Greatest Poem

[quddusaliquddus]

What is the best Poem (or specific lines of poetry) in your opinion?
:smile:

[arildno]

"Should I compare thee to a summer's day.."
(or something like that..)

[arildno]

Another classic, in Old Norse:
"Gott har konung alit oss, ty det er ennu feitt um hjartarøtinn..
Så hneig han aptr, og var så daudr"

[Adam]

The first four lines of this one in particular are quite funky.

Auguries of Innocence
By William Blake

------------------

TO see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill'd with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus'd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game nozzle clipp'd and arm'd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf's & Lion's howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won't believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov'd by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by Woman lov'd.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider's enmity.
He who torments the Chafer's sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Catterpillar on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist's Jealousy.
The Prince's Robes & Beggars' Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy & Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro' the World we safely go.
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swadling Bands;
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, & born were hands,
Every Farmer Understands.
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity.
This is caught by Females bright
And return'd to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,
Does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,
Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.
The poor Man's Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore.
One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser's lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole Nation sell & buy.
He who mocks the Infant's Faith
Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the Infant's faith
Triumph's over Hell & Death.
The Child's Toys & the Old Man's Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like the Armour's iron brace.
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.
A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile.
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you Please.
If the Sun & Moon should doubt
They'd immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion you Good may do,
But no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore & Gambler, by the State
Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.
The Harlot's cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.
The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,
Dance before dead England's Hearse.
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet Delight.
Some ar Born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro' the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

[TALewis]

The last part of Ulysses by Tennyson:

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

[Echo 6 Sierra]

Beans, beans, the magical fruit...

[quddusaliquddus]

The last part of Ulysses by Tennyson:

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

...... Nice ......

[quddusaliquddus]

As for beans .... it is a wonderful food

[quddusaliquddus]

'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

[quddusaliquddus]

I know the Way You Can Get


I know the way you can get
When you have not had a drink of love:

Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp.
Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree.
They decide which secret code to chant
To help your mind and soul.

Even angels fear that brand of madness
That arrays itself against the world
And throws sharp stones and spears into
The innocent
And into one’s self

O I know the way you can get
If you have not been drinking Love:

You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.

You might weigh every word on a scale
Like a dead fish.
You might pull out a ruler to measure
From every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once trusted.

I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love’s Hands.

That is why all the Great Ones speak of
The vital need
To keep remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being so Playful
And Wanting,
Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near to me,
For I am the Sweet Old Vagabond
With an Infinite Leaking Barrel
Of Light and Laughter and Truth
That the Beloved has tied to my back.

Dear one,
Indeed, please bring your heart near to me.
For all I care about
Is quenching your thirst for freedom!

All a sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!

[Adam]

Two I like a LOT:

Man of LaMancha (I Am I, Don Quixote)
From Man of LaMancha
Lyrics by Joe Darion

I shall impersonate ... a man.
Come, enter into my imagination, and see him:
Boney, hollow faced, eyes that burn with the fire of inner vision.
He conceives the strangest project ever imagined ...
To become a knight errant
And sally forth into the world, righting all wrongs!

Hear me now, oh thou bleak and unbearable world
Thou art base and debauched as can be!
And a knight with his valors all bravely unfurled
Now hurls down his gauntlet to thee!

I am I, Don Quixote,
The Lord of LaMancha,
My destiny calls, and I go!
And the wild winds of fortune
Shall carry me onward ... To wither so ever they blow ...
Wither so ever they blow ...
Onward to glory I go!

I'm Sancho, yes, I'm Sancho
I'll follow my master till the end ...
I'll tell all the world, proudly,
I'm his squire ... I'm his friend.

Hear me heathens, and wizards, and servants of sin:
All your dastardly doings are past!
For a holy endeavor is now to begin
And virtue shall triumph at last!

I am I, Don Quixote,
The Lord of LaMancha,
My destiny calls, and I go!
And the wild winds of fortune
Shall carry me onward ... To wither so ever they blow ...
Wither so ever they blow ...
Onward to glory I go!


The Impossible Dream (The Quest)
From Man of LaMancha
Lyrics by Joe Darion

To dream ... the impossible dream ...
To fight ... the unbeatable foe ...
To bear ... with unbearable sorrow ...
To run ... where the brave dare not go ...
To right ... the unrightable wrong ...
To love ... pure and chaste from afar ...
To try ... when your arms are too weary ...
To reach ... the unreachable star ...

This is my quest, to follow that star ...
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far ...
To fight for the right, without question or pause ...
To be willing to march into Hell, for a Heavenly cause ...

And I know if I'll only be true, to this glorious quest,
That my heart will lie will lie peaceful and calm,
when I'm laid to my rest ...
And the world will be better for this:
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach ... the unreachable star ...

[einsteinian77]

Dylan Thomas's "Do not go gentle into that good night."

[Adam]

Yup, that's a good one. :)

[quddusaliquddus]

Nice ones!

Whose Don Quixote?

[Adam]

Don Quixote is a character from The Man Of La Mancha. The guy who attacks windmills because he thinks they're giants or something.

[quddusaliquddus]

Lol ... gotta read that somtime

[zoobyshoe]

My very favorite poem starts out:

Let us go then, you and I
When the evening lies spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table.

Let us go through certain half deserted streets;
The muttering retreats of restless nights
in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells,

Streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
To lead you to some overwhelming question

Oh do not ask "What is it?"
Let us go, and make our visit...

-The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

by T.S Eliot

Later in the poem comes the famous line:

I should have been
A pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors
Of silent seas

[quddusaliquddus]

Nice ......... :D

[Bubonic Plague]

I got this in one of those mass forward emails, but i find it simple, short, sweet, and yet so meaningful.

Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.

And I never see my old friends face,
For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.

And he rang mine but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.

"Tomorrow" I say! "I will call on Jim
Just to show that I'm thinking of him."
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner, yet miles away,
"Here's a telegram sir," "Jim died today."
And that's what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.

[quddusaliquddus]

Thats a sweet poem. I feel it ...

[honestrosewater]

Well, I don't know about the greatest, but here are two favorites :) Shakespeare is the greatest poet I've ever read, but I couldn't choose the greatest of his.


My Mind To Me A Kingdom Is

My mind to me a kingdom is,
Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss
That world affords or grows by kind.
Though much I want which most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to feed a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,
For why my mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty suffers oft,
And hasty climbers soon do fall;
I see that those which are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all;
They get with toil, they keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never bear.

Content I live, this is my stay,
I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Lo! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss;
I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain,
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust,
A cloaked craft their store of skill;
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,
My conscience clear my choice defence;
I neither seek by bribes to please,
Nor by deceit to breed offence.
Thus do I live; thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!

Sir Edward Dyer
(1543 - 1607)


Jolly Good Ale and Old

I CANNOT eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I not desire.
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;
I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare, &c.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Back and side go bare, go bare, &c.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to;
And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls
Or have them lustily troll'd,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

William Stevenson
(1530?–1575) (He was a monk, BTW ;)

Happy thoughts
Rachel

[Njorl]

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea !
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful !
And they all dead did lie :
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on ; and so did I.


I always liked The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

[quddusaliquddus]

Sounds like these mariners had a sense of humour :D '100 slimy things' ...
like it very much

as for shakespeare : hes gotta be up there within the top 3 somehwere...

[quddusaliquddus]

I have to admit though honestrosewater (since you're so honest), I'm a Baconian myself ... so I tend to look upon Shakespeare as a genius in Science as well the Arts.

[honestrosewater]

I have to admit though honestrosewater (since you're so honest), I'm a Baconian myself ... so I tend to look upon Shakespeare as a genius in Science as well the Arts.

Meaning you think Bacon was the author of Shakespeare's works, or you adhere to the Baconian method (methodical observation of facts as a means of studying and interpreting natural phenomena)?
Yes, I consider the best artists to be scientists as well. I also consider the best scientists to be artists ;) The only difference I see between the two is their use of ambiguity; ambiguity is the artist's food, the scientist's poison.
As you noticed,
In any question put on this board, I've noticed that a sort of good etiquett to do a mental ritual-dance that entails a rangle over the definitions assumed in the question
Happy thoughts
Rachel

[quddusaliquddus]

No, I didn't mean the Baconian Method

[sandinmyears]

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

_________________________

I like the simplicity in it (even a little humor) and I also enjoy the pattern of the rhyme:

AABA
BBCB
CCDC
DDDD

[quddusaliquddus]

Nice :D .........

[Njorl]

I have to admit though honestrosewater (since you're so honest), I'm a Baconian myself ... so I tend to look upon Shakespeare as a genius in Science as well the Arts.

It's hard to beat Shake and Bake! :tongue2:

Njorl

[quddusaliquddus]

Lol ... they sure 'cook up' a treat ... ;D

"Poetry is as a dream of learning, a thing sweet and varied, and that would be thought to have in it something divine, a character which dreams likewise affect . But now it is time for me to awake, and rising above the earth, to wing my way through the clear air of philosophy and the sciences." -- De Augmentis - 1623

[quddusaliquddus]

"If a man look sharply and attentively, he shall see Fortune; for though she is blind, she is not invisible.--Essays OF Fortune {Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind." --Shakespeare, Henry V, act III, sc.vi,}

[honestrosewater]

"If a man look sharply and attentively, he shall see Fortune; for though she is blind, she is not invisible.--Essays OF Fortune {Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind." --Shakespeare, Henry V, act III, sc.vi,}

And? Shakespeare read and was read. Shakespeare inspired and was inspired. It could also be a coincidence.
That sort of thing happened all the time. Why is Samuel Daniel not up for the prize? Read some of Daniel's sonnets and note the similarities.
http://darkwing.uoregon.edu/%7Erbear/delia.html

One that leaps out is:
Sonnet 39
When winter snows upon thy sable hairs,
And frost of age hath nipt thy beauties near;
When dark shall seem thy day that never clears,
And all lies withered that was held so dear:
Then take this picture which I here present thee,
Limned with a pencil that's not all unworthy:
Here see the gifts that God and Nature lent thee;
Here read thyself, and what I suffer'd for thee.
This may remain thy lasting monument,
Which happily posterity may cherish;
These colours with thy fading are not spent,
These may remain, when thou and I shall perish.
If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby:
They will remain, and so thou canst not die.

Compare with Shakespeare's
Sonnet 2
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

And Sonnet 17
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

And several more. Of course, I don't really think there is much comparison to make- they are slightly similar in that they use some of the same words and ideas. Anyway, this is the best I can do on short notice, perhaps you should start another thread ;)
Happy thoughts
Rachel

[Trogdor]

"Let's see. I guess it would have to start with the scissors. A man? Hands, scissors? No, scissor hands..." Eward Scissorhands

[Chrono]

What's the one that starts off with "There once was a girl from Nantucket."

Well, here's one I thought was pretty cool.

Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?
by Thomas Hardy

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."

[quddusaliquddus]

Lol...cool rhyimng...keeps u on ur toes :D

[sandinmyears]

Here's another one of my favorites:

Ballad of Birmingham
(1969)
(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)

"Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?"

"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren't good for a little child."

"But, mother, I won't be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free."

"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.
But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children's choir."

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know that her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.

For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
"O, here's the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?"

[honestrosewater]

And the KKK is still alive and well? :confused: :frown:

[Shahil]

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.



http://www.poets.org/poems/poems.cfm?prmID=1369

WB Yeats "The Second Coming"

Brilliant poem! It's at the front of Chinua Achebe's book "Things Fall Apart."
Good book as well!

I also love the The Love Song of J Alfred Prufock by TS Eliot. It's long but amazing.

quddusaliquddus, I will be back here! Can't think right now.

Oh e e cummings is also quite amazing!

[quddusaliquddus]

Shahil, that sounds anarchic! Ok, think later then - come back n post... :D

[quddusaliquddus]

And? Shakespeare read and was read. Shakespeare inspired and was inspired. It could also be a coincidence.
That sort of thing happened all the time. Why is Samuel Daniel not up for the prize? Read some of Daniel's sonnets and note the similarities.
http://darkwing.uoregon.edu/%7Erbear/delia.html

One that leaps out is:
Sonnet 39
When winter snows upon thy sable hairs,
And frost of age hath nipt thy beauties near;
When dark shall seem thy day that never clears,
And all lies withered that was held so dear:
Then take this picture which I here present thee,
Limned with a pencil that's not all unworthy:
Here see the gifts that God and Nature lent thee;
Here read thyself, and what I suffer'd for thee.
This may remain thy lasting monument,
Which happily posterity may cherish;
These colours with thy fading are not spent,
These may remain, when thou and I shall perish.
If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby:
They will remain, and so thou canst not die.

Compare with Shakespeare's
Sonnet 2
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

And Sonnet 17
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

And several more. Of course, I don't really think there is much comparison to make- they are slightly similar in that they use some of the same words and ideas. Anyway, this is the best I can do on short notice, perhaps you should start another thread ;)
Happy thoughts
Rachel

I agree, it's a rather contentious issue and not within the scope or topic of this thread. Consider yourself invited to it :smile:

[quddusaliquddus]

'Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward'

http://www.physicsforums.com/showthread.php?t=27541

[Discussion on authroship of Shakespeare's works]

This'll be the last mention of the issue of authorship on this thread (I hope). Lets get with the poems :D

[Shahil]

Here's TWO links to the same poem.

http://www.poets.org/poems/poems.cfm?prmID=1184
http://plagiarist.com/poetry/270/

Wasn't sure about how it would look when I quoted it!
It's Grass hopper by e.e. cummings



r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
who
a)s w(e loo)k
upnowgath
PPEGORHRASS
eringint(o-
aThe):l
eA
!p:
S a
(r
rIvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs)
to
rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
,grasshopper;



It's quite good innit?

[0TheSwerve0]

Becoming a Nun

For Jennifer Josephy

On cold days
it is easy to be reasonable,
to button the mouth against kisses,
dust the breasts
with talcum powder
& forget
the red pulp meat
of the heart.

On those days
it beats
like a digital clock--
not a beat at all
but a steady whirring
chilly as green neon,
luminous as numerals in the dark,
cool as electricity.

& I think:
I can live without it all--
love with its blood pump,
sex with its messy hungers,
men with their peacock strutting,
their silly sexual baggage,
their wet tongues in my ear
& their words like little sugar suckers
with sour centers.

On such days
I am zipped in my body suit,
I am wearing seven league red suede boots,
I am marching over the cobblestones
as if they were the heads of men,

& I am happy
as a seven-year-old virgin
holding Daddy's hand.

Don't touch.
Don't try to tempt me with your ripe persimmons.
Don't threaten me with your volcano.
The sky is clearer when I'm not in heat,
& the poems
are colder.

[Hypercase]

Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime. -
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


*the last two lines mean "it is sweet and right to die for ones country".
the poet was a soldier who fought in ww1, who showed much bravery in battle and died a few days before the end of the war.

[Brennen]

The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. Written 1306-1321, im sure someone would have heard of it. There are many different translations as it was originally written in Tuscan. A true epic. Auguste Rodin's sculpture "The Thinker" was Dante in front of the Gates of Hell, pondering his great poem. I would also suggest not giving up on it entirely, there are several translations and if you read one and do not enjoy it, chances are it's not your ideal translation. To get the best perspective on Dante (short of reading the work in Italian) it's helpful to read both a prose and a poetic translation.

http://www.italianstudies.org/hui235/altieri1.htm

that site contains much infortmation on the many translations, as well as many different translations of the same verse.

The Commedia's first tercet, perhaps the most recited in western literature, sets the tone for Dante's entire poem. It is an end-stopped tercet with two extremely important rhyme words, vita 'life' and smarrita 'lost', which De Sua calls "opposing semantic spheres" (De Sua).

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
ché la via diritta era smarrita.

[In the middle of our life's walk
I found myself in a dark wood
for the straight road was lost]

Dante's Inferno: Canto V: Line 121: “No Greater Grief Than To Remember Days Of Joy When Misery Is At Hand"

Closing words of Paradiso Canto xxxiii, and The Divine Comedy:
"My desire and will were moved already—like a wheel revolving uniformly—by the Love that moves the sun and the other stars"

[Gokul43201]

Some of my favorites :

Ulysses - Tennison (especially the ending)
Where the Mind is Without Fear - Tagore
She Walks in Beauty - Byron
If - Kipling

On the lighter side :

Inchcape Rock - Southey
The Walrus and the Carpenter - Lewis Caroll
Macavity, the Mystery Cat - Elliott

[Brennen]

Has anybody here read The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri?

[Gokul43201]

Has anybody here read The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri?

Some of it. And several times over. But never did get very far...

[Brennen]

yeh, i find the longfellow translation specifically can get rather tedious. im very tempted to learn the original Tuscan it was written in, so i can read it the way it was meant to be read. i guess i'll have to settl for reading lots of translations of it.

p.s. im specifically interested because apparently it's possible my family are descendant. its hard to be sure because, you know, 700 years ago, but from what my family knows its possible. i guess i'll never know. besides, i think the work is amazing.

[Tigers2B1]

I’ve already posted this one in another thread but I’ll post it here since it’s now actually on topic. This is my favorite -

Death of a Son (who died in a mental hospital aged one), By Jon Silkin

Something has ceased to come along with me.
Something like a person: something very like one.
And there was no nobility in it
Or anything like that.

Something was there like a one year
Old house, dumb as stone. While the near buildings
Sang like birds and laughed
Understanding the pact

They were to have with silence. But he
Neither sang nor laughed. He did not bless silence
Like bread, with words.
He did not forsake silence.

But rather, like a house in mourning
Kept the eye turned in to watch the silence while
The other houses like birds
Sang around him.

And the breathing silence neither
Moved nor was still.

I have seen stones: I have seen brick
But this house was made up of neither bricks nor stone
But a house of flesh and blood
With flesh of stone

And bricks for blood. A house
Of stones and blood in breathing silence with the other
Birds singing crazy on its chimneys.
But this was silence,

This was something else, this was
Hearing and speaking though he was a house drawn
Into silence, this was
Something religious in his silence,

Something shining in his quiet,
This was different this was altogether something else:
Though he never spoke, this
Was something to do with death.

And then slowly the eye stopped looking
Inward. The silence rose and became still.
The look turned to the outer place and stopped,
With the birds still shrilling around him.
And as if he could speak

He turned over on his side with his one year
Red as a wound
He turned over as if he could be sorry for this
And out of his eyes two great tears rolled, like stones,
and he died.

[Tigers2B1]

"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

[Tigers2B1]

Note the last few lines of this poem :)

"Lobsters," by Howard Nemerov

Here at the Super Duper, in a glass tank
Supplied by a rill of cold fresh water
Running down a glass washboard at one end
And siphoned off at the other, and so
Perpetually renewed, a herd of lobster
Is made available to the customer
Who may choose whichever one he wants
to carry home and drop into boiling water
And serve with a sauce of melted butter.
Meanwhile, the beauty of strangeness marks
These creatures, who move (when they do)
With a slow, vague wavering of claws,
The somnambulist's effortless clambering
As he crawls over the shell of a dream
Resembling himself. Their velvet colors,
Mud red, bruise purple, cadaver green
Speckled with black, their camouflage at home,
Make them conspicuous here in the strong
Day-imitating light, the incommensurable
Philosophers and at the same time victims
Herded together in the marketplace, asleep
Except for certain tentative gestures
Of their antennae, or their imperial claws
Pegged shut with a whittled stick at the wrist.
We inlanders, buying our needful food,
Pause over these slow, gigantic spiders
That spin not. We pause and are bemused,
And sometimes it happens that a mind sinks down
to the blind abyss in a swirl of sand, goes cold
And archaic in a carapace of horn,
Thinking: There's something underneath the world.
The flame beneath the pot that boils the water.

[Tigers2B1]

The Buried Life by Matthew Arnold

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?--must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which forsaw
How frivolous a baby man would be--
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity--
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And wehave been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves--
Hardly had skill to utter one at all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course of for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well--but t'is not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power,
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only--but this is rare--
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur, and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm prevades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.

[Tigers2B1]

Two poems by Dorothy Parker

Interior

Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.

There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
-----

Godmother

The day that I was christened-
It's a hundred years, and more!-
A hag came and listened
At the white church door,
A-hearing her that bore me
And all my kith and kin
Considerately, for me,
Renouncing sin.
While some gave me corals,
And some gave me gold,
And porringers, with morals
Agreeably scrolled,
The hag stood, buckled
In a dim gray cloak;
Stood there and chuckled,
Spat, and spoke:
"There's few enough in life'll
Be needing my help,
But I've got a trifle
For your fine young whelp.
I give her sadness,
And the gift of pain,
The new-moon madness,
And the love of rain."
And little good to lave me
In their holy silver bowl
After what she gave me-
Rest her soul!

[Tigers2B1]

This one is nice in some quite causal way -

"If I should learn, in some quite casual way" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again--
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man--who happened to be you--
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud--I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place--
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

[Entropy]

Not into much poety, but I'd have to go with The Raven.

[marcus]

"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

this of mary oliver is so nice I have to go find another of hers to put with it.
I am thinking of "hummingbird stops by a trumpet vine" or some such title. You probably know it. Having two will show to what extent you chose best.

Mary Oliver
Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine


Who doesn't love
roses, and who
doesn't love the lilies
of the black ponds

floating like flocks
of tiny swans,
and of course the flaming
trumpet vine

where the hummingbird comes
like a small green angel, to soak
his dark tongue
in happiness---

and who doesn't want
to live with the brisk
motor of his heart
singing

like a Schubert,
and his eyes
working and working like those days of rapture,
by Van Gogh, in Arles?

Look! for most of the world
is waiting
or remembering---
most of the world is time

when we're not here,
not born yet, or died---
a slow fire
under the earth with all

our dumb wild blind cousins
who also
can't even remember anymore
their own happiness---

Look! and then we will be
like the pale cool
stones, that last almost
forever.

[marcus]

This one is nice in some quite causal way -

"If I should learn, in some quite casual way" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again--
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man--who happened to be you--
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud--I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place--
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

this is extremely fine
and makes me want to put another one of hers with it
you know the one I will chose and probably would not have
included it in you sample---it is so well-known. another sonnet
but the form is Petrarchian rather than, as with the one you chose, Shakespearian


What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

[reilly]

This thread is turning into a wonderful anthology indeed.

I'm very partial to Louis MacNeice, in no small measure for the four lines:

Good-bye now Plato and Hegel,
The shop is closing down;
They don't want any philosopher-kings in England.
There ain't no universals in this man's town.

From Autumn Journal(1939), his long, long journal during the time of the ascent of Hitler, Stalin, the brutality of the Spanish Civil War, British appeasement and the tango of the English and American intellectuals with the left.

Regards,
Reilly Atkinson

[kcballer21]

Stevie Smith - Our Bog is Dood

Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,
They lisped in accents mild,
But when I asked them to explain
They grew a little wild.
How do you know your Bog is dood
My darling little child?

We know because we wish it so
That is enough, they cried,
And straight within each infant eye
Stood up the flame of pride,
And if you do not think it so
You shall be crucified.

Then tell me, darling little ones,
What's dood, suppose Bog is?
Just what we think, the answer came,
Just what we think it is.
They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours
And we are wholly his.

But when they raised them up again
They had forgotten me
Each one upon each other glared
In pride and misery
For what was dood, and what their Bog
They never could agree.

Oh sweet it was to leave them then,
And sweeter not to see,
And sweetest of all to walk alone
Beside the encroaching sea,
The sea that soon should drown them all,
That never yet drowned me.

[Njorl]

I can't believe I haven't added Jabberwocky to the list

JABBERWOCKY
by Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And, hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

[marcus]

One could have a thread just for sonnets. this is my second response to the Edna St.V.M. sonnet that Tiger posted earlier

Brennen, in this thread, put some tercets of Dante and then translated them. I liked this. It is good to see a formal poem in two languages.

So I will do that with the Borges sonnet---first try to recall Richard Wilbur's english from memory and then go find a link to the original

One thing does not exist. Oblivion.
god saves the metal and he saves the dross
and his prophetic memory guards from loss
the moons to come and those of evenings gone
everything IS--the shadows in the glass
which in between the days two twilights, you
have scattered by the thousands, or shall strew
henceforward in the mirror as you pass.

And everything is part of that diverse
crystalline memory, the universe
Whoever through its endless mazes wanders
hears door on door click shut, behind his stride,
and only from the sunset's farther side
shall view at last the Archetypes and Splendors.

yeeeee hahhhh!

I think of this sonnet as being about the 4D universe--- about a spacetime
which is a crystalline memory of all that has happened and will happen

Here is a link to the spanish original (and the English properly punctuated, not from memory)
Thanks to Letralia.com for posting the poem
http://www.letralia.com/58/en02-058.htm
http://www.physicsforums.com/showthread.php?p=247183#post247183



A sonnet is like a Law of Nature, I mean, a really good sonnet, like the one
that tiger posted by Edna StVM

This one is nice in some quite casual way
"If I should learn, in some quite casual way" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again--
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man--who happened to be you--
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud--I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place--
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

[meteor]

This poem of Whitman has always given me the chills:
"WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars."

[Gokul43201]

That Whitman poem reminded me of the following (not a poem, so I don't know if it's okay to post it here) :

Metallica's Lyrics - Wherever I May Roam

...and the road becomes my bride
I have stripped of all but pride
So in her I do confide
And she keeps me satisfied
Gives me all I need

...and with dust in throat I crave
Only knowledge will I save
To the game you stay a slave
Rover wanderer
Nomad vagabond
Call me what you will

But I’ll take my time anywhere
Free to speak my mind anywhere
And I’ll redefine anywhere
Anywhere I may roam
Where I lay my head is home

...and the earth becomes my throne
I adapt to the unknown
Under wandering stars I’ve grown
By myself but not alone
I ask no one

...and my ties are severed clean
The less I have the more I gain
Off the beaten path I reign
Rover wanderer
Nomad vagabond
Call me what you will

But I’ll take my time anywhere
I’m free to speak my mind anywhere
And I’ll never mind anywhere
Anywhere I may roam
Where I lay my head is home

But I’ll take my time anywhere
Free to speak my mind
And I’ll take my find anywhere
Anywhere I may roam
Where I lay my head is home

Carved upon my stone
My body lies, but still I roam
Wherever I may roam

[sandinmyears]

Wopping by Stoods on an Owing Stevening
Woose hoods ease thare; I knink i thoe.
His vouse is in; The thillage hoe.
We hill sot nee me hopping stere;
Woo hotch his foods will up snith woe.

My hittle lorse must quink it theer;
To wop stithout a narmhouse fear.
Wetween the boods and lozen frake;
The arkest deevening of yuh dear.

He hives his garness shells a bake;
To thask if air is mum sistake.
The unly oather swounds the seep;
of weasy ind and flowny dake.

The doods are dovely, wark, and leep;
Hut I bav kromises to peep.
And giles to mow sefore I bleep;
And giles to mow sefore I bleep.

~Frobert Rost

[Gokul43201]

Hey, you really have sand in yor ears, don't you ?