What's your favourite poem?

[PruniStuffing]

Or poet, in general?

I think I'm getting Shakespeare's Sonnets for christmas.

Not Waving But Drowning
by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning

Lilacbump - my DD, who also loves poetry, read that and told me that she wants me to wear purple when I am old. So do I..

This Is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

The sort of thing my DH would do, except he would not leave a note...............

yoyo, you and your DH and I all feel the same way about that poem, I think.

gulp

Janh i cant find either cinders, will look through my books tommorrow.

for HC. any good?

SONNET I.
THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours,
Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread,
And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers,
To weave fantastic garlands for my head:
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn'd her dear delusive art;
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship or unhappy love.
Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost,
If those paint sorrow best--who feel it most!

Charlotte Smith

We had this at our wedding....really love it
O Tell Me The Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

I also like this one

There's not a Shakespearian sonnet
Or a Beethoven quartet
That's easier to like than you
Or harder to forget
And if that sounds extravagant I haven't finished yet
I like you more than I would like to have a cigarette

m

Familiar but lovely to read again Christie,especially as my MIL has just died.
Dh on his way home from Turkey but obviously didn't make it in time. I will print it out for him.

And this one by Auden (the one from 4 Weddings and a Funeral )

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-- W.H. Auden

If You'll Just Go to Sleep
by Gabriel Mistral

The blood red rose
I gathered yesterday,
and the fire and cinnamon
of the carnation,

Bread baked with
anise seed and honey,
and a fish in a bowl
that makes a glow:

All this is yours,
baby born of woman,
if you'll just
go to sleep.

A rose, I say!
I say a carnation!
Fruit, I say!
And I say honey!

A fish that glitters!
And more, I say -
If you will only
sleep till day.

Thanks Christie
He is distraught that he didn't phone her last night (despite the fact that he has phoned her constantly for months).
As my mother said,when someone dies,there is always away to make yourself feel bad and lacking.
I will copy the poem out and leave it on his desk-he will like it.

Come with Me

by Fran Landesman (www.franlandesman.com)

Come with me, go with me,
burn with me, glow with me ,
Write me a sonnet or two;
Sleep with me, wake with me,
Give with me, take with me,
Love me the way I love you.
Let me get high with you,
Laugh with you, cry with you,
Be with you when I am blue;
Rest with you, fight with you
Day with you, night with you
Love me whatever I do.
Work with me, play with me
Run with me, stay with me
Make me your partner in crime;
Handle me, fondle me,
Cradle me tenderly
Say I'm your reason and rhyme.
Pray with me, sin with me,
Lose with me, win with me,
Love me with all of my scars;
Rise with me, fall with me
Hide from it all with me
Nothing is mine now, it's ours.

Aaaw that's lovely....

Copy and pasting that one to give to dh I think!

Cheers jinglybits!!

Only going 2 days and look at the amount of posts on this thread! So many poetic souls out there - it is wonderful to see. I have just starting posting on 2 ttc threads after a long break so this is a wonderful way of keeping my spirits up. Or not. This is (as Lola would say) absolutely extremely my favourite poem at the moment but it makes me cry and cry everytime I read it. It is not an "easy" poem in any sense but very beautiful. If you are feeling raw and vulnerable for any reason please do not read on......

DEATH OF A SON
(who died in a mental hospital aged one)

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 niether
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.
Jon Silken

I like T.S Eliot. Skimbleshanks the railway cat is great just because the rhythmn makes you read it like a steam train on the tracks.

There's a whisper down the line at 11.39
When the Night Mail's ready to depart,
Saying Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to hunt the thimble? We must find him orthe train can't start.' All the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster's daughters They are searching high and low, Saying Skimble where is Skimble for unless he's very nimble
Then the Night Mail just can't go.'
At 11.42 then the signal's nearly due
And the passengers are frantic to a man -
Then Skimble will appear and he'll saunter to the rear:
He's been busy in the luggage van!
He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes
And the signal goes `All Clear!'
And we're off at last for the northern part
Of the Northern Hemisphere!

You may say that by and large it is Skimble who's in charge
Of the Sleeping Car Express.
From the driver and the guards to the bagmen playing cards
He will supervise them all, more or less.
Down the corridor he paces and examines all the faces
Of the travellers in the First and in the Third;
He establishes control by a regular patrol
And he'd know at once if anything occurred.
He will watch you without winking and he sees what you are thinking
And it's certain that he doesn't approve
Of hilarity and riot, so the folk are very quiet
When Skimble is about and on them ove.
You can play no pranks with Skimbleshanks!
He's a Cat that cannot be ignored;
So nothing goes wrong on the Northern Mail
When Skimbleshanks is aboard.

Oh it's very pleasant when you have found your little den
With your name written up on the door.
And the berth is very neat with a newly folded sheet
And there's not a speck of dust on the floor.
There is every sort of light - you can make it dark or bright;
There's a button that you turn to make a breeze.
There's a funny little basin you're supposed to wash your face in
And a crank to shut the window if you sneeye.
Then the guard looks in politely and will ask you very brightly
do you like your morning tea weak or strong?' But Skimble's just behind him andwas ready to remind him, For Skimble won't let anything go wrong. And when you creep into your cosy berth And pull up the counterpane, You are bound to admit that it's very nice To know that your won't be bothered by mice - You can leave all that to the Railway Cat, The Cat of the Railway Train! In the middle of the night he is always fresh and bright; Every now and then he has a cup of tea With perhaps a drop of Scotch while he's keeping on the watch, Only stopping here and there to catch a flea. You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never knew That he was walking up and down the station; You were sleeping all the while he was busy at Carlisle, Where he greets the stationmaster with elation. But you saw him at Dumfries, where he summons the police If there's anything they ought to know about: when you get to Gallowgate there you do not have to wait - For Skimbleshanks will help you to get out! He gives you a wave of his long brown tail Which says: I'll see you again!
You'll meet without fail on the Midnight Mail
The Cat of the Railway Train.'

I also loved Pam Ayers as a child - mum always used to read me 'I wish I'd looked after me teeth' as a dire warning of the repercussions of slack tooth cleaning.

I like a poem by John Taylor

'Tory Government Unemployment Figures'

Tory Government,
Unemployment.
Figures!

sober, is that a haiku by any chance?
saw a book yesterday in borders, 50 classic novels written as haikus, v. funny!

I would buy this anthology.

NL3, Tell me the Truth About Love was set to music by B Britten, it's so good and unlike his usual style, worth listening out for.

I was lucky to study Carol Ann Duffy as a grown-up (hmm, sort of a grown-up!) a few years ago when I did English A level at evening class. Prob enjoyed it a lot more because it was something I wanted to be doing.

And a quick one - sorry if slightly misquoted

TO SOMEONE WHO INSISTED I LOOK UP SOMEONE

I rang them up while touring Timbuktu,
Those bosom pals to whom you're known as 'Who?'

Sorry, don't know who wrote it.

Even the title of the son-who-died-in-a-mental-institution one has made me weep. I wish the brain had a shredder function for things like that.

anything in songs of experience/songs of innocence by William Blake. absolute brilliance. everything dark has a light. love him as an artist as well.

this pic

or this poem

The Human Abstract

Pity would be no more
If we did not make somebody poor,
And Mercy no more could be
If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fear brings Peace,
Till the selfish loves increase;
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears;
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head,
And the caterpillar and fly
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat,
And the raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The gods of the earth and sea
Sought through nature to find this tree,
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the human Brain.

roosmum i was going to post Plath's mushrooms too. Sends shivers up my spine. I used to rage against her as a student and then found her again recently and realised what i had been missing. Ted Hughes' Birthday Letters beautiful too.