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Your favourite poem?(334 Posts)
Ok, I know National Poetry Day was a few weeks ago, but how about sharing your favourite poems, happy, sad, melacholic or joyful?
This is mine:
Afternoons, by Philip Larkin
Summer is fading:
The leaves fall in ones and twos
From trees bordering
The new recreation ground.
In the hollows of afternoons
Young mothers assemble
At swing and sandpit
Setting free their children.
Behind them, at intervals,
Stand husbands in skilled trades,
An estateful of washing,
And the albums, lettered
Our Wedding, lying
Near the television:
Before them, the wind
Is ruining their courting-places
That are still courting-places
(But the lovers are all in school),
And their children, so intent on
Finding more unripe acrons,
Expect to be taken home.
Their beauty has thickened.
Something is pushing them
To the side of their own lives.
This is my favourite.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Actually this is the translation that is nicest.
Sonnet XVII (100 Love Sonnets, 1960)
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
STRAWBERRIES by Edwin Morgan
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
If you are mortar, it is hard to feel well-disposed towards to the two bricks you are squashed between, or even a sense of community.
The Price of Art in Luton by John Hegley
On the bridge approaching the railway,
the man was begging.
I said draw me a dog
and I'll give you a quid.
So I gave him some paper
and he did.
And I said, there you go, mate,
you can make money out of art!
Will you sign it?
As I handed him the one pound thirty-odd
I had in my pocket,
he informed me that the signed ones were a fiver.
Why do we look back and say
'I was happy yesterday'?
We read the stars, we hope, we seek
For happiness, next month, next week
Just give that job, that man to me
And see how happy I will be
I wonder why, I wonder how
We never think we're happy now
Someone's nicked my knickers by Gez Walsh
Someone's nicked my knickers
And I just want them back
If I find out whose nicked them
I'll give them such I smack
I left them in my top drawer
So they would be easy to find
I can't go out til I find them...
Not with a bare behind!
I've looked in my wardrobe
From the bottom to the top
I looked behind my radiator
Where I found an old green sock
Oh, who has nicked my knickers?
Just where could they have gone?
Wait, I've just remembered
This morning I put them on!
I love Dowson's "They are not long".
"They are not long the weeping and the laughter, love and desire and hate. I Think they have no portion in us after we pass the gate. They are not long the days of wine and roses. Out of a misty dream our path emerges for a while then closes within a dream".
What a lovely thread! I know it's years closed, but I've just read the whole thing and have laughed and cried.
A couple of my favourites:
Defining the Problem, by Wendy Cope
I can't forgive you
But even if I could
You wouldn't pardon me for seeing through you.
And yet I cannot rid myself of love
For what I thought you were before I knew you.
And 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.
“Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!”
“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.”
And finally, Dorothy:
"Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live."
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