Favourite poems

138 posts in this topic

Posted

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow—

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me—

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.

(Lord Byron)

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Posted

I only do crap poetry, you'll find a whole thread on this somewhere on TT. But I like Edgar Allen Poe and William Blake very much. If I had to do a serious poem today it would go something like this:

Why can men not speak

of things within their hearts

Why can men not see

what's in the female heart

Perhaps because the male

brain is full of hot air like a fart

:ph34r:

It was going so well until the last two lines came. Sorry, can only do crap.

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Posted

Great poem. Can only second that! Perhaps someone can come up with the answer?!

This quote comes to mind: You never lose by loving. You always lost by holding back.

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Posted

haha...thats mad :)

reminds me of this German poet, Joachim Ringelnatz (my mum loved his stuff and would always read it when I was a kid)... the man was pretty much blind drunk most of the time and the poems reflect that - absolutely bizarre and so funny.

Re the answer to THE question. Maybe we'll be lucky enough to find a specimen where it is not necessary to have to ask those types of questions in the first place :)

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Posted

Re the answer to THE question. Maybe we'll be lucky enough to find a specimen where it is not necessary to have to ask those types of questions in the first place

There is no such a specimen. They all think they are though. <_< Ringelnatz rocks. You are right. :)

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Posted

Oscar Wilde - The Ballad of Reading Gaol

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Was on the curriculum at school and was the first poem I ever truly appreciated.

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Posted

That's a good one. For me it was this one from William Blake which we had to read in English Lit:

O Rose, thou art sick!

The Invisible worm,

That flies in the night,

In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed

Of Crimson joy;

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

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Posted

Probably right re those specimens... not going to give up hope though and hopefully won't settle for less!

Yep, love Ringelnatz the nutter. This is my favourite one:

Ich habe dich so lieb

Ich habe dich so lieb!

Ich würde dir ohne Bedenken

Eine Kachel aus meinem Ofen

Schenken.

Ich habe dir nichts getan.

Nun ist mir traurig zu Mut.

An den Hängen der Eisenbahn

Leuchtet der Ginster so gut.

Vorbei - verjährt -

Doch nimmer vergessen.

Ich reise.

Alles, was lange währt,

Ist leise.

Die Zeit entstellt

Alle Lebewesen.

Ein Hund bellt.

Er kann nicht lesen.

Er kann nicht schreiben.

Wir können nicht bleiben.

Ich lache.

Die Löcher sind die Hauptsache

An einem Sieb.

Ich habe dich so lieb.

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Posted

I think I would have fallen hopelessly for William Blake had I lived in his time. :wub:

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Posted

Ringelnatz sounds like fun, will check out his other poems. Thanks for pointing him out! :)

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Posted

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--

For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.

He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:

For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity,

He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.

His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,

And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--

But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;

You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.

His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;

His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.

He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;

And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,

For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.

You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--

But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)

And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.

And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,

Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,

Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair--

Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray,

Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,

There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair--

But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there!

And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:

"It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.

You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,

Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,

There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.

He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:

And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!

And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known

(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)

Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time

Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

T S Eliot

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Posted

why dost thou complain

of men

Is not It in vain

women ?

Indeed from the hearth he does speak!

but not to you

because

if he would do

of friendship, not sex you would reek!

Now go figure.

If you dont like this one, replace the last line with:

surely you'd think hes a geek!

Edit: this is the bad poetry thread, right?

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Posted

no no, this is the interesting and unique poetry thread... :)

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Posted

Katesong

I love you, I miss you,

I want you, to kiss you

To hold you,

Enfold you in my arms.

I want you, to love you,

Below me, above you,

I choose you,

Lose myself in you charms.

I bless you, caress you,

Nervously undress you.

Desire you, aspire to love you more.

There's no way, not one day,

no reason why I can't say,

"I love you"

That's what we're for.

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Posted

William Blake, Garden of Love' (1794)

post-2786-1173130255.jpg post-2786-1173130280.gif

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Posted

Learning to accept

Salt from my eyes sting:

Into my open palm falls

The teardop. Flooding.

Rolling down. Drip, drip.

Pain runs from my fingers.

Moments from my life.

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Posted

Very moving. Very sad :(

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Posted

Up down Up down Up down

The time that we have left

At night beside me, your breath

Asleep and unaware my dear

These moments precious and

familiar

Tomorrow starts another day

The same as any other

Monotony thy enemy

and yet

Your breath desolves in air

Love is all that we have left

of time of time of time

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Posted

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,

Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner's bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, digging down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I'll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney

From Death of a Naturalist

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Posted

Dulce et Decorum Est - Wilfred Owen

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Posted

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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Posted

Excellent choice Topcat, Heaney captures the Irish generational change of his time with the same surety and accesibilty as Kavanagh.

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