Your Favourite poetry

Cafe Society
1

In the thread about television, Salinqmond, the poster mentions that acertain tract is one of the best poems. So, here is your opportunity to post your favourite poems.

Mine, by Arthur o’Shannessy is:
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

2

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

    by: W.B. Yeats

    I went out to the hazel wood,
    Because a fire was in my head,
    And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
    And hooked a berry to a thread;
     
    And when white moths were on the wing,
    And moth-like stars were flickering out,
    I dropped the berry in a stream
    And caught a little silver trout.
     
    When I had laid it on the floor
    I went to blow the fire a-flame,
    But something rustled on the floor,
    And some one called me by my name:
    It had become a glimmering girl
    With apple blossom in her hair
    Who called me by my name and ran
    And faded through the brightening air.
     
    Though I am old with wandering
    Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
    I will find out where she has gone,
    And kiss her lips and take her hands;
    And walk among long dappled grass,
    And pluck till time and times are done
    The silver apples of the moon,
    The golden apples of the sun.

I really like the OP’s choice, as well.

3

John Berryman, The Dream Songs. I open them up just to be amazed at the sheer mastery of language and imagery. Where other poems and poets (good ones, brilliant ones even) need a sort of establishing, to build a sort of connection by means of which to deliver their art, these poems just strip away all that, as if it were just idle self-obsession, and reveal a sort of blank reality I haven’t encountered elsewhere.

4

I have too many favorites, but Yeats + wistful + aging reminded me of one of them:

5

My favorite poem is Sitting in a Small Screenhouse on a Summer Morning,, by James Wright

but I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it at least twice before in these favorite poetry threads, so here are two more:

The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina, by Miller Williams (Lucinda Williams’ dad). This one can’t be excerpted. You have to read the whole thing to appreciate the genius.

At the Smithville Methodist Church, by Stephen Dunn

6

Edwin Morgan

Glasgow Sonnet No 1

A mean wind wanders through the backcourt trash.
Hackles on puddles rise, old mattresses
puff briefly and subside. Play-fortresses
of brick and bric-a-brac spill out some ash.
Four storeys have no windows left to smash,
but the fifth a chipped sill buttresses
mother and daughter the last mistresses
of that black block condemned to stand, not crash.
Around them the cracks deepen, the rats crawl.
The kettle whimpers on a crazy hob.
Roses of mould grow from ceiling to wall.
The man lies late since he has lost his job,
smokes on one elbow, letting his coughs fall
thinly into an air too poor to rob.

So tough to pick just one! I love Michael by Wordsworth but it’s too long to post. Hope it’s not messing too much with the spirit of the thread to give honorable mentions to: RS Thomas -The Waiting; Tomas Transtromer - At Funchal (Island of Madiera); and Nnimmo Bassey - We Thought it was Oil, But it was Blood.

7

Damn it. That would have been one of my choices. It’s so hauntingly beautiful. I first heard it sung on a record by Judy Collins, which led me to read more Yeats.

8

Especially for a woman, reading by Sue MacLeod. An excerpt:

Especially in the afternoon when light slants
through the window, grazing her cheek on its way to the page.
For a woman who appreciates that kind of light
for reading. Especially in mornings, when coffee makers
groan. When everyone else is still climbing, still hand-
over-handing their way
up from dreams. For the book
that fell into the bath
and was fished out — quickly. For the line
that swam before her as she fell
asleep. In stolen time: the check-out line, the way to work.

9

THE PRELUDE
BOOK FIFTH lines 1-49
William Wordsworth

WHEN Contemplation, like the night-calm felt
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
Into the soul its tranquillising power,
Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man,
Earth’s paramount Creature! not so much for woes
That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be,
Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine
Doth melt away; but for those palms achieved
Through length of time, by patient exercise
Of study and hard thought; there, there, it is
That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto,
In progress through this Verse, my mind hath looked
Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
As her prime teacher, intercourse with man
Established by the sovereign Intellect,
Who through that bodily image hath diffused,
As might appear to the eye of fleeting time,
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man! hast wrought,
For commerce of thy nature with herself,
Things that aspire to unconquerable life;
And yet we feel–we cannot choose but feel–
That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart
It gives, to think that our immortal being
No more shall need such garments; and yet man,
As long as he shall be the child of earth,
Might almost “weep to have” what he may lose,
Nor be himself extinguished, but survive,
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,–
Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes
Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare,
Yet would the living Presence still subsist
Victorious, and composure would ensue,
And kindlings like the morning–presage sure
Of day returning and of life revived.
But all the meditations of mankind,
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth
By reason built, or passion, which itself
Is highest reason in a soul sublime;
The consecrated works of Bard and Sage,
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men,
Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes;
Where would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind
Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?

10

** The Things That Are More Excellent**

                         *William Watson*

As we wax older on this earth,
Till many a toy that charmed us seems
Emptied of beauty, stripped of worth,
And mean as dust and dead as dreams,–
For gauds that perished, shows that passed,
Some recompense the Fates have sent:
Thrice lovelier shine the things that last,
The things that are more excellent.

Tired of the Senate’s barren brawl,
An hour with silence we prefer,
Where statelier rise the woods than all
Yon towers of talk at Westminster.
Let this man prate and that man plot,
On fame or place or title bent:
The votes of veering crowds are not
The things that are more excellent.

Shall we perturb and vex our soul
For “wrongs” which no true freedom mar,
Which no man’s upright walk control,
And from no guiltless deed debar?
What odds though tonguesters heal, or leave
Unhealed, the grievance they invent?
To things, not phantoms, let us cleave–
The things that are more excellent.

Nought nobler is, than to be free:
The stars of heaven are free because
In amplitude of liberty
Their joy is to obey the laws.
From servitude to freedom’s name
Free thou thy mind in bondage pent;
Depose the fetich, and proclaim
The things that are more excellent.

And in appropriate dust be hurled
That dull, punctilious god, whom they
That call their tiny clan the world,
Serve and obsequiously obey:
Who con their ritual of Routine,
With minds to one dead likeness blent,
And never ev’n in dreams have seen
The things that are more excellent.

To dress, to call, to dine, to break
No canon of the social code,
The little laws that lacqueys make,
The futile decalogue of Mode,–
How many a soul for these things lives,
With pious passion, grave intent!
While Nature careless-handed gives
The things that are more excellent.

To hug the wealth ye cannot use,
And lack the riches all may gain,–
O blind and wanting wit to choose,
Who house the chaff and burn the grain!
And still doth life with starry towers
Lure to the bright, divine ascent!–
Be yours the things ye would: be ours
The things that are more excellent.

The grace of friendship–mind and heart
Linked with their fellow heart and mind;
The gains of science, gifts of art;
The sense of oneness with our kind;
The thirst to know and understand–
A large and liberal discontent:
These are the goods in life’s rich hand,
The things that are more excellent.

In faultless rhythm the ocean rolls,
A rapturous silence thrills the skies;
And on this earth are lovely souls,
That softly look with aidful eyes.
Though dark, O God, Thy course and track,
I think Thou must at least have meant
That nought which lives should wholly lack
The things that are more excellent.

11

***In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.***

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Flanders_Fields

12

Ever since high school, I’ve always loved Auden’s “Roman Wall Blues”.

I have an old and battered paperback of Dylan Thomas’ “The Colour of Saying”, and Roman Wall Blues is in there along with a lot of other great poems that Thomas was fond of. I don’t actually like Thomas so much, but I really like the poetry that he liked.

Before high school, when I was an obnoxious brat, I loved the morbid “Little Willie” poems. And “Sir Smasham Uppe”! I can still remember the first stanza by heart after all these years.

clears throat

Good afternoon, Sir Smasham Uppe.
We’re having tea, do take a cup.
Sugar and milk, now let me see…
Two lumps I think… Good gracious me!
The silly thing’s slipped off your knee.
Pray don’t apologise, old chap.
A very trivial mishap.
So clumsy of you? How absurd.
My dear Sir Smasham, not a word!

bows to thunderous applause

The rest is courteous of Google.
Which also tells me that the poet is E.V. Rieu.

Now do sit down and have another,
And tell us all about your brother-
You know, the one who broke his head.
Is that poor fellow still in bed?-
A chair - allow me, sir!..Great Scott!
That was a nasty smash! Eh, what?
Oh, not at all: the chair was old-
Queen Anne, or so we have been told.
We’ve got at least a dozen more:
Just leave the pieces on the floor.
I want you admire our view:
Come nearer to the window, do;
And look how beautiful…Tut, tut!
You didn’t see that it was shut?
I hope you are not badly cut!
Not hurt? A fortunate escape!
Amazing! Not a single scrape!
And now, if you have finished tea,
I fancy you might like to see
A little thing or two I’ve got.
That china plate? Yes, worth a lot:
A beauty too…Ah, there it goes!
I trust it didn’t hurt your toes?
Your elbow brushed it off the shelf?
Of course: I’ve done the same myself.
And now, my dear Sir Smasham - Oh,
You surely don’t intend to go?
You must be off? Well, come again.
So glad you’re fond of porcelain!

13

Too long to post,but The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge is a work of genius.

One of the finest works in the English language IMO.

14

That was so close to never having been published.

And I did forget the Rime of The Ancient Mariner. It is great.

15

If I should die, think only this of me

That theres some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England

In that rich earth, a richer dust concealed

A dust whom England bore, shaped and made aware

Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam

A body of Englands breathing Englands air

Washed by the rivers

Blest by the suns of home

Rupert Brooke (Died on campaign from disease)

16

This was hard for me to decide. My exposure is limited to stuff I learned in school. My favorite poem is WH Auden’s “Lullaby”:

But my favorite poet is Coleridge. Honorable mention goes to EE Cummings’ “I Carry Your Heart” and TS Eliot’s “Burnt Norton”

17

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening – Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

18

I don’t know why those are the only lines that show up in most anthologies. It turns out the original is almost three times as long.

19
20

My favorite poet is Kipling, and my favorite poem is The Sergeant’s Weddin’.

’E WAS warned agin’ ’er—
That’s what made ’im look;
She was warned agin’ ’im—
That is why she took.
’Wouldn’t ’ear no reason,
’Went an’ done it blind;
We know all about ’em,
They’ve got all to find!

Cheer for the Sergeant’s weddin’—
Give ’em one cheer more!
Grey gun-’orses in the lando,
An’ a rogue is married to a whore.

What’s the use o’ tellin’
’Arf the lot she’s been?
’E’s a bloomin’ robber,
An’ ’e keeps canteen.
’Ow did ’e get ’is buggy?
Gawd, you needn’t ask!
’Made ’is forty gallon
Out of every cask!

Watch ’im, with ’is ’air cut,
Count us filin’ by—
Won’t the Colonel praise ’is
Pop—u—lar—i—ty!
We ’ave scores to settle—
Scores for more than beer;
She’s the girl to pay ’em—
That is why we’re ’ere!

See the chaplain thinkin’?
See the women smile?
Twig the married winkin’
As they take the aisle?
Keep your side-arms quiet,
Dressin’ by the Band.
Ho! You ’oly beggars,
Cough be’ind your ’and!

Now it’s done an’ over,
’Ear the organ squeak,
“’Voice that breathed o’er Eden”—
Ain’t she got the cheek!
White an’ laylock ribbons,
Think yourself so fine!
I’d pray Gawd to take yer
’Fore I made yer mine!

Escort to the kerridge,
Wish ’im luck, the brute!
Chuck the slippers after—
(Pity ’tain’t a boot!)
Bowin’ like a lady,
Blushin’ like a lad—
’Oo would say to see ’em
Both is rotten bad?

Cheer for the Sergeant’s weddin’—
Give ’em one cheer more!
Grey gun-’orses in the lando,
An’ a rogue is married to a whore.