What are some of your favorite poems?

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The Lore-Lei - Heine

Her Letter - Harte

Welcome Over the Door of an Old Inn & Husband and Wife (post 4) - Guiterman

Outwitted - Markham

Making a Man - Waterman

The Deacon’s Masterpiece - Holmes

On Going Home for Christmas, The Junk Box, Only a Dad, Home, No Place to Go & It Couldn’t be Done (halfway down, under Intense Life) - Edgar Guest

Fleurette - Service

Worthwhile & Those We Love the Best - E.W. Wilcox

I Never Saw a Moor - Dickenson

O Captain! My Captain! - Whitman

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes - Bourdillon

Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms - Moore
**
Together** (5th down) - Lewisohn

A Wise Old Owl - Anon

Get a Transfer - Anon

When I Was One-and-Twenty - Housman

Invitation,** Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Too**, Listen to the Mustn’ts, The Farmer and the Queen & The Googies are Coming - Silverstein
 
if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be (deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)
  • e. e. cummings
 
Their Lonely Betters

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.

A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep,
Words are for those with promises to keep.
W. H. Auden
 
There are some wonderful poems here. A lot of my favourites have already been picked, but I’ll add:

Four Quartets- T. S. Eliot

River-Merchant’s Wife- A Letter- trans. Ezra Pound

Fern Hill, A Child’s Christmas in Wales, The Conversation of Prayers About to be Said- Dylan Thomas

Anything by George Herbert or Gerard Manley Hopkins

Pangur Ban

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry sight to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur’s way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light
-Irish, 8th century

somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with this colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

-e. e. cummings
 
I love the Desiderata - doesn’t rhyme but by gum it’s poetical!

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy…"

Max Ehrmann

:amen:
 
The collected work of the following small press poets:

Antler
Gunther C. Fogle
William Taylor Jr.

Otherwise, here are a few others:

you said Is by e.e. cummings

you said Is
there anything which
is dead or alive more beautiful
than my body,to have in your fingers
(trembling ever so little)?
Looking into
your eyes Nothing,i said,except the
air of spring smelling of never and forever.

…and through the lattice which moved as
if a hand is touched by a
hand(which
moved as though
fingers touch a girl’s
breast,
lightly)

Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered

~ ~ ~

Your Feet by Pablo Neruda

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
 
… And one more for good measure …

The Strongest of the Strange by Charles Bukowski

you won’t see them often
for whatever the crowd is
they
are not.

these odd ones, not
many
but from them
come
the few
good paintings
the few
good symphonies
the few
good books
and other
works.

and from the
best of the
strange ones
perhaps
nothing.

they are
their own
paintings
their own
books
their own
music
their own
work.

sometimes I think see
them–say
a certain old
man
sitting on a
certain bench
in a certain
way.

or
a quick face
going the other
way
in a passing
automobile

or
there’s a certain motion
of the hands
of the bag-boy or a bag-
girl
while packing
supermarket
groceries.

sometimes
it is even somebody
you have been
living with
for some
time–
you will notice
a
lightning quick
glance
never seen
from them
before.

sometimes
you will only note
their
existence
suddenly
in
vivid
recall
some months
some years
after they are
gone.

I remember
such a
one–
he was about
20 years old
drunk at
10 a.m.
staring into
a cracked
New Orleans
mirror.

face dreaming
against the
walls of
the world.

where
did I
go?
 
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

And Kiplings

IF
 
Both of the poems that I like by Robert Frost

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.

Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
 
40.png
LilyM:
I love the Desiderata - doesn’t rhyme but by gum it’s poetical!
Click to expand...
There is a lot of great poetry out there that doesn’t rhyme at all! 🙂
 
“Funeral Blues” W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
 
Fossils

When he was young he used to spend the whole summer in the abandoned slag heaps around the old mines outside the city of Scranton. It would take him hours to pick through the shale stacks, the sweat writing lines in the dust on his face, and the old ball peen hammer slung from his belt pinching his belly button.
Some days there was nothing to read but the signatures of ice and erosion and tools. Then he’d find one, a slate unnaturally filigreed with the fright masks of a trilobite, ferns, the inferior commissures of ancient clams. He would wrap them in moist newspaper and carry them carefully home. Once his teacher asked him to talk to the class about fossils.
Satan plants them to trick us, he said. When I get home I smash them to pieces.

–J.T. Barbarese
 
Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Maya Angelou
 
40.png
Pacbox:
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.
Click to expand...
Love that one.
 
beckyann2597 said:
“Funeral Blues” W. H. Auden
Click to expand...

I love that one, so beautiful.

My favourites are Enter Without So Much As Knocking by Bruce Dawe

and also the Cornflake by Bruce Dawe, couldn’t find a link for that one so here it is:

THE CORNFLAKE

When Greek women drop a piece of bread from the table on picking it up they kiss it.
But what shall we do with the pretty cornflake?
It shares the tragedy of all small nameless unscramentalized things -
Absurd as dandruff or scabs Who shall plead for it? I
ts future Is written in its sweet anonymous present.
It is mush in the act of becoming. it cries for its milk like its Mamma.
it is so frail and insincere, drifting into gullets
As the autumn leaves in a large city
Make irresistibly for gratings-who cares what brief
Balletic sprightliness it displayed rattling from waxed packets? There are no connoisseurs of the corn flake.
Its lyricists (all save one) are in it for the money.
There are none to sing its praises, to run appreciative finger-tips of language over its beauties, as with its sister the snow flake.
It is the victim of history-kings could have made it famous, Peasants in folk-lore could have endowed it with a humble fame -
Instead the corn flake is one with the commuter to whom
Even the intelligentsia have forbidden nobility.
Ah, but the revenge of the cornflake is memorable!
Spooned Joyfully by wild infants on kitchen walls, it soon hardens To the durability of concrete.
There, where the high-chair stood, it clings,
Resisting the last hurried damp cloth, the sponge, the pot-scourer, Often outlasting, it is said, several successive families…
 
A poem about cornflakes … and a really good poem too!

Now I really HAVE seen everything 👍
 
Haha I know!

I love it, I’ve got a whole book of his poetry. I performed that one for my practical exam for teaching 😃
 
Roses are red, violets are blue.
Some poems rhyme, this one doesn`t. 😃
 
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