Page 4 of 7 FirstFirst 1234567 LastLast
Results 46 to 60 of 92

Thread: What's your favourite poem?

  1. #46
    Patron
    Join Date
    23 Nov 07
    Posts
    195
    I love Yeats as well. The Song of wandering Aengus.

    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 aflame,
    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 lads 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.

  2. #47
    Dirty Kiwi Senior Contributor
    Join Date
    10 Nov 04
    Location
    Wellington, Te Ika a Maui, Aotearoa
    Posts
    19,746
    Quote Originally Posted by svs View Post
    I love Yeats as well. .
    yep

  3. #48
    Military Professional
    Join Date
    15 Sep 06
    Posts
    6,755
    Reminds me of the Sergeant Major of a WW2 training unit who having assembled the recruits told them that they were going to get a lecture from the Education officer about Keats - though he doubted if any of them even knew what a keat was!)
    Semper in excretum. Solum profunda variat.

  4. #49
    Military Professional Ray's Avatar
    Join Date
    20 Aug 03
    Posts
    19,624
    The Wish


    I shed my tears; my tears – my consolation;
    And I am silent; my murmur is dead,
    My soul, sunk in a depression’s shade,
    Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
    I don’t deplore my passing dream of life --
    Vanish in dark, the empty apparition!
    I care only for my love’s infliction,
    And let me die, but only die in love!

    ALEKSANDR PUSHKIN
    (Born 1799, Died 1837)

    (Translations from Russian)



    Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 1999
    Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, December, 1999


    "Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which is to good Men an Abomination."

    I don't have to attend every argument I'm invited to.

    HAKUNA MATATA

  5. #50
    Senior Reader Senior Contributor entropy's Avatar
    Join Date
    19 Mar 07
    Posts
    2,163
    Murder murder murder

    Kill kill kill

    Take nuts and screws

    Out of ferris wheels

  6. #51
    Senior Reader Senior Contributor entropy's Avatar
    Join Date
    19 Mar 07
    Posts
    2,163
    Quote Originally Posted by Ray View Post
    The Wish


    I shed my tears; my tears – my consolation;
    And I am silent; my murmur is dead,
    My soul, sunk in a depression’s shade,
    Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
    I don’t deplore my passing dream of life --
    Vanish in dark, the empty apparition!
    I care only for my love’s infliction,
    And let me die, but only die in love!

    ALEKSANDR PUSHKIN
    (Born 1799, Died 1837)

    (Translations from Russian)



    Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 1999
    Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, December, 1999
    I learned this one by heart in my don't-forget-your-Russian-language class when I was 12. Beautiful poem indeed, sir!

  7. #52
    An t-aimiréal chléthúil Senior Contributor crooks's Avatar
    Join Date
    17 Oct 06
    Location
    Baile Átha Cliath/Dublin, again.
    Posts
    2,490
    Quote Originally Posted by svs View Post
    I love Yeats as well. The Song of wandering Aengus.

    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 aflame,
    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 lads 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 do like that one alot - also, An Irish airman forsees his death is beautiful:

    I know that I shall meet my fate
    Somewhere among the clouds above;
    Those that I fight I do not hate,
    Those that I guard I do not love;
    My country is Kiltartan Cross,
    My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
    No likely end could bring them loss
    Or leave them happier than before.
    Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
    Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
    A lonely impulse of delight
    Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
    I balanced all, brought all to mind,
    The years to come seemed waste of breath,
    A waste of breath the years behind
    In balance with this life, this death.

  8. #53
    Patron
    Join Date
    23 Nov 07
    Posts
    195
    Quote Originally Posted by crooks View Post
    I do like that one alot - also, An Irish airman forsees his death is beautiful:

    I know that I shall meet my fate
    Somewhere among the clouds above;
    Those that I fight I do not hate,
    Those that I guard I do not love;
    My country is Kiltartan Cross,
    My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
    No likely end could bring them loss
    Or leave them happier than before.
    Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
    Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
    A lonely impulse of delight
    Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
    I balanced all, brought all to mind,
    The years to come seemed waste of breath,
    A waste of breath the years behind
    In balance with this life, this death.
    Yeats is the greatest. Amazing how many wonderful poets in the English language have been produced by the Celts. I like Dylan Thomas also.


    Elegy


    Too proud to die; broken and blind he died
    The darkest way, and did not turn away,
    A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride

    On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
    He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
    Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow

    Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
    Or still all the numberless days of his death, though
    Above all he longed for his mother's breast

    Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
    The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
    Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,

    I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
    In the muted house, one minute before
    Noon, and night, and light. the rivers of the dead

    Veined his poor hand I held, and I saw
    Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
    (An old tormented man three-quarters blind,

    I am not too proud to cry that He and he
    Will never never go out of my mind.
    All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,

    Being innocent, he dreaded that he died
    Hating his God, but what he was was plain:
    An old kind man brave in his burning pride.

    The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.
    Even as a baby he had never cried;
    Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.

    Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
    Here among the liught of the lording sky
    An old man is with me where I go

    Walking in the meadows of his son's eye
    On whom a world of ills came down like snow.
    He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'

    Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
    Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
    And caught between two nights, blindness and death.

    O deepest wound of all that he should die
    On that darkest day. oh, he could hide
    The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.

    Until I die he will not leave my side.)

  9. #54
    An t-aimiréal chléthúil Senior Contributor crooks's Avatar
    Join Date
    17 Oct 06
    Location
    Baile Átha Cliath/Dublin, again.
    Posts
    2,490
    Quote Originally Posted by svs View Post
    Yeats is the greatest. Amazing how many wonderful poets in the English language have been produced by the Celts. I like Dylan Thomas also.
    Me too - I'm not sure what it is about we Celts, but regardless of which nation we're from there seems to be a very deep sense of spirituality (not necissarily of a religious nature), it's rooted in us, an expression almost unique to us - it's perhaps the greatest legacy our forbears left us.

    There's another poet I think is amazing, and I'm not sure if you've heard of him but by god can he write:

    His name's Derek Mahon, a Protestant Irishman from Belfast, his poetry is deeply moving, and highlights the qualities I said above.
    My Personal Favourite of his is called A Disused Shed in County Wexford.

    Now you kind of need to be Irish to understand the full background, but I find it simply awesome, put simply it tells the struggles of a crop of mushrooms in the mentioned disused shed, fighting for sunlight, and through it survival:

    Even now there are places where a thought might grow —
    Peruvian mines, worked out and abandoned
    To a slow clock of condensation,
    An echo trapped forever, and a flutter
    Of wildflowers in the lift-shaft,
    Indian compounds where the wind dances
    And a door bangs with diminished confidence,
    Lime crevices behind rippling rainbarrels,
    Dog corners for bone burials;
    And a disused shed in Co. Wexford,

    Deep in the grounds of a burnt-out hotel,
    Among the bathtubs and the washbasins
    A thousand mushrooms crowd to a keyhole.
    This is the one star in their firmament
    Or frames a star within a star.
    What should they do there but desire?
    So many days beyond the rhododendrons
    With the world waltzing in its bowl of cloud,
    They have learnt patience and silence
    Listening to the rooks querulous in the high wood.

    They have been waiting for us in a foetor
    Of vegetable sweat since civil war days,
    Since the gravel-crunching, interminable departure
    of the expropriated mycologist.
    He never came back, and light since then
    Is a keyhole rusting gently after rain.
    Spiders have spun, flies dusted to mildew
    And once a day, perhaps, they have heard something —
    A trickle of masonry, a shout from the blue
    Or a lorry changing gear at the end of the lane.

    There have been deaths, the pale flesh flaking
    Into the earth that nourished it;
    And nightmares, born of these and the grim
    Dominion of stale air and rank moisture.
    Those nearest the door growing strong —
    'Elbow room! Elbow room!'
    The rest, dim in a twilight of crumbling
    Utensils and broken flower-pots, groaning
    For their deliverance, have been so long
    Expectant that there is left only the posture.

    A half century, without visitors, in the dark —
    Poor preparation for the cracking lock
    And creak of hinges. Magi, moonmen,
    Powdery prisoners of the old regime,
    Web-throated, stalked like triffids, racked by drought
    And insomnia, only the ghost of a scream
    At the flashbulb firing squad we wake them with
    Shows there is life yet in their feverish forms.
    Grown beyond nature now, soft food for worms,
    They lift frail heads in gravity and good faith.

    They are begging us, you see, in their wordless way,
    To do something, to speak on their behalf
    Or at least not to close the door again.
    Lost people of Treblinka and Pompeii!
    'Save us, save us,' they seem to say,
    'Let the god not abandon us
    Who have come so far in darkness and in pain.
    We too had our lives to live.
    You with your light meter and relaxed itinerary,
    Let not our naive labours have been in vain!'
    Although it is not true that all conservatives are stupid people, it is true that most stupid people are conservative.
    - John Stuart Mill.

  10. #55
    Regular beansprout's Avatar
    Join Date
    28 Jan 08
    Location
    Sydney
    Posts
    30
    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 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.


    - Robert Frost



    Art of Poetry, The


    To gaze at a river made of time and water
    And remember Time is another river.
    To know we stray like a river
    and our faces vanish like water.

    To feel that waking is another dream
    that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
    we fear in our bones is the death
    that every night we call a dream.

    To see in every day and year a symbol
    of all the days of man and his years,
    and convert the outrage of the years
    into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

    To see in death a dream, in the sunset
    a golden sadness--such is poetry,
    humble and immortal, poetry,
    returning, like dawn and the sunset.

    Sometimes at evening there's a face
    that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
    Art must be that sort of mirror,
    disclosing to each of us his face.

    They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
    wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
    humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
    a green eternity, not wonders.

    Art is endless like a river flowing,
    passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
    inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
    and yet another, like the river flowing.

    Jorge Luis Borges
    He conquers who endures - Persius

  11. #56
    Military Professional
    Join Date
    15 Sep 06
    Posts
    6,755
    We've had some good verse here.
    Perhaps it's time to momentarily lower the standard.

    Rock of Ages
    Cleft for me

    Let me hide
    Myself in thee.

    When the bombers
    Thunder past

    Shelter me
    from burn and blast

    And though I know
    All men are brothers

    Let the fallout
    Fall on others.

    Mad magazine, many years ago.
    Semper in excretum. Solum profunda variat.

  12. #57
    Armchair Worrier Senior Contributor bolo121's Avatar
    Join Date
    19 Dec 07
    Location
    india
    Posts
    2,087
    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.

    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
    And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.
    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!

    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me
    That with music loud and long
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.

    -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  13. #58
    Galactic Citizen Military Professional Skull6's Avatar
    Join Date
    28 Aug 07
    Location
    Colorado
    Posts
    326
    Quote Originally Posted by chankya View Post
    "If" by Rudyard Kipling.
    Tis makes two of us, chankya!
    If you know the enemy and yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles. - Sun Tzu

  14. #59
    Staff Emeritus
    Military Professional
    Contrary by Nature.
    zraver's Avatar
    Join Date
    22 Oct 06
    Location
    Arkansas
    Posts
    14,537

    Favorite Poems and poets

    What are your favorites?

    Kipling,

    "What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.
    "To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said.
    "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.
    "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said.
    For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
    The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;
    They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
    An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.


    Owen,

    DULCE ET DECORUM EST1

    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4
    Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

    Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
    Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
    And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
    Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

    If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
    To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
    Pro patria mori.15

  15. #60
    Armchair Worrier Senior Contributor bolo121's Avatar
    Join Date
    19 Dec 07
    Location
    india
    Posts
    2,087
    Considering what is happening worldwide i have been thinking of this a lot..

    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: 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?
    For Gallifrey! For Victory! For the end of time itself!!

Thread Information

Users Browsing this Thread

There are currently 1 users browsing this thread. (0 members and 1 guests)

Similar Threads

  1. My favourite man made object
    By mike nickeas in forum Science & Technology
    Replies: 27
    Last Post: 11 Feb 08,, 21:11
  2. A Christmas Poem
    By Spec6 in forum World Affairs Board Pub
    Replies: 2
    Last Post: 05 Dec 07,, 04:30
  3. Afghanistan war is 'cuckoo', says Blair's favourite general
    By Ray in forum International Politics
    Replies: 8
    Last Post: 30 Oct 06,, 06:11
  4. Poem on Bush removed from textbooks
    By Ray in forum International Politics
    Replies: 0
    Last Post: 06 Dec 05,, 14:14

Share this thread with friends:

Share this thread with friends:

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •