never really red any poetry until i joined this forum but i def.listened to many of them.
2 stick out for me but i don't want to say who until one of em is mentioned
so who's your favorite?

Make sure all poetry is credited to the author and is out of copyright. if still in copyright please get permission to post the poem.

some of mine;
a poet i just came across; (no jokes please)
Stan Rice, the cannibal a fave.

Dylan Thomas. Tennyson
coleridge. not really enamored by the modern poets. i think most of it fakery and flight of ego. some of my fave poems is If by Kipling, the charge of the light brigade by Tennyson
John Donne's for whom the bell tolls though i find it more prose than poem.
Eliot's count that day lost.
Byron's she walks in beauty

my real fave has to be Poe's The Raven

i almost forgot.

Pam Ayers she's from Cornwall, i think and as funny as hell.
better listened to than read but i really like her sense of humour.

in truth to many to mentions. Shakespeare did an awful lot of sonnets, a few of those were okay
dylan thomas. Keats Yeats the Bronte's, Elizabeth Browning.

not keen on Angelou, Atwood, and the like but enjoyed Robert Haas. not keen on frost or haden. loads more moderns some i like and others i don't

i like beat poetry though i can't think of any poets off hand without a googly.

(01-02-2010, 06:43 AM)velvetfog Wrote:  My favorite poet is E. J. Pratt

Defensive Measures
E. J. Pratt

According to the witches’ plan,
All life whose blood did not run true
Must be excluded from the brew;
Each earthly thing from snail to man,
And every mammal of the sea
Was for that night an enemy.
And so the smith from ocean hoards
Had gathered masts and spars and boards
Of ships, with cutlasses and swords,
And countless pikes and spears, and made
With them a towering palisade.
And to the top thereof was sent,
To guard the brew, a warrior,—
The bravest of the ranks of war,
And deaf to bribe or argument.
To neither shark nor swordfish fell
The honours of the sentinel,
For of all fighters there, the star
Was Tom the cat from Zanzibar.

i just read his poem; The truant. an excellent write.
haven'y read anything by him till now so i googled before answering.
i'm glad i did, thanks velvet.

@srijantje

is it okay to move this to the poetry discussion forum?

@srijantje

is it okay to move this to the poetry discussion forum?
[/quote]

ofcourse
@the fog
great poem,i red already more poetry in the last couple of weeks then the whole of my life.i'm happy i joined and not only for the sewer

(01-02-2010, 01:54 PM)srijantje Wrote:  @srijantje

is it okay to move this to the poetry discussion forum?

of course
@the fog
great poem,i red already more poetry in the last couple of weeks then the whole of my life.i'm happy i joined and not only for the sewer
[/quote]
so whose your fave poet and poem

(01-02-2010, 03:35 PM)srijantje Wrote:  [youtube]http:///watch?v=8wE6lVOkPcs[/youtube]

don't know if this is appropriate,but here you go.

LEONARD COHEN.

it might be if the link worked lol.
and cohen is always appropriate.
often songs are poetry put to music.

My favorite is Stan Rice (R.I.P.). I like most of what he's written, which is rare for me.

(01-02-2010, 03:53 PM)addy Wrote:  My favorite is Stan Rice (R.I.P.). I like most of what he's written, which is rare for me.

i thought i'd already said him. and yes, i know it was you who put me on to him.
been looking for the full, hamburger and cannibal poems but can't find them

LEONARD COHEN

Oops. Sorry, didn't notice

I have Cannibal! I saved copies of some of his poems, forgot from where. The site is probably gone now. Anyway, here it is.

"Cannibal" by Stan Rice

Hide me
from me.
Fill these
holes with eyes
for mine are not
mine. Hide
me head & need
for I am no good
so dead in life
so much time.
Be wing, and
shade my me
from my desire
to be
hooked fish.
That worm
wine
looks sweet and
makes my me
blind. And, too,
my heart hide
for I shall at
this rate it also
eat in time

@srijantje

nice set of lyrics and a good song to boot.

@addy.
thanks for posting the rice poem. do you have the hamburger poem as well

Unfortunately no. Sorry billy.

thanks, i'll have a look for it later.

this is one of the few frost poems i like

Once by the Pacific
by
Robert Frost

The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the light was spoken.

Anthem For Doomed Youth



What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monsterous anger of the guns
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailling shells-
And bugles calling for them from sad shires


What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds
And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds



Wilfred Owen (Killed in action, 4 Nov. 1918)



A very sad poem, but very moving imo .

Count That Day Lost by George Eliot.

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went –
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay –
If, through it all
You’ve nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face–
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost –
Then count that day as worse than lost.

(01-24-2010, 10:22 PM)SidewaysDan Wrote:  Anthem For Doomed Youth



What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monsterous anger of the guns
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailling shells-
And bugles calling for them from sad shires


What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds
And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds



Wilfred Owen (Killed in action, 4 Nov. 1918)



A very sad poem, but very moving imo .

excellent

Houdini

by Kay Ryan

Each escape
involved some art,
some hokum, and
at least a brief
incomprehensible
exchange between
the man and metal
during which the
chains were not
so much broken
as he and they
blended. At the
end of each such
mix he had to
extract himself. It
Was the hardest
part to get right
routinely: breaking
back into the
same Houdini.

For serious poetry, I like . . .


Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one's own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.


Have you built your ship of death, O have you?
O build your ship of death, for you will need it.

The grim frost is at hand, when the apples will fall
thick, almost thundrous, on the hardened earth.

And death is on the air like a smell of ashes!
Ah! can't you smell it?

And in the bruised body, the frightened soul
finds itself shrinking, wincing from the cold
that blows upon it through the orifices.


And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make
a bruise or break of exit for his life;
but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?

Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder
ever a quietus make?


O let us talk of quiet that we know,
that we can know, the deep and lovely quiet
of a strong heart at peace!

How can we this, our own quietus, make?


Build then the ship of death, for you must take
the longest journey, to oblivion.

And die the death, the long and painful death
that lies between the old self and the new.

Already our bodies are fallen, bruised, badly bruised,
already our souls are oozing through the exit
of the cruel bruise.

Already the dark and endless ocean of the end
is washing in through the breaches of our wounds,
already the flood is upon us.

Oh build your ship of death, your little ark
and furnish it with food, with little cakes, and wine
for the dark flight down oblivion.


Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul
has her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises.

We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dying
and nothing will stay the death-flood rising within us
and soon it will rise on the world, on the outside world.

We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying
and our strength leaves us,
and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood,
cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.


We are dying, we are dying, so all we can do
is now to be willing to die, and to build the ship
of death to carry the soul on the longest journey.

A little ship, with oars and food
and little dishes, and all accoutrements
fitting and ready for the departing soul.

Now launch the small ship, now as the body dies
and life departs, launch out, the fragile soul
in the fragile ship of courage, the ark of faith
with its store of food and little cooking pans
and change of clothes,
upon the flood's black waste
upon the waters of the end
upon the sea of death, where still we sail
darkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.

There is no port, there is nowhere to go
only the deepening black darkening still
blacker upon the soundless, ungurgling flood
darkness at one with darkness, up and down
and sideways utterly dark, so there is no direction any more
and the little ship is there; yet she is gone.
She is not seen, for there is nothing to see her by.
She is gone! gone! and yet
somewhere she is there.
Nowhere!


And everything is gone, the body is gone
completely under, gone, entirely gone.
The upper darkness is heavy as the lower,
between them the little ship
is gone
she is gone.

It is the end, it is oblivion.


And yet out of eternity a thread
separates itself on the blackness,
a horizontal thread
that fumes a little with pallor upon the dark.

Is it illusion? or does the pallor fume
A little higher?
Ah wait, wait, for there's the dawn,
the cruel dawn of coming back to life
out of oblivion.

Wait, wait, the little ship
drifting, beneath the deathly ashy grey
of a flood-dawn.

Wait, wait! even so, a flush of yellow
and strangely, O chilled wan soul, a flush of rose.

A flush of rose, and the whole thing starts again.


The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell
emerges strange and lovely.
And the little ship wings home, faltering and lapsing
on the pink flood,
and the frail soul steps out, into the house again
filling the heart with peace.

Swings the heart renewed with peace
even of oblivion.

Oh build your ship of death, oh build it!
for you will need it.
For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.

(Ship of Death by D.H. Lawrence)



. . . . . but I also like . . . .

O pointy bird, O pointy pointy
Anoint my head, Anointy nointy.

(Read by Steve Martin in the flick LA Story)

nice choice altezon.


The ‘eathen by Rudyard Kipling.

The ‘eathen in ‘is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone;
‘E don’t obey no orders unless they is ‘is own;
‘E keeps ‘is side-arms awful: ‘e leaves ‘em all about,
An’ then comes up the Regiment an’ pokes the ‘eathen out.

All along o’ dirtiness, all along o’ mess,
All along o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less,
All along of abby-nay, kul, an’ hazar-ho,
Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!

The young recruit is ‘aughty — ‘e draf’s from Gawd knows where;
They bid ‘im show ‘is stockin’s an’ lay ‘is mattress square;
‘E calls it bloomin’ nonsense — ‘e doesn’t know, no more –
An’ then up comes ‘is Company an’kicks’im round the floor!

The young recruit is ‘ammered — ‘e takes it very hard;
‘E ‘angs ‘is ‘ead an’ mutters — ‘e sulks about the yard;
‘E talks o’ “cruel tyrants” which ‘e’ll swing for by-an’-by,
An’ the others ‘ears an’ mocks ‘im, an’ the boy goes orf to cry.

The young recruit is silly — ‘e thinks o’ suicide.
‘E’s lost ‘is gutter-devil; ‘e ‘asn’t got ‘is pride;
But day by day they kicks ‘im, which ‘elps ‘im on a bit,
Till ‘e finds ‘isself one mornin’ with a full an’ proper kit.

Gettin’ clear o’ dirtiness, gettin’ done with mess,
Gettin’ shut o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less;
Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
Learns to keep ‘is ripe an “isself jus’so!

The young recruit is ‘appy — ‘e throws a chest to suit;
You see ‘im grow mustaches; you ‘ear ‘im slap’ is boot.
‘E learns to drop the “bloodies” from every word ‘e slings,
An ‘e shows an ‘ealthy brisket when ‘e strips for bars an’ rings.

The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch ‘im ‘arf a year;
They watch ‘im with ‘is comrades, they watch ‘im with ‘is beer;
They watch ‘im with the women at the regimental dance,
And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send ‘is name along for “Lance.”

An’ now ‘e’s ‘arf o’ nothin’, an’ all a private yet,
‘Is room they up an’ rags ‘im to see what they will get.
They rags ‘im low an’ cunnin’, each dirty trick they can,
But ‘e learns to sweat ‘is temper an ‘e learns to sweat ‘is man.

An’, last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,
‘E schools ‘is men at cricket, ‘e tells ‘em on parade,
They sees ‘im quick an ‘andy, uncommon set an’ smart,
An’ so ‘e talks to orficers which ‘ave the Core at ‘eart.

‘E learns to do ‘is watchin’ without it showin’ plain;
‘E learns to save a dummy, an’ shove ‘im straight again;
‘E learns to check a ranker that’s buyin’ leave to shirk;
An ‘e learns to malce men like ‘im so they’ll learn to like their work.

An’ when it comes to marchin’ he’ll see their socks are right,
An’ when it comes: to action ‘e shows ‘em how to sight.
‘E knows their ways of thinkin’ and just what’s in their mind;
‘E knows when they are takin’ on an’ when they’ve fell be’ind.

‘E knows each talkin’ corp’ral that leads a squad astray;
‘E feels ‘is innards ‘eavin’, ‘is bowels givin’ way;
‘E sees the blue-white faces all tryin ‘ard to grin,
An ‘e stands an’ waits an’ suffers till it’s time to cap’em in.

An’ now the hugly bullets come peckin’ through the dust,
An’ no one wants to face ‘em, but every beggar must;
So, like a man in irons, which isn’t glad to go,
They moves ‘em off by companies uncommon stiff an’ slow.

Of all ‘is five years’ schoolin’ they don’t remember much
Excep’ the not retreatin’, the step an’ keepin’ touch.
It looks like teachin’ wasted when they duck an’ spread an ‘op –
But if ‘e ‘adn’t learned ‘em they’d be all about the shop.

An’ now it’s “‘Oo goes backward?” an’ now it’s “‘Oo comes on?”
And now it’s “Get the doolies,” an’ now the Captain’s gone;
An’ now it’s bloody murder, but all the while they ‘ear
‘Is voice, the same as barrick-drill, a-shepherdin’ the rear.

‘E’s just as sick as they are, ‘is ‘eart is like to split,
But ‘e works ‘em, works ‘em, works ‘em till he feels them take the bit;
The rest is ‘oldin’ steady till the watchful bugles play,
An ‘e lifts ‘em, lifts ‘em, lifts ‘em through the charge that wins the day!

The ‘eathen in ‘is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone –
‘E don’t obey no orders unless they is ‘is own.
The ‘eathen in ‘is blindness must end where ‘e began
But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned Man!

Keep away from dirtiness — keep away from mess,
Don’t get into doin’ things rather-more-or-less!
Let’s ha’ done with abby-nay, kul, and hazar-ho;
Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!