What's your favorite poem? (Full Version)

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natasha66 -> What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 4:50:09 PM)

I write a fair amount of poetry but this is my all-time favorite:
 
The Road Not Taken
 
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
 
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
 
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
 
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
 
~Robert Frost



Roselaure -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 5:49:38 PM)

That's an easy one.  Theodore Roethke

I Knew a Woman

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods could speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand,
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make).

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay;
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways).



sunshinemiss -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 5:51:31 PM)

Stephen Crane
The Wayfarer

The wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that none 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."



girlivy -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 6:45:12 PM)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning



How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seem'd to lose
With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of ally my life!-and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.



girlivy -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 6:49:01 PM)

I know you only inquired of 1, but i could not resist...




So sweet love seemed that April morn





So sweet love seemed that April morn,
When first we kissed beside the thorn,
So strangely sweet, it was not strange
We thought that love could never change.

But I can tell--let truth be told--
That love will change in growing old;
Though day by day is naught to see,
So delicate his motions be.

And in the end 'twill come to pass
Quite to forget what once he was,
Nor even in fancy to recall
The pleasure that was all in all.

His little spring, that sweet we found,
So deep in summer floods is drowned,
I wonder, bathed in joy complete,
How love so young could be so sweet.

Robert Seymour Bridges



CarrieO -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 7:00:39 PM)

One of many favorites....

"Bluebeard"  by Edna St. Vincent Millay

This door you might not open, and yet you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed...Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for Truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress;
But only what you see...Look yet again:
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room tonight
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours.  I seek another place.
 
A reminder to be careful of where you pry and be prepared for the penalty.  Withdrawal can be worse than death.



Darias -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 7:02:41 PM)

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939).  Responsibilities and Other Poems.  1916.

36. 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?        
5 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? 
10 Why, what could she have done being what she is? 
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

i love yeats... and not just cause he`s irish. this poem was my  favorite in school. in fact i used to use it as aguage of how drunk i was at clubs... imagine a guy in the toilets muttering this to himself. if i could finish all 12 lines withou messing it up i figured i was good for another chat up line attempt or two... if not i happily went home solo



beargonewild -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 7:23:44 PM)

The Highwayman By Alfred Noyes Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.



osocurious -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 10:59:41 PM)


Ohhhhh Bear, that’s one of my favorites as well,
and in song form by Loreena McKennitt is Awesome!!!
 
quote:

ORIGINAL: Darias
......... in fact i used to use it as a guage of how drunk i was at clubs... imagine a guy in the toilets muttering this to himself.
 
LmaoOOOOooooooo picturing that Darias …
*gives ya the Thumbs Up sign*
… that’s a Good One!!!
 
I Really Love Poetry and it would be Very hard to name my favourite, it honestly depends on my mood.
But here’s a short, easy one that stands out to me.
 
Risk - by Anaïs Nin
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.



ericpup -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/19/2008 11:06:16 PM)

Other then Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese, as quoted above, here is my favorite poem:

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
First Published in 1845
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 forevermore.

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.
This 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 mortals 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, something 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, and 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 above 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 the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled 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 being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than 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 utters is its 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 that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul 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."
Thus 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 the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 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 or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this 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's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight 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!



DivineMess -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 12:01:20 AM)

New Heart by Federico Garcia Lorca


Like a snake, my heart has shed its skin.
I hold it there in my hand, full of honey and wounds.
The thoughts that nested in your folds,
where are they now?

Where the roses that perfumed both Jesus Christ and Satan?
Poor wrapped that damped my fantastical star,
parchment grey and mournful of what
I loved once but love no more!

I see fetal sciences on you,
mummified poems and bones
of my romantic secrets and old innocence.

Shall I hang you on the wall of my emotional museum,
beside my dark, chill, sleeping irises of my evil?
Or shall I spread you over the pines -
sufferring book of my love -
so you can learn about the song the nightingale offers the dawn?



natasha66 -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 6:23:05 AM)

quote:

ORIGINAL: osocurious


Ohhhhh Bear, that’s one of my favorites as well,
and in song form by Loreena McKennitt is Awesome!!!
 
quote:

ORIGINAL: Darias
......... in fact i used to use it as a guage of how drunk i was at clubs... imagine a guy in the toilets muttering this to himself.
 
LmaoOOOOooooooo picturing that Darias …
*gives ya the Thumbs Up sign*
… that’s a Good One!!!
 
I Really Love Poetry and it would be Very hard to name my favourite, it honestly depends on my mood.
But here’s a short, easy one that stands out to me.
 
Risk - by Anaïs Nin
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.



I love that, myself....



Aylee -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 6:27:32 AM)

Paranoid: A Chant

By Stephan King



sunshinemiss -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 6:52:10 AM)

quote:

ORIGINAL: beargonewild

The Highwayman By Alfred Noyes Part One




I love that one too!  I didn't know it was a poem.  I thought it was only the song by Loreena McKennit!  The way she sings it... it's so eery and sad.  Ohhh gosh, thank you bear!
hugs,
sunshine



sunshinemiss -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 6:56:01 AM)


Here's the English version:

XVII (I do not love you...)Pablo Neruda I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


Translated by Stephen Tapscott




Roselaure -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 7:12:23 PM)

Ahhhh, Bear, I adore The Highwayman.  Learned it by heart for a speech competition in the 7th grade. 



beargonewild -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 7:14:16 PM)

I remember a teacher I had in grade 5 or 6 reading it to the class. I've always liked it and has become one of my favorites also! 



LinnaeaBorealis -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 9:00:02 PM)

My daughter is my favorite poet.  She gave me her poems for Christmas one year, transcribed onto the most beautiful raw paper.  I don't think she'd mind if I shared one or two with you here.

This she wrote about her struggle to leave the nest:

i am the one
who tried to make it all right
i am the person
who held you through the crying
i am the tear-streaked child
trying not to let you see
i am the girl
who held it in when you let it out
i am the youngster
who became what you wanted
me to be
i am the almost-adult
telling you how scared i am
when you're not there to hold me
in the dark
i am the teenager
trying to make my life real
i am the woman
who told you my secrets --
all of them
i am trying so hard to let you go



LinnaeaBorealis -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/20/2008 9:07:00 PM)

In the 80's there was a young man from our city who went to Nicaragua & was killed there.  She wrote a poem about him & was asked every year to read it at his memorial.
Measuring Distances
 
"They can cut down all the flowers, Ben, but they can't stop the Spring."
 
You measured
the stream's depth,
while the hidden ones
measured your time.
While you walked
the rocks,
while you sat
on your porch
spping morning coffee,
these men
were
mining roads
and killing coffee workers.
When you wote letters to family
and friends,
telling them
of your dreams for
peace in a world
of violence,
of building dams
to bring water to
this alien world
they
were in a
military camp
learning to kill,
learning to cut
all the flowers of Spring
 
 
Thank you so much for causing me to dig this out of the drawer & re-read all of her early work.



DavanKael -> RE: What's your favorite poem? (10/21/2008 8:46:42 PM)

Hi, Natasha66----
Assuming you mean ones that I didn't write (Healthy dose of creative narcissism there):
I'm with you, Frost's "The Road Not Taken", is my all-time favorite poem, particularly the last few lines. 
Second would be "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Coleridge. 
  Davan



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