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Old 03-12-2010, 04:38 PM View Post #1 (Link) Favourite Poems and Authors
Raconteur (Offline)
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Maybe the problem with being unable to critique poetry, etc, comes from not reading--but, in fact, the larger problem might be we don't know what to read.

So why not share your favourite poets and poems? Or even any poem that's enjoyable, that you want to share.

Don't have any? Then I suggest you read some that are here, because that might be the exact hurdle to your improvement.

Here's one that I like:

This is a Photograph of Me by Margaret Atwood
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Old 03-13-2010, 01:57 PM View Post #2 (Link)
Simmi (Offline)
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Hm, so far, my favorite poets are: Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson.

A poem I rather like by Poe is: Alone
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Old 03-13-2010, 02:31 PM View Post #3 (Link)
Rowenny (Offline)
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My favorite poets are Edgar Alan Po and Rudyard Kipling.

Two most favorite poems: http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poe...kipling_if.htm and http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literat.../TheRaven.html
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One bright day, late at night,
Two dead boys rose up to fight.
Back to back, they faced each other,
Drew their swords, and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise
And came and killed those two dead boys.
If you don't believe this lie is true
Just ask the blind man -- he saw it too.
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Old 03-13-2010, 06:30 PM View Post #4 (Link)
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I've been reading a lot of poetry from all over the place recently, so I'm in two minds whether or not just to post a list . . . but, I don't have time.

So the one I enjoyed reading most, though not neccessarily my favourite, is Sappho, who lived after the time of Homer around 6/500 BC, so all of her stuff will have been translated and possibly fiddled around with by the translators to fit into English rhythms or rhymes.

On The Cliffs
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Old 03-21-2010, 12:36 AM View Post #5 (Link)
Raconteur (Offline)
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A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman
A NOISELESS, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated,
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres, to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.
  
						Last edited by Raconteur; 03-21-2010 at 12:40 AM.
					
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Old 03-26-2010, 12:59 AM View Post #6 (Link)
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a smile to remember by Charles Bukowski

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "be happy Henry!"
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?"

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled
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Old 03-26-2010, 09:55 AM View Post #7 (Link)
Rose (Offline)
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My two favorite poets are Edgar Allan Poe, and his poem : The Bells.
And Emily Dickinson and the poem: "Hope" is the thing with feathers.
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Das ist das ende


  
						Last edited by Rose; 03-26-2010 at 09:57 AM.
					
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Old 03-26-2010, 03:21 PM View Post #8 (Link)
Raconteur (Offline)
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in Just by e.e. cummings

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman


whistles far and wee


and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring


when the world is puddle-wonderful


the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing


from hop-scotch and jump-rope and


it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed


baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
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Old 03-27-2010, 08:13 PM View Post #9 (Link)
Isis (Offline)
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A much needed thread.

I dream I am the death of Orpheus

Sonnet
by Billy Collins

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here while we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.
The Delicate, Plummeting Bodies
by Stephen Dobyns

A great cry went up from the stockyards and
slaughterhouses, and Death, tired of complaint
and constant abuse, withdrew to his underground garage.
He was still young and his work was a torment.
All over, their power cut, people stalled like street cars.
Their gravity taken away, they began to float.
Without buoyancy, they began to sink. Each person
became a single darkened room. The small hand
pressed firmly against the small of their backs
was suddenly gone and people swirled to a halt
like petals fallen from a flower. Why hurry?
Why get out of bed? People got off subways,
on subways, off subways all at the same stop.
Everywhere clocks languished in antique shops
as their hands composed themselves in sleep.
Without time and decay, people grew less beautiful.
They stopped eating and began to study their feet.
They stopped sleeping and spent weeks following stray dogs.
The first to react were remnants of the church.
They falsified miracles: displayed priests posing
as corpses until finally they sneezed or grew lonely.
Then governments called special elections to choose those
to join the ranks of the volunteer dead: unhappy people
forced to sit in straight chairs for weeks at a time.
Interest soon dwindled. Then the army seized power
and soldiers ran through the street dabbling the living
with red paint. You're dead, they said. Maybe
tomorrow, people answered, today we're just breathing:
look at the sky, look at the color of the grass.
For without Death each color had grown brighter,
At last a committee of businessmen met together,
because with Death gone money had no value.
They went to where Death was waiting in a white room,
and he sat on the floor and looked like a small boy
with pale blond hair and eyes the color of clear water.
In his lap was a red ball heavy with the absence of life.
The businessmen flattered him. We will make you king,
they said. I am king already, Death answered. We will
print your likeness on all the money of the world.
It is there already, Death answered. We adore you
and will not live without you, the businessmen said.
Death said, I will consider your offer.

How Death was restored to his people:

At first the smallest creatures began to die--
bacteria and certain insects. No one noticed. Then fish
began to float to the surface; lizards and tree toads
toppled from sun-warmed rocks. Still no one saw them.
Then birds began tumbling out of the air,
and as sunlight flickered on the blue feathers
of the jay, brown of the hawk, white of the dove,
then people lifted their heads and pointed to the sky
and from the thirsty streets cries of welcome rose up
like a net to catch the delicate and plummeting bodies.
  
						Last edited by Isis; 06-20-2011 at 05:02 AM.
					
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Old 03-27-2010, 08:54 PM View Post #10 (Link)
Isis (Offline)
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I forgot to list poets!

Billy Collins
Elizabeth Bishop
Pablo Neruda
Gabriel Garcia Lorca
Amy Gerstler
Sylvia Plath
Allen Ginsberg
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