Favorite Poems

[kellychaos]

One of mine:

Ask Me

William Stafford

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

[Les Waste]

Be Drunk
by Charles Baudelaire

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it -- it's the
only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be
drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of
a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave,
the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything
that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is
singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and
wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be
drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be
continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

[The_voice_of_reason]

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

Dylan Thomas

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion


Say it out loud, like all Dylan Thomas poems it sounds better that way.

[Protoclown]

I don't have any of my poetry books here at work, but off the top of my head some of my favorites that I can recall:

"Because I could not stop for death he kindly stopped for me" - Emily Dickenson

"Lenore" and "Anabel Lee" - Edgar Allen Poe

"Father" - Sylvia Plath

"O Captain My Captain" - Walt Whitman (fuck you, i like it)

And there's one really long poem that has "the center cannot hold" and "things fall apart" in the middle of it somewhere and I could kick myself for not remembering what it was or who wrote it :(

sadie would know, I'll bet

There are lots of others but it's hard to remember without a book right in front of me. I have the Oxford Book of American Verse, and that thing kicks ASS. So much good stuff in there.


EDIT: There was some other poem written by a World War I combatant that I really liked (about the war), but I can't remember much about it at all :(

[Carnivore]

I hate picking favorites and I'm sure I'll change my mind at a later time, but I've always loved "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

[kellychaos]

EDIT: There was some other poem written by a World War I combatant that I really liked (about the war), but I can't remember much about it at all

Was it this one?

In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

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.

[FS]

And there's one really long poem that has "the center cannot hold" and "things fall apart" in the middle of it somewhere and I could kick myself for not remembering what it was or who wrote it :(

I didn't know the writer or title of that poem, but the sentence "the center does not hold" I remembered as being quoted in Stephen King's the Stand (I'm such a philistine :tear )... Was it by Yates?

[Protoclown]

Kelly, I think that might be the one, but I thought it was longer than that.

And Fat Satan, now that you mention it, I am almost certain that it was indeed a poem by Yeats.

[kellychaos]

A couple moreof my favorites are by Mr. Walt Whitman:

All is Truth

O ME, man of slack faith so long!
Standing aloof—denying portions so long;
Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth;
Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and can be none, but grows as inevitably upon itself as the truth does upon itself,
Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of the earth does.

(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately—But it must be realized;
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,
And that the universe does.)

Where has fail’d a perfect return, indifferent of lies or the truth?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man? or in the meat and blood?

Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into myself, I see that there are really no liars or lies after all,
And that nothing fails its perfect return—And that what are called lies are perfect returns,
And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what has preceded it,
And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as much as space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth—but that all is truth without exception;
And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am,
And sing and laugh, and deny nothing.


To A Certain Civilian

Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me?
Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing rhymes?
Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow?
Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand--nor
am I now;
(I have been born of the same as the war was born,
The drum-corps' rattle is ever to me sweet music, I love well the
martial dirge,
With slow wail and convulsive throb leading the officer's funeral;)
What to such as you anyhow such a poet as I? therefore leave my works,
And go lull yourself with what you can understand, and with piano-tunes,
For I lull nobody, and you will never understand me.

[O71394658]

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

I


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar


Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;


Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.


Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --


Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.


Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


IV


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms


In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river


Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


V


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.


Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow


For Thine is the Kingdom


Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow


Life is very long


Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom


For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the


This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

[Daphne]

Bukowski I met a genius:

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.


it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

[Drew Katsikas]

Yes, Bukowski is the fucking man!


Nirvana
by Buk


not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.

he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.

the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.

the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.

he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.

the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.

then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.

the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.

but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.

he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.

then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.

the young man
looked straight
forward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.

they had not
noticed
the
magic.

the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.


I hadda memorize this badboy for English for a favorite poem recital. It was quite simple, I recorded my voice saying it, and looped it on my walkman one nite while I slept. Hooray for the subconcious!

[Drew Katsikas]

Any other Bukowski fans other than Daphne?

[Dole]

Although I generally CANNOT FUCKING STAND poetry, I make an exception for the gloriously bleak Phillip Larkin and his 'LIFE IS BOREDOM THEN FEAR' type themes. This is his magnum opus on death, 'Aubade'. I love his description of religion as 'That vast moth-eaten musical brocade created to pretend we never die' -perfect :)

Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night
Waking at four to the soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation; yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb.
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here
Not to be anywhere
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -no sight, no sound
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And it stays just on the edge of vision
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision
Most things may never happen; this one will
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good;
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know
Have always known, know that we can't escape
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse
The sky is white as clay, with no sun
Work has to be done
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

[crash0814]

"The Raven," natch.

[Daphne]

Any other Bukowski fans other than Daphne?

hey! what's wrong with me? :(

[kellychaos]

Any other Bukowski fans other than Daphne?

hey! what's wrong with me? :(

Daphne,

Are you a fan of William Carlos Williams? Although I don't recall the poet you quoted, his style is sort of reminscient of Williams' work ... not to take away from the poem you provided. It was great.

And another:



here is little Effie's head by e.e. cummings

here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did--
you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
--to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i'm called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb, i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don't punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God, my name
is must and with the others i've
been Effie who isn't alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie's little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way--
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering damned)
--staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread

[Drew Katsikas]

Nothing wrong with you, Daphne, I'm just seeing how many I-mockers like the life and adventures of Henry Chinaski.

Perhaps "who else likes Bukowski", would have expressed my point more effectivley.

[kellychaos]

The Layers by Stanley Kunitz
......

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I can gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

Toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing

from the abandoned camp-sites

over which scavenger angels

wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go

wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road

precious to me.

in my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice

directed me:

"Live in the layers,

not on the litter."

Though I lack the art

to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter

in my book of transformations

is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

[Daphne]

Nothing wrong with you, Daphne, I'm just seeing how many I-mockers like the life and adventures of Henry Chinaski.

Perhaps "who else likes Bukowski", would have expressed my point more effectivley.

I was only foolin' ;)

[sadie]

yay. i do know, proto. :) (and joni mitchell set it to music, as "slouching toward bethlehem.")

The Second Coming -- W. B. Yeats

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 convictions, 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: somewhere in sands of the desert
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
Reel 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?

[Zhukov]

I was walking by the sea,
Then it spat on me.
People don't let you into houses
If you have wet trousers.

:)

[kellychaos]

A friend and I got drunk one night at "Shorebirds", a Waikiki-side night club in Honolulu, and decided that a fully clothed (sans shoes and socks) dip in the ocean would be a funny/cool thing to do at the time. :rolleyes We were not allowed back into the club by the bouncers. :alcoholinducedstupidity