To ask you to tell me your favourite poet/poem

[Ethelfleda]

I’ve always been quite dense on the topic
I till recently reading ‘The Road Not Taken’ which I loved! I have started to read a little more and am really getting in to it!
So thought I would ask the great MN collective about favourite poets/poems/anthologies

I love a lot of poems from the silly to the classics. Walking with my iguana....Ben Zeph...Diary of a nobody... The Poetry Archive website is a great online source they do a children's one too.

I used to love Pam Ayres.
Yes, I'm serious!
Always made me laugh when I was younger.
The dolly on the dustcart... hilarious!

My Grandma and Grandad loved poetry when I was little, and I used to go and stay over at their house every now and then. One of my very first memories of my Grandma are of her tucking me into my little bed and reciting The Highwayman (off by heart - she knew every verse) to me til I nodded off. It brings back such warm memories that I can't help but love it.

My Grandad loved John Masefield's poetry and always recited the one that began "Quinquereme of Nineveh" all about the boats. I can still remember it by heart because I heard it so often.

I like Naming of Parts by Henry Reed and Adlestrop by Edward Thomas.

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rail, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Brilliant, that last verse makes me smile every time because my Grandad made it sound so exotic, then read the last verse in his deep, rough coalminers voice.

Cargoes!

Mrs Malone by Eleanor Farjeon.

This is one of my favourites

The City by Cavafy

You said: “I’ll go to another country, go to another shore,

find another city better than this one.

Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong

and my heart lies buried like something dead.

How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?

Wherever I turn, wherever I look,

I see the black ruins of my life, here,

where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.”

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.

This city will always pursue you.

You’ll walk the same streets, grow old

in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.

You’ll always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere:

there’s no ship for you, there’s no road.

Now that you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner,

you’ve destroyed it everywhere in the world.

Fog by Carl Sandburg. Really short but I like the imagery:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Goodness, it's only now I've Googled that I realised how long this is and how incredible my Grandma was to remember every word! When she got very old her children made the decision to put her into a nursing home that was near where I lived while I was at University. I used to pop in most afternoons and even in her late 80's she would often recite poetry to her friends and the Care workers in the home. I'd pretend to be bored and she'd stop, raise an eyebrow then wink at me and carry on.

OP thank you for such a beautiful thread, it's made me smile so much reading through these poems and thinking of the lovely memories they bring with them.

My favourite poet is Walter de la mare And from his work Silver is the best for me.

My all time favourite poem is "a marriage" by RS Thomas - I'm really not intellectual So simple poems with deep meaning are my thing

I keep remembering more! Sea Fever by John Masefield. Definitely needs to be read aloud (like The Highwayman).

If - by Rudyard Kipling:

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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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!

What a lovely thread! I love to flick through poetry anthologies and am particularly fond of Bloodaxe books.

My favourite poem is Meeting Point by Louis Macneice.

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe will forever be my favourite

I love Carl Sandburg!

I love so many poems but I think my favourite one is Unending Love by Rabindranath Tagore.
It's this bit that gets me:

"As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:
You become an image of what is remembered forever."

Just glorious!

The German Guns by Private S. Baldrick.

Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom,

Boom, Boom, Boom,

Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom,

Boom, Boom, Boom

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size

But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.

I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,

They say they still can’t see.

I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.

I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

The need for my care.

’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

WB Yeats - The Stolen Child

I remember being amused by this when at school. It's an old one written in 1938:

James Honeyman by W. H. Auden

James Honeyman was a silent child
He didn't laugh or cry;
He looked at his mother
With curiosity.

Mother came up to the nursery,
Peeped through the open door,
Saw him striking matches
Sitting on the nursery floor.

He went to the children's party,
The buns were full of cream;
Sat there dissolving sugar
In his teacup in a dream.

On his eighth birthday
Didn't care that the day was wet
For by his bedside
Lay a ten-shilling chemistry set.

Teacher said: "James Honeyman's
The cleverest boy we've had,
But he doesn't play with the others,
And that, I think, is sad."

While the other boys played football
He worked in the laboratory
Got a scholarship to college,
And a first-class degree.

Kept awake with black coffee,
Took to wearing glasses,
Writing a thesis
On the toxic gases.

Went out into the country,
Went by a Green Line Bus,
Walked on the Chilterns,
Thought about Phosphorus.

Said: "Lewisite in its day
Was pretty decent stuff,
But under modern conditions
It's not nearly strong enough."

His Tutor sipped his port,
Said: "I think it's clear
That young James Honeyman's
The most brilliant man of the year."

He got a job in research
With Imperial Alkali,
Said to himself while shaving:
"I'll be famous before I die."

His landlady said: "Mr Honeyman,
You've only got one life,
You ought to have some fun, Sir.
You ought to find a wife."

At Imperial Alkali
There was a girl called Doreen,
One day she cut her finger,
Asked him for iodine.

"I'm feeling faint" she said.
He led her to a chair,
Fetched her a glass of water,
Wanted to stroke her hair.

They took a villa on the Great West Road,
Painted green and white;
On her left a United Dairy
A cinema on their right.

At the bottom of the garden
He built a little shed.
"He's going to blow us up",
All the neighbours said.

Doreen called down at midnight:
"Jim dear, it's time for bed."
"I'll finish my experiment
And then I'll come," he said.

Caught influenza at Christmas,
The Doctor said: "Go to bed."
"I'll finish my experiment,
And then I'll go," he said.

Walked out on Sundays,
Helped to push the pram,
Said, "I'm looking for a gas, dear,
A whiff will kill a man.

"I'm going to find it,
That's what I'm going to do."
Doreen squeezed his hand and said:
"Jim, I believe in you."

In the hot nights of summer
When roses all were red
James Honeyman was working
In his little garden shed.

Came upstairs at midnight,
Kissed his sleeping son,
Held up a sealed glass test-tube,
Said: "Look, Doreen, I've won!"

They stood together by the window,
The moon was bright and clear.
He said: "At last I've done something
That's worthy of you, dear."

Took a train next morning,
Went up to Whitehall
With the phial in his pocket
To show it to them all.

Sent in his card,
The officials only swore:
"Tell him we're very busy
And show him to the door."

Doreen sad to the neighbours:
"isn't it a shame?
My husband's so clever
And they didn't know his name."

One neighbour was sympathetic,
her name was Mrs Flower
She was the agent
Of a Foreign Power.

One evening they sat at supper,
There came a gentle knock:
"A gentleman to see Mr Honeyman."
He stayed till eleven o'clock.

They walked down the garden together,
Down to the little shed:
"We'll see you, then, in Paris.
Good night," the gentleman said.

The boat was nearing Dover,
He looked back at Calais:
Said: "Honeyman's N.P.C.
Will be heard of some day."

He was sitting in the garden
Writing notes on a pad,
Their little son was playing
Round his mother and dad.

Suddenly from the east
Some aeroplanes appeared,
Somebody screamed: "They're bombers!
War must have been declared!"

The first bomb hit the Dairy,
The second the cinema,
The third fell in his garden
Just like a falling star.

" O kiss me, Mother, kiss me,
And tuck me up in bed
For Daddy's invention
Is going to choke me dead!"

"Where are you, James, where are you
O put your arms round me,
For my lungs are full
Of Honeyman's N.P.C.!"

!I wish I were a salmon,
Swimming in the sea,
I wish I were the dove
That coos upon the tree."

"Oh you are not a salmon,
Oh you are not a dove;
But you invented the vapour
That is killing those you love."

"Oh hide me in the mountains,
Oh drown me in the sea,
Lock me in the dungeon
And throw away the key."

"Oh you can't hide in the mountains,
Oh you can't drown in the sea,
But you must die, and you know why,
By Honeyman's N.P.C.!"

There's nothing....I remember that one has had me crying....thank you.😂

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe

It is quite hard for me to narrow it to one poet! But the one I’ve discovered I’ve discovered in recent years is Mary Oliver. There is a certain wild beauty about poems like Summers Day and When I am Among the Trees.

But the poem I want to share most is The Journey:

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voice behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life that you could save.

Lemn Sissay

Yeats "He wishes for the clothes of heaven"