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Poetry: Who is your favorite poet? Options
Aries Eroles
Posted: Wednesday, June 4, 2014 12:03:55 PM

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Are you a fan of poetry?
Who is your favorite poet?
How does he/she affects your life?

Aries Eroles
Drag0nspeaker
Posted: Wednesday, June 4, 2014 12:28:19 PM

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Hi!

Personally, I am not a particular 'fan' of poetry.

Occasionally, I hear or see a verse I like, but you would not see me pick up a poetry book when I go to the library to choose my next selection.
I find each poet has written some good poems and some which are mediocre (not often 'bad'). I like some by Dylan Thomas, some by Wordsworth, some by Shakespeare, some by Leonard Cohen, some by John Lennon.

I have even been known to enjoy listening to William Topaz McGonagall of Dundee.

Quote:
GREENLAND’S icy mountains are fascinating and grand,
And wondrously created by the Almighty’s command;
And the works of the Almighty there’s few can understand:
Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland?

Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass,
And for scenic grandeur there’s nothing can it surpass,
Besides there’s monuments and spires, also ruins,
Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins.




Wyrd bið ful aræd - bull!
excaelis
Posted: Wednesday, June 4, 2014 7:19:37 PM

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McGonagall ? Really ? Ayeeesh, Ddraig !


From the Burgess translation of Cyrano de Bergerac :

Sir, please cease this doggerel recital !

That was no doggerel, that was the title...





[ from memory ]

Sanity is not statistical
Audiendus
Posted: Wednesday, June 4, 2014 7:57:57 PM
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excaelis wrote:
McGonagall ? Really ? Ayeeesh, Ddraig !


Take a look at this one – I think it's really quite good!

http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/gems/the-bonnie-lass-o-dundee
excaelis
Posted: Wednesday, June 4, 2014 8:14:38 PM

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Pass me my crucifix and garlic...

Sanity is not statistical
DanJôN
Posted: Wednesday, June 4, 2014 11:49:37 PM

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Poetry? hmhmhm im not a fan on it.
but I think hmmhmh
I guess nothing comes in my mind with poetry.
hehehe
Nish
Posted: Thursday, June 5, 2014 2:57:33 PM

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would you mind sharing yours Aries? :)

Yeshua.
Saber.A
Posted: Thursday, June 12, 2014 8:20:35 AM
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Hi all

I love poetry

and my favorite poets are Shakespeare, Shelly, Blake,...

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
Klaas V
Posted: Thursday, June 12, 2014 8:57:42 AM

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Hands down Catullus

Here's why

My teacher of Latin most of the timess asked me to translate his poems. Not that I practised all of them you filthy guys...

With maybe the exception of the unasked there just isn't such thing available as a dumb question - Z4us
221BBaker
Posted: Saturday, July 12, 2014 2:12:39 PM

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I'll stick to poetry in English, for obvious reasons, and say John Donne. A poet who wrote about love, both divine and humane, and had a sixth sense for the use of words. I'd say it's partly the way he addresses his lover, or the reader, or God, or everyone… Or the way he uses simple words to create complex ideas.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Nikkolai Hel
Posted: Thursday, August 28, 2014 10:52:54 AM

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William Blake's THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience) is a piece that both enchants and lurks into my mind with a creepy note:

You are not only man, but creatures not to be named if you let your untamed creations leave your mind carelessly.


Quote:
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
1794

http://www.eecs.harvard.edu/~keith/poems/tyger.html
tunaafi
Posted: Thursday, August 28, 2014 11:14:19 AM

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I haven't a favourite poet, but one of my favourite poems is by W B Yeats:

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Romany
Posted: Thursday, August 28, 2014 2:35:34 PM
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Perhaps because I have been steeped in poetry since I was an infant, I could NEVER pick out one, particular favourite.

However, there is one, by Hugh McCrae, which lurks always in my mind for a number of reasons; ready to pop out in bits and bobs and attach itself to some of the most significant - as well as the most mundane - moments of my journey through the years:

Song of the Rain.


Night,
and the yellow pleasure of candle-light....
old brown books and the kind, fine face of the clock
fogged in the veils of the fire - it's cuddling tock.

The cat,
greening her eyes on the flame-litten mat;
wickedly, wakeful she yawns at the rain
bending the roses over the pane,
and a bird in my heart begins to sing
over and over the same sweet thing--

Safe in the house with my boyhood's love
and our children asleep in the attic above.
Romany
Posted: Thursday, August 28, 2014 2:36:38 PM
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Location: Brighton, England, United Kingdom
Perhaps because I have been steeped in poetry since I was an infant, I could NEVER pick out one, particular favourite.

However, there is one, by Hugh McCrae, which lurks always in my mind for a number of reasons; ready to pop out in bits and bobs and attach itself to some of the most significant - as well as the most mundane - moments of my journey through the years:

Song of the Rain.


Night,
and the yellow pleasure of candle-light....
old brown books and the kind, fine face of the clock
fogged in the veils of the fire - it's cuddling tock.

The cat,
greening her eyes on the flame-litten mat;
wickedly, wakeful she yawns at the rain
bending the roses over the pane,
and a bird in my heart begins to sing
over and over the same sweet thing--

Safe in the house with my boyhood's love
and our children asleep in the attic above.
Alisson Souza
Posted: Saturday, August 30, 2014 9:25:36 AM

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I am starting to like some poetry such as John Donne, Alexandre Pope and William Blake. Everyone Englishmen.
This is a piece of poem written by Alexandre Pope:
"True Ease in Writing comes from Art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance,"
Ease means freedom from pain.

Until the next time.
Cheers
Posted: Sunday, August 31, 2014 2:50:47 PM

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I have many favorite poems and poets, but the poem I read most often and that touches me the deepest is Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood by William Wordsworth.

Another poem I have an affinity for is The Greatest Discovery, by Bernie Taupin. Elton John wrote a song to it, but I prefer reading it. My two grandsons are 18 months apart, and it reminds me of the birth of the second one. It's too long to post, but here is a link to the lyrics version:

The Greatest Discovery
Antonio Guzmán
Posted: Tuesday, September 9, 2014 11:12:46 PM

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Boo hoo!
Cheers
Posted: Tuesday, September 9, 2014 11:23:01 PM

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Antonio Guzmán wrote:
Boo hoo!


Is that "boo hoo, terrible poem" or "boo hoo, it made me sad"?
Pierre Idontcare
Posted: Sunday, October 26, 2014 6:38:12 PM

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Of the living robert hass is great. Of the dead I'll stick to Wallace Stevens.
.wichitarick
Posted: Thursday, November 20, 2014 3:36:07 PM

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Yes. But most of it is used in lyrics from a lot of different types of music
& from different time periods,or I hear or read it & use it for the inspiration or the trigger to write my own feelings down.

Without sounding self serving,stuff,feelings I have written about ,then when I re-read them later have the most impact on my feelings .
Although most of it would take a good beating for grammar errors in a forum like this :)
but it still tends to be my deepest feelings from "that moment" & often that memory is completely lost,so to re discover this in writing has had a LOT of impact .
Although I have never kept a diary, looking back on poems or loose verse that was often written while very sick has been tremendously helpful in fully understanding my own feelings .
Rick Wichita Ks. western slope Co.

Read to your kid they will read with you,re neighbors kid
It is not the crazy people you worry about ....It is the one,s that don,t know it!
Yannick Maclloyd
Posted: Thursday, December 25, 2014 11:40:29 AM

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A poem for every occasion. Merry Christmas everyone! Actually this Christmas poem of John Betjeman is a great inspirational one

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.


And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'

Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall ?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

source: John Betjeman http://www.best-poems.net/john_betjeman/poem-10756.html


C White
Posted: Thursday, December 25, 2014 8:10:31 PM

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This is one of the most romantic poems that I have ever found:
by Robert Graves

Counting The Beats

You, Love, and I,
(He Whispers), you and I,
And if no more than only you and I
What care you or I?

Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in
Slow heart beats, wakeful they lie.

Cloudless day,
Night, and a cloudless day;
Yet the huge storm will burst upon
their heads one day
From a bitter sky.

Where shall we be,
(She whispers) where shall we be,
When death strikes home, O where
then shall we be
Who were you and I?

Not there but here,
(He whispers) only here,
As we are, here. together, now and
here, Always you and I.

Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in
Slow heart beats, Wakeful they lie.
C White
Posted: Thursday, December 25, 2014 8:13:35 PM

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And if you haven't read Allen Ginsbergs' Howl then you as missing a GREAT poem. It's far to long to put here but probably one of the greatest poems of the 20th Century. Here's a link to it at the Poetry Foundations' online website: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179381
C White
Posted: Thursday, December 25, 2014 9:26:10 PM

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Location: Sacramento, California, United States
Longfellow

The Day Is Done

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul can not resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay:
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Lifes endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful Melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
Articulate Dreamer
Posted: Friday, December 26, 2014 4:17:47 AM

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For sheer elegant irreverence, Byron! Byron! Byron!
And he could be the ultimate romantic, the painter of landscapes and the uncompromising idealist... but it was when he was funny that i think he was at his best.

"...hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour"
Lizz Gzz
Posted: Friday, February 13, 2015 10:46:54 AM

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Location: Monterrey, Nuevo Leon, Mexico
Hi everyone!
I have many favorites poets, specially those who are passionated, for example (for me): Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, Pablo Neruda (20 poems of love and a desperate song), Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera, Manuel Acuña and others.
I am from México, that's the reason I love poets who speak spanish language but, can you recommend me poets of the english language? Who are your favorites?
Thanks!
EmmaGuinness
Posted: Wednesday, June 24, 2015 10:15:40 PM

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Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
rogermue
Posted: Thursday, June 25, 2015 6:14:48 PM

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Location: München, Bavaria, Germany
Friedrich Nietsche

Venedig

An der Brücke stand
Jüngst ich in brauner Nacht.
Fernher kam Gesang:
Goldener Tropfen quoll's
Über die zitternde Fläche weg.
Gondeln, Lichter, Musik -
Trunken schwamm's in die Dämmrung hinaus ...

Meine Seele, ein Saitenspiel,
Sang sich, unsichtbar berührt,
Heimlich ein Gondellied dazu,
Zitternd vor bunter Seligkeit.
- Hörte jemand ihr zu? ...

Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844-1900

I have to go and see if can find a translation.
If not I will try to do it myself,
but of course, I can only give the ideas,
for the rhythm and melody a master is needed.
rogermue
Posted: Thursday, June 25, 2015 6:20:51 PM

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Friedrich Nietzsche

VENICE

At the bridge I stood
lately in the brown night.
From afar came a song:
as a golden drop it welled
over the quivering surface.
Gondolas, lights, and music –
drunken it swam out into the twilight.

My soul, a stringed instrument
sang to itself, invisibly touched,
a secret gondola song,
quivering with iridescent happiness.
– Did anyone listen to it?


Source of the translation
http://www.georgeleemoore.com/writing/philosophy/nietzsches-concept/3-the-transition-to-style/4-nietzsche-as-poet/
EmmaGuinness
Posted: Thursday, June 25, 2015 7:10:32 PM

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rogermue wrote:
Friedrich Nietzsche

VENICE

At the bridge I stood
lately in the brown night.
From afar came a song:
as a golden drop it welled
over the quivering surface.
Gondolas, lights, and music –
drunken it swam out into the twilight.

My soul, a stringed instrument
sang to itself, invisibly touched,
a secret gondola song,
quivering with iridescent happiness.
– Did anyone listen to it?


Source of the translation
http://www.georgeleemoore.com/writing/philosophy/nietzsches-concept/3-the-transition-to-style/4-nietzsche-as-poet/


Love this poem! :)
rogermue
Posted: Thursday, June 25, 2015 7:34:58 PM

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To Emma - Nietzsche thanks for your compliment.
srilalitha p
Posted: Friday, June 26, 2015 9:31:04 AM

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Shelley -Ode to skylark!
Articulate Dreamer
Posted: Saturday, June 27, 2015 12:03:24 PM

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Impossible to pick just one... but even at the Oscars they do.... Gotta agree there with Romany (the first to say this on this post)
In English, which i call my step mother tongue the finalists would be: Yeats, Tennyson, Byron, Frost, Blake and Whitman. At least thirty others come close...

And the winner, perhaps on a whimsy is: Byron, Lord George Gordon Noel. The chosen work?

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!


"...hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour"
EmmaGuinness
Posted: Saturday, June 27, 2015 6:09:22 PM

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Since we are on the subject of Byron...

My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now ’tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once – or yield to song.
Alice Liddell
Posted: Sunday, June 28, 2015 3:45:01 PM

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Location: Sofia, Sofia-Capital, Bulgaria
Robert Burns FTW!

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!




Long live Schroedinger's cat! .... wait, what?
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