First one to come to mind

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Spazway
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First one to come to mind

Post by Spazway » Mon Jun 18, 2007 4:24 am

If someone asked you to name a favourite poet and/or favourite poem, what would your answer be?
If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you. ~ A. A. Milne

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Graeme
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Post by Graeme » Mon Jun 18, 2007 6:32 am

My favorite poem would have to be "If" by Rudyard Kiplihng. My father and I memorized it the summer I was 16, while he was drivng me to work each morning. We were asked to recite it at almost every family get together from then until his death; it was also part of his eulogy.

My favorite authors are more contemporary Lee-young Li, Mary Oliver, Lucille Clifton, William Carlos Williams - then again I really enjoy Langston Hughes - oh rats that's an impossible question to answer - there are too many.
This above all to thine own self be true.

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Post by heinzs » Mon Jun 18, 2007 9:41 am

[IF]

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


--Rudyard Kipling
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nekot
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Post by nekot » Mon Jun 18, 2007 2:42 pm

Okay...you said the FIRST one to come to mind. :lol:

Well, for me currently it is Gerry Spoors' poem "A Poet Learns To Be Unread." I've contemplated it much the past weeks.

To be honest I've not read enough "famous" poets to have a wide repertoire. I used to always enjoy Dr. Suess. Does Psalms in the Bible count as poetry? If so....quite a few Psalms.

A Poet Learns To Be Unread


Some poems disappear when critics advise;
"They should vanish before they are noted",
and impassioned poets quickly surmise,
that their verses will seldom be quoted

Though most labor on, and never give in,
to the fashionable trends of the day
They'll wear thicker skins, since critic's akin,
label everything "trite, and cliche"

A poet must learn, that all his concerns
are not shared by the prosaic masses
Like Byron, or Burns, they'll often take turns
finding solace in whiskey filled glasses

Just so it is said, by masters now dead;
"Poetry written will soon be unread"
~eloquently scattered~
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Post by Spazway » Mon Jun 18, 2007 6:24 pm

I never stated that it had to be a famous poet or poem. :lol: Sure, why wouldn't the Psalms count? To me they're some of the most poetic words ever penned. :mrgreen:
If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you. ~ A. A. Milne

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Post by nekot » Mon Jun 18, 2007 6:39 pm

Well, this one isn't a Psalm....well, not in the book of Psalms. But tis one of my favorite scriptures that I've put to tune. (I don't recall the version but probably of an Amplified origin.)

This I recall to my mind
Therefore have I hope
It is of the Lord's mercies
That we are not consumed
His compassions, they fail not
They are new every morning
Great is Thy faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:21 (ff)
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Post by nekot » Mon Jun 18, 2007 6:41 pm

And this one....I thought of it at supper thinking about your question Spazway:

THE BRIDGE BUILDER

An old man, going a lone highway,
Came at the evening cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast and deep and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim-
That sullen stream had no fears for him;
But he turned, when he reached the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,
"You are wasting strength in building here.
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again must pass this way.
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head.
"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for him."

-WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE
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Post by nekot » Mon Jun 18, 2007 6:44 pm

Okay....I done went and wrote more than the FIRST ONE.


Do I needs to go sit in the corner? :devil:
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Spazway
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Post by Spazway » Mon Jun 18, 2007 7:44 pm

nekot wrote:Okay....I done went and wrote more than the FIRST ONE.


Do I needs to go sit in the corner? :devil:
LOL, nah...you're fine. :hello:
If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you. ~ A. A. Milne

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Post by jeannerené » Mon Jun 18, 2007 11:11 pm

First to come to mind ....

Poet: Dylan Thomas

Favorite Poem:

MORE STRONG THAN TIME
by VICTOR HUGO.

Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,
Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,
Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it,
And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;

Since it was given to me to hear one happy while,
The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,
Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;

Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam,
A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always,
Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime's stream,
Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days;

I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours,
Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old,
Fleet to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers,
One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.

Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill
The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet;
My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill,
My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.
... and his words purge up and outward,
expelled and onward through desert dust swallowed,
sands he says that gorge on simple sensibilities.
And, now he spits fragments, grit, extended vowels and elongated syllables
over cracked lips. Their sounds fall
piling round his boots…
~ jeannerené

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Post by moonflower » Fri Jun 22, 2007 4:32 pm

this one came to my mind..its called "Vases" by Nan Terrell Reed..

Vases

Two vases stood on the Shelf of Life

As Love came by to look,

One was of priceless cloisonne,

The other of solid common clay.

Which do you think Love took?



He took them both from the Shelf of Life,

He took them both with a smile;

He clasped them both with his finger tips,

And touched them both with caressing lips,

And held them both for awhile.



From tired hands Love let them fall,

And never a word was spoken.

One was of priceless cloisonne,

The other of solid common clay.

Which do you think was broken?

~ Nan Terrell Reed ~
Last edited by moonflower on Mon Jun 25, 2007 7:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.
inside each soul there is music...let the music play..

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Post by nekot » Mon Jun 25, 2007 10:57 am

Spazway wrote:
nekot wrote:Okay....I done went and wrote more than the FIRST ONE.


Do I needs to go sit in the corner? :devil:
LOL, nah...you're fine. :hello:
Okay...I'll push my luck. :wink: Besides "fourth" has 3 of the same letters as "first". :mrgreen: :roll:

I thunk of this one about 1-1/2 days later. I'd say this is probably my favorite poem of all time. It hangs in my living room and every time I hear/recall it, it causes a tear (or more). Myra is no relation to me (that I know of :grin:). The Canadian fiddler/musician/lyrist Natalie McMaster has a great version of this to music.

Sarah, I didn't know Myra's story until looking it up just now on line. :crying: Her story is below the poem on this link:
http://www.barefootsworld.net/touch.html



<center>The Touch of the Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile:
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar"; then, "Two!" "Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three----" But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
And going, and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed its worth." Swift came the reply:
"The touch of a master's hand."

And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine;
A game--and he travels on.
He is "going" once, and "going" twice,
He's "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.

--Myra Brooks Welch
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Post by Kalledsoe » Wed Jun 27, 2007 1:38 pm

Have to say I love that poem as well, Nekot. :)

While a favourite poem is much like a favourite song or a film in that it may and must change often, unless it truly strikes a deep chord within, this is my favourite for this time being and thus, may be described, as a 'win.'

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.

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Post by beautifullyburnt » Fri Jul 13, 2007 4:23 pm

My favourite poem would be "Jabberwocky" Because of the memories it stirs up of a summers day in my living room with my dad. I was seven-ish and knew it off by heart. (There were also figurines involved ina re-enactment of it. Hehe XD)

My favourite poet, however cheesey this may sound is my dad. His words mean a lot and the pictures he's always painted for me with words make me smile.

"Famous" poet wise though it would probably be Roger McGough or Robert Louis Stevenson.
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Post by Spazway » Wed Aug 22, 2007 4:01 pm

One of the first poets that comes to mind when someone asks me to name one of my favourite poets is John Donne, followed closely by William Shakespeare. As for the first poem that comes to mind when asked about my favourites, I think that would be either The Ecstasy or The Dream or Elegy XX: To His Mistress Going To Bed.

The Ecstasy

Where, like a pillow on a bed,
A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest
The violet's reclining head,
Sat we two, one another's best.
Our hands were firmly cemented
By a fast balm, which thence did spring ;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string.
So to engraft our hands, as yet
Was all the means to make us one ;
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.
As, 'twixt two equal armies, Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls—which to advance their state,
Were gone out—hung 'twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay ;
All day, the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day.
If any, so by love refined,
That he soul's language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
Within convenient distance stood,
He—though he knew not which soul spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same—
Might thence a new concoction take,
And part far purer than he came.
This ecstasy doth unperplex
(We said) and tell us what we love ;
We see by this, it was not sex ;
We see, we saw not, what did move :
But as all several souls contain
Mixture of things they know not what,
Love these mix'd souls doth mix again,
And makes both one, each this, and that.
A single violet transplant,
The strength, the colour, and the size—
All which before was poor and scant—
Redoubles still, and multiplies.
When love with one another so
Interanimates two souls,
That abler soul, which thence doth flow,
Defects of loneliness controls.
We then, who are this new soul, know,
Of what we are composed, and made,
For th' atomies of which we grow
Are souls, whom no change can invade.
But, O alas ! so long, so far,
Our bodies why do we forbear?
They are ours, though not we ; we are
Th' intelligences, they the spheres.
We owe them thanks, because they thus
Did us, to us, at first convey,
Yielded their senses' force to us,
Nor are dross to us, but allay.
On man heaven's influence works not so,
But that it first imprints the air ;
For soul into the soul may flow,
Though it to body first repair.
As our blood labours to beget
Spirits, as like souls as it can ;
Because such fingers need to knit
That subtle knot, which makes us man ;
So must pure lovers' souls descend
To affections, and to faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
Else a great prince in prison lies.
To our bodies turn we then, that so
Weak men on love reveal'd may look ;
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.
And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us, he shall see
Small change when we're to bodies gone


===================================

The Dream

Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream ;
It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou waked'st me wisely ; yet
My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories ;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.
As lightning, or a taper's light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me ;
Yet I thought thee
—For thou lovest truth—an angel, at first sight ;
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart,
And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art,
When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and camest then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.
Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
Thou art not thou.
That love is weak where fear's as strong as he ;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have ;
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me ;
Thou camest to kindle, go'st to come ; then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.


=====================================
Elegy XX: To His Mistress Going To Bed

Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy ;
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed-time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet, and show
The hairy diadems which on you do grow.
Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread
In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise ; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite ;
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.
Full nakedness ! All joys are due to thee ;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views ;
That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul might court that, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus array'd.
Themselves are only mystic books, which we
—Whom their imputed grace will dignify—
Must see reveal'd. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to thy midwife show
Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence ;
There is no penance due to innocence :
To teach thee, I am naked first ; why then,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?


All poems were found here: http://www.readprint.com/author-30/John-Donne
If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you. ~ A. A. Milne

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