discussion Favourite Poem

[Vidilo]

Hi there,
I've posted a lot of limericks in the Lurker thread, and I really do like them. But actually I do like poetry in general. So I'm interested in your favourite poem. What poem, rhymed or not, strikes a chord in you?

I'll start with the 'Walking Song' of Tolkien, in the version from the Hobbit, which is my favourite poem:

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.

 

[Gamer X]

I'm a big fan of Derek Walcott, who was a Caribbean poet and won the Nobel prize for literature. This is his dark august:

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all with not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

But i love a good limerick too.

 

[xatfx]

I'm french
My favorite is Victor Hugo (Demain dès l'aube) for the death of his daughter :

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.


Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.


Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

 

[uncleben28]

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[AlBetGam]

Hard for me to really pick favorites. But I really love:

The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

and The Hollow Men which is a bit long to paste here.

 

[goons]

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, narrated by Christopher Lee

 

[Vidilo]

Do you know 'The End of the Raven'?

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[Lazarus͏]

"There once was a man from Nantucket..."

 

[Gamer X]

Vidilo posted a thread
Not lolis but poems instead
From culture to farts
We've covered all parts
Now its time to get back into bed

 

[TheMC]

I like a poem that is very often mis-interpreted in that it is interpreted at all. According to the author, it is just what it says it is. A poem about a hike and two paths.

The Road Not Taken​

By

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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 kept 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.

 

[Vidilo]

My personal second place is shared by two nonesense-poems. The hilarious Vogon poetry by Douglas Adams and it's spiritual grandfather, Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carrol.


Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturitions are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits,
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath blurted out,
Its earted jurtles, grumbling
Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer.
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
And living glupules frart and stipulate,
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles.
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don't!
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

 

[Gamer X]

Back in the day, at school we learnt how to write sonnets. They have a particular structure and rules to their creation. One of William Shakespeare's most famous is:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

When you read it, it seems like a poem about love. It is actually a boast by the author that the life and beauty of the poem's subject is fleeting while the author's poetry is immortal.

I must have a go at writing sonnets again, myself.

 

[Gamer X]

OK - I had a go at a sonnet. I wanted to write one that met the LC vibe.

Her golden hair flowed as she walked to me,
Deep sea blue eyes caught mine and then she smiled.
Bud-like lips and budding breast showed that she
Possessed a youth and body not yet defiled.
Her slim form clad in dress - sheer and flimsy,
And brief thong of white silk had me beguiled.
I yearned to take and hold her slim body,
To give my love and passion to this child.
And then I pushed my hands through cloth to waist
With love, I slipped her knickers down her thighs
I kissed young mouth with hunger and with haste,
Touched her sweet wet crease and heard her surprise.
And we shared my white milk mixed with her red
Cherry juice spilt from her crease on my bed.

I hope you like it.

 

[Gamer X]

OK - I had a go at a sonnet. I wanted to write one that met the LC vibe.

Her golden hair flowed as she walked to me,
Deep sea blue eyes caught mine and then she smiled.
Bud-like lips and budding breast showed that she
Possessed a youth and body not yet defiled.
Her slim form clad in dress - sheer and flimsy,
And brief thong of white silk had me beguiled.
I yearned to take and hold her slim body,
To give my love and passion to this child.
And then I pushed my hands through cloth to waist
With love, I slipped her knickers down her thighs
I kissed young mouth with hunger and with haste,
Touched her sweet wet crease and heard her surprise.
And we shared my white milk mixed with her red
Cherry juice spilt from her crease on my bed.

I hope you like it.

Sorry - just to be clear, when i say i hope you like it, I mean i hope you enjoy reading it, I'm not begging for coins here - sorry moderators.....

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[User_139447]

German here.

One of my favorite poems - which I can actually recite from memory - is

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by

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.

Herr von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck im Havelland,
ein Birnbaum in seinem Garten stand,
und kam die goldne Herbsteszeit
und die Birnen leuchteten weit und breit,
da stopfte, wenn′ s Mittag vom Turme scholl,
der von Ribbeck sich beide Taschen voll,
und kam in Pantinen ein Junge daher,
so rief er: "Junge, wiste ′ ne Beer?"
Und kam ein Mädchen, so rief er: "Lütt Dirn,
kumm man röwer, ick hebb ′ ne Birn."

So ging es viel Jahre, bis lobesam
der von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck zu sterben kam.
Er fühlte sein Ende. ′ s war Herbsteszeit,
wieder lachten die Birnen weit und breit,
da sagte von Ribbeck: "Ich scheide nun ab.
Legt mir eine Birne mit ins Grab."
Und drei Tage darauf aus dem Doppeldachhaus
trugen von Ribbeck sie hinaus,
alle Bauern und Büdner mit Feiergesicht
sangen: "Jesus meine Zuversicht",
und die Kinder klagten, das Herze schwer:
"He ist dod nu. Wer giwt uns nu ′ ne Beer?"

So klagten die Kinder. Das war nicht recht,
ach, sie kannten den alten Ribbeck schlecht,
der neue freilich, der knausert und spart,
hält Park und Birnbaum strenge verwahrt.
Aber der alte, vorahnend schon
und voll Mißtrauen gegen den eigenen Sohn,
der wußte genau, was er damals tat,
als um eine Birn′ ins Grab er bat,
und im dritten Jahr aus dem stillen Haus
ein Birnbaumsprößling sproßt heraus.

Und die Jahre gehen wohl auf und ab,
längst wölbt sich ein Birnbaum über dem Grab,
uind in der goldnen Herbsteszeit
leuchtet′ s wieder weit und breit.
Und kommt ein Jung′ übern Kirchhof her,
da flüstert′ s im Baume: "Wiste ′ ne Beer?"
Und kommt ein Mädel, so flüstert′ s: "Lütt Dirn,
kumm man röwer, ick gew di ′ ne Birn."
So spendet Segen noch immer die Hand
des von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck im Havelland.

 

[Vidilo]

German here.

One of my favorite poems - which I can actually recite from memory - is

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by

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.

Very nice! That reminds me, I actually remember one German poem from school, even though it doesn't rhyme at all. "Prometheus" by Goethe:

Bedecke deinen Himmel, Zeus,
Mit Wolkendunst
Und übe, dem Knaben gleich,
Der Disteln köpft,
An Eichen dich und Bergeshöhn;
Mußt mir meine Erde
Doch lassen stehn
Und meine Hütte,
die du nicht gebaut,
Und meinen Herd,
Um dessen Glut
Du mich beneidest.

Ich kenne nichts Ärmeres
Unter der Sonn als euch, Götter!
Ihr nähret kümmerlich
Von Opfersteuern
Und Gebetshauch
Eure Majestät
Und darbtet, wären
Nicht Kinder und Bettler
Hoffnungsvolle Toren.

Da ich ein Kind war,
Nicht wußte, wo aus noch ein,
Kehrt ich mein verirrtes Auge
Zur Sonne, als wenn drüber war
Ein Ohr, zu hören meine Klage,
Ein Herz wie meins,
Sich des Bedrängten zu erbarmen.

Wer half mir wider
der Titanen Übermut?
Wer rettete vom Tode mich,
Von Sklaverei?
Hast du nicht alles selbst vollendet,
Heilig glühend Herz?
Und glühtest jung und gut,
Betrogen, Rettungsdank
Dem Schlafenden da droben?

Ich dich ehren? Wofür?
Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert
Je des Beladenen?
Hast du die Tränen gestillet
Je des Geängsteten?
Hat nicht mich zum Manne geschmiedet
Die allmächtige Zeit
Und das ewige Schicksal,
Meine Herrn und deine?

Wähntest du etwa,
Ich sollte das Leben hassen,
In Wüsten fliehen,
Weil nicht alle Knabenmorgen
Blütenträume reiften?

Hier sitz ich, forme Menschen
Nach meinem Bilde,
Ein Geschlecht, das mir gleich sei,
Zu leiden, zu weinen,
Zu genießen und zu freuen sich,
Und dein nicht zu achten,
Wie ich!

Rough translation:
Cover thy spacious heavens, Zeus,
With clouds of mist,
And like the boy who lops
The thistles' heads,
Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks;
Yet thou must leave
My earth still standing;
My cottage, too, which was not raised by thee;
Leave me my hearth,
Whose kindly glow
By thee is envied.

I know nought poorer
Under the sun, than ye gods!
Ye nourish painfully,
With sacrifices
And votive prayers,
Your majesty;
Ye would e'en starve,
If children and beggars
Were not trusting fools.

While yet a child,
And ignorant of life,
I turned my wandering gaze
Up toward the sun, as if with him
There were an ear to hear my wailings,
A heart, like mine,
To feel compassion for distress.

Who helped me
Against the Titan's insolence?
Who rescued me from certain death,
From slavery?
Didst thou not do all this thyself,
My sacred glowing heart?
And glowedst, young and good,
Deceived with grateful thanks
To yonder slumbering one?

I honour thee, and why?
Hast thou e'er lightened the sorrows
Of the heavy laden?
Hast thou e'er dried up the tears
Of the anguish-stricken?
Was I not fashioned to be a man
By omnipotent Time,
And by eternal Fate,
Masters of me and thee?

Didst thou e'er fancy
That life I should learn to hate,
And fly to deserts,
Because not all
My blossoming dreams grew ripe?

Here sit I, forming mortals
After my image;
A race resembling me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy, to be glad,
And thee to scorn,
As I!

 

[dpocky]

I guess they're considered epic poems -- Iliad and Odyssey by Homer, and the Epic of Gilgamesh are straight gas. I'm not a major poem buff, so I can't really recall anything more... recent...

 

[Vidilo]

I guess they're considered epic poems -- Iliad and Odyssey by Homer, and the Epic of Gilgamesh are straight gas. I'm not a major poem buff, so I can't really recall anything more... recent...

If you like Iliad and Odyssey, you might also like the Aeneid. But if you want to try a more norse touch, you should read the Kalevala at some point. Or the poetic Edda.

 

[TheMC]

What do you yell, when Edgar Allan is about to crash into a tree?

"Poe, a tree!"

And if you're too late, you get a Poe-a-tree-slam!

 

[MrJay]

I never really got much into poetry until I heard one by Khalil Gibran and I'm honestly not exaggerating when I say that this one, in particular, changed my life dramatically.

Defeat, my Defeat,
My solitude and my aloofness;
You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,
And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory.

Defeat, my Defeat,
My self-knowledge and my defiance,
Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot
And not to be trapped by withering laurels.
And in you I have found aloneness
And the joy of being shunned and scorned.

Defeat, my Defeat,
My shining sword and shield,
In your eyes I have read
That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,
And to be understood is to be leveled down,
And to be grasped is but to reach one’s fullness
And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.

Defeat, my Defeat,
My bold companion,
You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences,
And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings,
And urging of seas,
And of mountains that burn in the night,
And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.

Defeat, my Defeat,
My deathless courage,
You and I shall laugh together with the storm,
And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,
And we shall stand in the sun with a will,
And we shall be dangerous.

-Khalil Gibran​