Your favourite poem?

[Sam]

Here's another Mallarme poem. It's much more accessible than L'apres midi... and is just ravishingly beautiful.

My soul rises towards your brow o calm sister, where there lies dreaming
An autumn strewn with russet freckles,
And towards the restless sky of your angelic eye,
As in a melancholy garden,
A white fountain faithfully sighs towards the Azure!

Towards the compassionate azure of pale and pure October,
Which mirrors its infinite languor in the great pools
And, on the stagnant water where the tawny agony
Of the leaves stirs in the wind and digs a cold furrow,
Lets the yellow sun drag itself out in a long ray.

[domesticgoddess]

Hmmm, only one favourite?  No, it can't be done.  I do love this poem.  One for those 'what poems / music would you have at your funeral' questions.

Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

For something slightly more lighthearted, you can't beat Reading Scheme by Wendy Cope:

Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.
Jane has a big doll. Peter has a ball.
Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!

Here is Mummy. She has baked a bun.
Here is the milkman. He has come to call.
Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.

Go Peter! Go Jane! Come, milkman, come!
The milkman likes Mummy. She likes them all.
Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!

Here are the curtains. They shut out the sun.
Let us peep! On tiptoe Jane! You are small!
Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.

I hear a car, Jane. The milkman looks glum.
Here is Daddy in his car. Daddy is tall.
Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!

Daddy looks very cross. Has he a gun?
Up milkman! Up milkman! Over the wall!
Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.
Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!

And my favourite 'love' poem would have to be Not love perhaps by A S J Tessimond:

This is not Love, perhaps,
Love that lays down its life,
that many waters cannot quench,
nor the floods drown,
But something written in lighter ink,
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.

A need, at times, to be together and talk,
And then the finding we can walk
More firmly through dark narrow places,
And meet more easily nightmare faces;
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand,
And then find Earth less like an alien land;
A need for alliance to defeat
The whisperers at the corner of the street.

A need for inns on roads, islands in seas,
Halts for discoveries to be shared,
Maps checked, notes compared;
A need, at times, of each for each,
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.

[/quote]

[Sam]

Sorry but that first poem you posted is pretty shite. It's trite and unimaginative.

Edit: that sounds un-necessarily rude and Suttonpubcrawl-esque. Didn't mean to be a dick; I just didn't like the poem much.

[lankinpark]

John Clare. Whilst in an asylum.

_I Am_

I AM: yet what I am none cares or knows,
 My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
 They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am, and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
 Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
 But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And een the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
 A place where woman never smiled or wept;
There to abide with my Creator, GOD,
 And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.

[A Passing Turk Slipper]

Sorry but that first poem you posted is pretty shite. It's trite and unimaginative.

Edit: that sounds un-necessarily rude and Suttonpubcrawl-esque. Didn't mean to be a dick; I just didn't like the poem much.

No, I agree, it the kind of thing you imagine all poetry to be like as a child before you've really read anything. To each his/her own etc but I bloody hate that kind of stuff.

[Banana Woofwoof]

Aaaah, wonderful John Cooper Clarke.

the fucking cops are fucking keen

to fucking keep it fucking clean

the fucking chief's a fucking swine

who fucking draws a fucking line

at fucking fun and fucking games

the fucking kids he fucking blames

are nowehere to be fucking found

anywhere in chicken town

the fucking scene is fucking sad

the fucking news is fucking bad

the fucking weed is fucking turf

the fucking speed is fucking surf

the fucking folks are fucking daft

don't make me fucking laugh

it fucking hurts to look around

everywhere in chicken town

the fucking train is fucking late

you fucking wait you fucking wait

you're fucking lost and fucking found

stuck in fucking chicken town

the fucking view is fucking vile

for fucking miles and fucking miles

the fucking babies fucking cry

the fucking flowers fucking die

the fucking food is fucking muck

the fucking drains are fucking fucked

the colour scheme is fucking brown

everywhere in chicken town

the fucking pubs are fucking dull

the fucking clubs are fucking full

of fucking girls and fucking guys

with fucking murder in their eyes

a fucking bloke is fucking stabbed

waiting for a fucking cab

you fucking stay at fucking home

the fucking neighbors fucking moan

keep the fucking racket down

this is fucking chicken town

the fucking train is fucking late

you fucking wait you fucking wait

you're fucking lost and fucking found

stuck in fucking chicken town

the fucking pies are fucking old

the fucking chips are fucking cold

the fucking beer is fucking flat

the fucking flats have fucking rats

the fucking clocks are fucking wrong

the fucking days are fucking long

it fucking gets you fucking down

evidently chicken town

[Sovereign]

awesome.

[GetTheeBehindMeStan]

1 PATRIOTIC

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
I didn't lay down my life in World War II
so that you could borrow my wheelbarrow.

2 SNOBBISH

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
Unfortunately Lord Goodman is using it.

3 OVERWEENING

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
It is too mighty a conveyance to be wielded
by any mortal save myself.

4 PIOUS

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
My wheelbarrow is reserved for religious ceremonies.

5 MELODRAMATIC

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
I would sooner be broken on its wheel
and buried in its barrow.

6 PATHETIC

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
I am dying of schizophrenia
and all you can talk about is wheelbarrows.

7 DEFENSIVE

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
Do you think I'm made of wheelbarrows?

8 SINISTER

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
It is full of blood.

9 LECHEROUS

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
Only if I can fuck your wife in it.

10 PHILOSOPHICAL

May I borrow your wheelbarrow?
What is a wheelbarrow?

[Shoulders?-Stomach!]

A great poem:

I. NAMING OF PARTS by Henry Reed

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
         And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
         Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
         Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
         They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
         For to-day we have naming of parts

[CaledonianGonzo]

Not a poem as such, below, but that Adrian Mitchell bloke's been reading Cyrano de Bergerac:

(The Viscount goes up to Cyrano, who is watching him, and with a conceited air):
 Sir, your nose is. . .hmm. . .it is. . .very big!

CYRANO (gravely):
 Very!

THE VISCOUNT (laughing):
 Ha!

CYRANO (imperturbably):
 Is that all?. . .

THE VISCOUNT:
 What do you mean?

CYRANO:
 Ah no! young blade!  That was a trifle short!
 You might have said at least a hundred things
 By varying the tone. . .like this, suppose,. . .
 Aggressive:  'Sir, if I had such a nose
 I'd amputate it!'  Friendly:  'When you sup
 It must annoy you, dipping in your cup;
 You need a drinking-bowl of special shape!'
 Descriptive:  ''Tis a rock!. . .a peak!. . .a cape!
 --A cape, forsooth!  'Tis a peninsular!'
 Curious:  'How serves that oblong capsular?
 For scissor-sheath?  Or pot to hold your ink?'
 Gracious:  'You love the little birds, I think?
 I see you've managed with a fond research
 To find their tiny claws a roomy perch!'
 Truculent:  'When you smoke your pipe. . .suppose
 That the tobacco-smoke spouts from your nose--
 Do not the neighbors, as the fumes rise higher,
 Cry terror-struck:  "The chimney is afire"?'
 Considerate:  'Take care,. . .your head bowed low
 By such a weight. . .lest head o'er heels you go!'
 Tender:  'Pray get a small umbrella made,
 Lest its bright color in the sun should fade!'
 Pedantic:  'That beast Aristophanes
 Names Hippocamelelephantoles
 Must have possessed just such a solid lump
 Of flesh and bone, beneath his forehead's bump!'
 Cavalier:  'The last fashion, friend, that hook?
 To hang your hat on?  'Tis a useful crook!'
 Emphatic:  'No wind, O majestic nose,
 Can give THEE cold!--save when the mistral blows!'
 Dramatic:  'When it bleeds, what a Red Sea!'
 Admiring:  'Sign for a perfumery!'
 Lyric:  'Is this a conch?. . .a Triton you?'
 Simple:  'When is the monument on view?'
 Rustic:  'That thing a nose?  Marry-come-up!
 'Tis a dwarf pumpkin, or a prize turnip!'
 Military:  'Point against cavalry!'
 Practical:  'Put it in a lottery!
 Assuredly 'twould be the biggest prize!'
 Or. . .parodying Pyramus' sighs. . .
 'Behold the nose that mars the harmony
 Of its master's phiz! blushing its treachery!'
 --Such, my dear sir, is what you might have said,
 Had you of wit or letters the least jot:
 But, O most lamentable man!--of wit
 You never had an atom, and of letters
 You have three letters only!--they spell Ass!
 And--had you had the necessary wit,
 To serve me all the pleasantries I quote
 Before this noble audience. . .e'en so,
 You would not have been let to utter one--
 Nay, not the half or quarter of such jest!
 I take them from myself all in good part,
 But not from any other man that breathes!

[GetTheeBehindMeStan]

Hehe! So he has, the bugger.

[Uzi Lover]

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

[CaledonianGonzo]

From these glens and scars, the sound of the coot and the moorhen is seldom absent.  Nature sits in stern mastery over these rocks and crags.  The rush of the mountain stream, the bleat of the sheep, and the broad, clear Highland skies, reflected in tarn and loch, form a breathtaking backdrop against which William Topaz McGonagall writes such poems asThe Tay Bridge Disaster:

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.