that’s the style!’
So Father said.
II The Action
One dawn, our wire patrol
Carried him. This time, Death had not missed.
We could do nothing but wipe his bleeding cough.
Could it be accident?-Rifles go off…
Not sniped? No (Later they found the English ball.)
III The Poem
It was the reasoned crisis of his soul
Against more days of inescapable thrall,
Against infrangibly wired and blind trench wall
Curtained with fire, roofed in with creeping fire,
Slow grazing fire, that would not burn him whole
But kept him for death’s promises and scoff,
And life’s half-promising, and both their riling.
IV The Epilogue
With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed,
And truthfully wrote the Mother, ‘Tim died smiling.’
Five Bells by Kenneth Slessor. The way time skips and jumps, and how one can recollect, or even relive, whole slabs of (subjective) time in a very short space of (objective) time. I enjoy a lot of his poetry; another favourite is Beach Burial.
Ithaca by CP Cavafy. What’s more important, the lessons learned on the journey or the arrival?
I’ve got a passing fondness for Laurence Ferlinghetti’s I Am Waiting.
The Man from Snowy River. I can’t help it; I’m Australian, and I think we’re born knowing at least the first verse of that poem. It’s a good yarn, and the poem itself has a rollicking kind of rhyme that makes it easy to memorise and recite (okay, I’m a Philistine. That helps :)).
I’ll second (or was it third?) “High Flight” too; an expression of joy.
I’m not a big fan of poetry, but I do have a weakness for epics and long works. I’d recommend
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by S.T. Coleridge. It’s a long poem I actually re-read every now and then (like the Iliad and the Odyssey). Get the Annotated edition, with notes by Martin Gardner, because even in the editions that have Coleridge’s “glosses” you can get hopelessly lost. Even without an albatross around your neck.
“Bloody Men” by Wendy Cope
Bloody men are like bloody buses
You wait for about a year
And as soon as one approaches your stop
two or three others appear
You look at them flashing their indicators
offering you a ride
You are trying to read the destinations
You have not much time to decide
If you make a mistake there is no turning back
Jump off and you´ll stand there and gaze
While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by
and the minutes, and hours, and days
I LOVE that poem!!! 
"The Ballad of Eskimo Nell". A first-class bit of bawdy verse, with not a single verse suitable for anyone under 18.
Uke: thanks for the note on variant versions. Yes, Owen’s papers were left in an incomplete state at his death. (A good instance of this is “Strange Meeting”, which people like to think of as a finished poem, but which is in fact clearly incomplete in the manuscript, where Owen has marked in a tentative rearrangement of the lines in preparation for continuation.) The version of the “Dulce et Decorum Est” poem I used was from Stallworthy’s edition, which is nowadays considered the standard one; I see the U of T website version is from the first publication from 1921.
Favorite poem: Ozymandias (already mentioned several times)
Favorite “fun” poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee
Poem I despise more than any other:
When I Heard the Learned Astronomer by Walt Whitman
When I heard the learned astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars
[vitriol]
How condescending can you be there, Walt? What makes you think that someone who obviously has such a passion for knowledge and learning that he devotes his entire life to expanding the bounds of human knowledge, and who, I might point out, is part of the great tradition that provided enough modern day conveniences for your books to get bound and shipped and delivered so that you could make enough money to live your bohemian pot-smoking existence, what makes you think that he doesn’t enjoy looking at the stars? And in fact, I’ll be that he enjoys it more than you, because he can enjoy it on so many more levels than your glorying-in-your-own-ignorance ass!
[/vitriol]
Let me second this, along with a number of other of Pushkin’s poems. The English translations really don’t - can’t, I’d even say - do justice to the particular ethereal solidity (I know, I know, it’s an oxymoron) of Pushkin’s Russian.
This poem (novel in verse, to be pedantic) has a special resonance for me - one of the first times i went on a date with the women now my wife, I mentioned I loved Pushkin, and she proceeded to cite the entire first chapter of Yevgeny Onegin by heart. That may be when I fell in love…
That said, I’ll second the nod for e.e. cummings’ “anyone lived in a prettyhow town”, which is equally untranslatable into Russian (I’ve seen an attempt…) and add a vote for “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas.
Browning’s dramatic monologues really do something for me, especially “My Last Duchess” (probably the most famous) and “Porphyria’s Lover”. These works, along with many others, can be found at http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/authors/browning.html
Yeats’ “sailing to Byzantium” is also great, as is his “The Second Coming”. In fact, Yeats is just great. I love that guy. Here’s a bit of Yeats for the unfamiliar:
No Second Troy
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being as she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
But, as a woman, I must give the women their due. Sappho wrote fantastic poetry, and it’s very sad that more didn’t survive:
I SAY
You would want
few
to be carried away.
Sweeter.
You yourself know
but someone forgot.
Some might say
I will love
as long as there is breath
in me.
I’ll care.
I say I’ve been a firm friend.
Things grievous,
bitter,
but know
I will love.
Edna St. Vincent Millay also wrote great stuff, and I think her “Modern Declaration” is probably my favorite poem (Ah hah! We finally get around to it!).
I, having loved ever since I was a child a few things, never having
wavered
In these affections; never through shyness in the houses of the
rich or in the presence of clergymen having denied these
loves;
Never when worked upon by cynics like chiropractors having
grunted or clicked a vertebra to the discredit of those loves;
Never when anxious to land a job having diminished them by a
conniving smile; or when befuddled by drink
Jeered at them through heartache or lazily fondled the fingers of
their alert enemies; declare
That I shall love you always.
No matter what party is in power;
No matter what temporarily expedient combination of allied
interests wins the war;
Shall love you always.
Sorry so long, but this is a great thread.
Sage
“The Thinker” by Berton Braley
I memorized it in high school, and can still recite it on a moment’s notice.
“How MacPherson Held the Floor” by Robert Service
I couldn’t find it online and don’t know it by heart, but it’s a good one, as are almost all of Service’s works.
The Iliad and The Odyssey
[sym]Mhnin aeide, Jea, Phlhiadew AcilhoV
oulomenhn …[/sym]
As Chapman has it:
Achilles’ banefull wrath resound, O Goddesse, that imposd
Infinite sorrowes on the Greekes and many brave sould losd
From breast Heroique - sent them farre to that invisible cave
That no light comforts; and their lims to dogs and vultures gave.
To all which Jove’s will gave effect; from which first strife begunne
Betwixt Atrides, king of men, and Thetis’ godlike Sonne.
Estilicon - in all honesty, I prefer modern poetry in any language. I’m well-versed on the classics thanks to my 300-level survey classes. I’ve read everything from the Odyssey to Pope to Browning to Pushkin. I definitely appreciate it from an artistic, stylistic viewpoint.
However, I prefer modern poetry for several reasons. Most of the superior modern poets do not abide by classic rules of form or structure, but they create their own sort of structure within the work. Whitman, for instance, used repitition, transposed sentences, frequent gerunds, and internal rhymes to create a form in his poetry. Warren’s earlier works maintain a very strict structure and rhyme, but with time he explored structure based on word choice and sentence structure that was more free-flowing but still contained a definite form. Plath had a very unique rhyme scheme in most of her poetry, but you have to look for it. As much as I appreciate a well-formed iambic pentameter couplet (Pope did is best, IMHO), I appreciate creative forms much more.
Also, I can understand what modern poets write about, and thus can better apply it to my own life. Now, it’s widely accepted that the aim of twentieth century literature was to explore the self, both in relation to society and culture and in relation to others. The poetry reflects this. I enjoy this type of literature and poetry above all others - historical drama, gothic novels, romance. I like what I can learn from it.
Well, I interpreted this poem totally differently. Whitman isn’t saying that there’s anything wrong with studying astronomy. He is just espousing that there are different sorts of knowledge besides scientific knowledge. He can look at the stars and see something in them that goes beyond the realm of science or man. I believe this. I don’t know much about astronomy, but I love looking at the stars. I’m grateful for electricity and running water, most certainly, but I’d rather use my imagination to enjoy the stars than go over a list of facts that I memorized about them. There’s nothing wrong with that sort of knowledge; I just don’t need it so much in my life. If you look at Whitman’s poetry, and his identity as “the Poet of the Future,” then you can see a life marked by scientific advancements and modernity. I doubt he is the only one that questioned how much these discoveries mattered in the grand scheme of things.
Poetry provides a different sort of knowledge than biology. Whitman is simply declaring that both knowledges have worth, and I agree with him.
Since war poets seem to be popular in this thread I thought I’d post a poem by Ivor Gurney, who unlike Owen & Rosenberg survived WWI (though shortly thereafter ended up in an asylum & died young). He was also a major composer of music for voice & piano; those interested in Vaughan-Williams, Finzi, Warlock, &c should search out recordings of his work. – Unlike Owen Rosenberg Sassoon &c Gurney was not just a war poet & I’ll enclose a brief lyric which shows his affinity to Georgian nature poetry, though with an intensity of perception & prosodic delicacy that is far from Georgian. He was, incidentally, one of the first British writers to show a perceptible Whitman influence.
SEA MARGE
Pebbles are beneath, but we stand softly
On them, as on sand, and watch the lacy edge
Of the swift sea
Which patterns and with glorious music the
Sands and round stones. It talks ever
Of new patterns.
And by the cliff-edge, there, the oakwood throws
A shadow deeper to watch what new thing
Happens at the marge.
This thread is going to the bottomo. Before it goes I would like to thank you all. I discovered a lot of magnificents poems in english (I copied most.
I have an ace to focus your attention in this thread at least a bonus to shock americans. One of Ruben Dario’s greatest poems “A Roosevelt” (teddy). Let’s see if you like it. Of course the spanish original is better but the translation will do
TO ROOSEVELT
The voice that would reach you, Hunter, must speak
in Biblical tones, or in the poetry of Walt Whitman.
You are primitive and modern, simple and complex;
you are one part George Washington and one part Nimrod.
You are the United States,
future invader of our naive America
with its Indian blood, an America
that still prays to Christ and still speaks Spanish.
You are strong, proud model of your race;
you are cultured and able; you oppose Tolstoy.
You are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar,
breaking horses and murdering tigers.
(You are a Professor of Energy,
as current lunatics say).
You think that life is a fire,
that progress is an irruption,
that the future is wherever
your bullet strikes.
No.
The United States is grand and powerful.
Whenever it trembles, a profound shudder
runs down the enormous backbone of the Andes.
If it shouts, the sound is like the roar of a lion.
And Hugo said to Grant: “The stars are yours.”
(The dawning sun of the Argentine barely shines;
the star of Chile is rising…) A wealthy country,
joining the cult of Mammon to the cult of Hercules;
while Liberty, lighting the path
to easy conquest, raises her torch in New York.
But our own America, which has had poets
since the ancient times of Nezahualcóyolt;
which preserved the footprint of great Bacchus,
and learned the Panic alphabet once,
and consulted the stars; which also knew Atlantic
(whose name comes ringing down to us in Plato)
and has lived, since the earliest moments of its life,
in light, in fire, in fragrance, and in love–
the America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa,
the aromatic America of Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
the America where noble Cuauthémoc said:
“I am not in a bed of roses”–our America,
trembling with hurricanes, trembling with Love:
O men with Saxon eyes and barbarous souls,
our America lives. And dreams. And loves.
And it is the daughter of the Sun. Be careful.
Long live Spanish America!
A thousand cubs of the Spanish lion are roaming free.
Roosevelt, you must become, by God’s own will,
the deadly Rifleman and the dreadful Hunter
before you can clutch us in your iron claws.
And though you have everything, you are lacking one thing:
God!
Surprise. He was angry after all at that time you had faked a war with cuba, invaded mexico, nicaraua, etc. I always thought it was a bit strong but consider that it was written before 1916. Anyway I hope you enjoyed
Since everyone else is posting copyrighted poems, I’m going to jump on the bandwagon, because I want everyone to be able to read these wonderful poems.
Here is “Birth of Love” by Robert Penn Warren. This is probably my all-time most favorite poem. It’s extraordinary.
[This](http://www.math.buffalo.edu/~sww/brooks/poems-GB.html#the mother) will take you to “the mother” by Gwendolyn Brooks.
Here is “Tenderness” by Stephen Dunn:
Back then when so much was clear
and I hadn’t learned
young men learn from women
what it feels like to feel just right,
I was twenty-three,
she thirty-four, two children, a husband
in prison for breaking someone’s head.
Yelled at, slapped
around, all she knew of tenderness
was how much she wanted it, and all
I knew
were backseats and a night or two
in a sleeping bag in the furtive dark.
We worked
in the same office, banter and loneliness
leading to the shared secret
that to help
National Biscuit sell biscuits
was wildly comic, which led to my body
existing with hers
like rain that’s found its way underground
to water it naturally joins.
I can’t remember
ever saying the exact word, tenderness,
though she did. It’s a word I see now
you must be older to use,
you must have experianced the absence of it
often enough to know what silk and deep balm
it is
when at last it comes. I think it was terror
at first that drove me to touch her
so softly,
then selfishness, the clear benefit
of doing something that would come back
to me twofold,
and finally, sometime later, it became
reflexive and motiveless in the high
ignorance of love.
Oh abstractions are just abstract
until they have an ache in them. I met
a woman never touched
gently, and when it ended between us
I had new hands and new sorrow,
everything it meant
to be a man changed, unheroic, floating.
My favourite poem is “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe. Looking at the other poster’s favourites, I feel so uneducated. Might as well say it’s “Jabberwocky” or something.
Okay, okay, one more…
Oh yeah, and Ode On A Grecian Urn by John Keats is a great one too, but I think that’s enough from me.