So what are your favourite poems, then? This means YOU, Quattro...

[Habbibu]

... and others, but Quattro in particular bemoaned the passing of poetry chat on MN. Anyway, for me I think it would be something by Derek Walcott - these are the poems I'm drawn to again and again - for example:

The fist clenched round my heart
loosens a little, and I gasp
brightness; but it tightens
again. When have I ever not loved
the pain of love? But this has moved

past love to mania. This has the strong
clench of the madman, this is
gripping the ledge of unreason, before
plunging howling into the abyss.

Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live.

So go on, what else do you like, and why?

Can I have the whole of the Divine Comedy, or is that cheating?

I'm not going to lie, I have some serious defuzzing to do! Sorry for lowering the tone of the thres but I'm putting this on watch and will come back to you on it Kerry. For now I bid you adeiu? adieu? oiche mhaith!

Ooooh - fab thread. Can I join?

Here's two off the top of my head:

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

*

Wolves

I do not want to be reflective any more
Envying and despising unreflective things
Finding pathos in dogs and undeveloped handwriting
And young girls doing their hair and all the castles of sand
Flushed by the childrenæs bedtime, level with the shore.

The tide comes in and goes out again, I do not want
To be always stressing either its flux or its permanence,
I do not want to be a tragic or philosophic chorus
But to keep my eye only on the nearer future
And after that let the sea flow over us.

Come then all of you, come closer, form a circle,
Join hands and make believe that joined
Hands will keep away the wolves of water
Who howl along our coast. And be it assumed
That no one hears them among the talk and laughter.

Louis Macneice

Another MacNeice (I was really into his stuff last year):

Louis MacNeice - Snow

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

"Song"
Adrienne Rich

You're wondering if I'm lonely:
OK then, yes, I'm lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.

You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely

If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep

If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.

This is NOT mine.
I will probably be banished from ever contributing to this type of thread again.........................BUT

I fought so hard to get this card
It was the last one on the shelf
It's not all there but you don't care
Your not all there yourself

Goodnite.

That's very lovely BrokenRecord, and not an anthologised familiar thing.

I got that as a valentine verse when I was 14, loved it then, love it now.

How about this - Buffalo Bill by ee cummings:

Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons justlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what I want to know is
how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death

I really like it - I first saw it in a novel by Helen Dunmore

Oh, I see the problem with the spacing that Mhamai was talking about now. It's meant to look very different on the page .

Penthesileia... I love 'Snow'.

I've posted this one on here loads of times, but I have to post it again. I first read it when dd2 was three, and it made me cry then, knowing that she wouldn't be three forever. Now that she's six it makes me cry more. [blubbing emoticon]

Beattie Is Three

At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand. O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless.

(Adrian Mitchell)

Read the first sonnet of Petrarch's Canzoniere aloud in class today and was stunned, as ever, by its beauty. Quite apart from the meaning, the sound is amazing.

Voi ch'ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
di quei sospiri ond'io nudriva 'l core
in sul mio primo giovenile errore,
quand'era in parte altr'uom da quel ch'i' sono:
del vario stile in ch'io piango et ragiono
fra le vane speranze e 'l van dolore,
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore,
spero trovar pietà, non che perdono.
Ma ben veggio or sì come al popol tutto
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente
di me medesmo meco mi vergogno;
et del mio vaneggiar vergogna è 'l frutto,
e 'l pentersi, e 'l conoscer chiaramente
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno.

Don't worry brokenrecord, us laurets can still read but alas I have a latin luvva to get ready for, you'll have to go searching if you want more info, I'm orf now.

Ps
Will read this thread properly tomorrow and especially your halloween story kerry!

ta ta x

Loving this thread here's my contribution - two from ee cummings:

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch, stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be -
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

**

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

**

ee cummings

(lower case poet's own)

Quick hi and goodbye Ellbell, will have to fill you in on the goss when I see you again. Hope your keepin well..........Ellbell......see a poet and I didn't know it!

Ok, I'm goin I'm goin!

A big poetical SNAP brokenrecord

by Maya Angelou

"Phenomenal Woman"

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 of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

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.

I like John Donne

'Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise? because 'tis light?
Did we lie down, because 'twas night?
Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst, that it could say,
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I lov'd my heart and honor so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that's the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

And my Grandma used to read me The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes when I was little, and now I read it to DS.

Oh, love Maya Angelou...

Here's another:

Without Commercials

by Alice Walker

Listen,
stop tanning yourself
and talking about
fishbelly
white.
The color white
is not bad at all.
There are white mornings
that bring us days.
Or, if you must,
tan only because
it makes you happy
to be brown,
to be able to see
for a summer
the whole world's
darker
face
reflected
in your own.

Stop unfolding
your eyes.
Your eyes are
beautiful.
Sometimes
seeing you in the street
the fold zany
and unexpected
I want to kiss
them
and usually
it is only
old
gorgeous
black people's eyes
I want
to kiss.

**

Stop trimming
your nose.
When you
diminish
your nose
your songs
become little
tinny, muted
and snub.
Better you should
have a nose
impertinent
as a flower,
sensitive
as a root;
wise, elegant,
serious and deep.
A nose that
sniffs
the essence
of Earth. And knows
the message
of every
leaf.

*

Stop bleaching
your skin
and talking
about so much black
is not beautiful
The color black
is not bad
at all.
There are black nights
that rock
us
in dreams.
Or, if you must,
bleach only
because it pleases you
to be brown,
to be able to see
for as long
as you can bear it
the whole world's
lighter face
reflected
in your own.

As for me,
I have learned
to worship
the sun
again.
To affirm
the adventures
of hair.

For we are all
splendid
descendants
of Wilderness,
Eden:
needing only
to see
each other
without
commercials
to believe.

Copied skillfully
as Adam.

Original

as Eve.

Ellbell - had tears prick my eyes at Beattie as well. dd2 is 2 - it's going to get worse, isn't it?!

My dd is 22, nothing changes but I wouldn't change anything! Cherish every moment!

I love Maya Angelou too and have been fortunate enough to meet her. She is a wonderful lady.

Wow, ledodgy - v. cool.

Bumping this in the hope it'll get Quattro's attention, with a poem we had at our wedding:

he Silver Hat

Loving you is like wearing a silver hat.

Everywhere I go people stop me and ask, "What's that remarkable thing on your head?"

I used to see other people wearing silver hats but never thought I'd be lucky enough to get one.

I thought I was destined to be one of those unhappy, unhatted people.

But now...

Now I visit friends just to show them how wonderful I look.

Last night, for example, I went to see a silver-hatted person I hadnt seen for ages.

We spoke about many hat-related topics.

On the way home, I passed your house and, suddenly, found myself writing a note and slipping it under your door.

In the morning you'll find a piece of paper on your doormat.

I wonder what you'll think when you read, "Please dont ever take your hat away."

by Philip Ridley

Ooh Habbibu - you wonderful thing.

What a fantastic and eclectic selection! I'm glad Dover Beach got a mention. Great to see Derek Walcott too

I see we've done a fair bit of Yeats, so won't add to it (although Among School Children is my absolute fave). We've done Auden too but this doesn't often get a mention:

In Memory of W. B. Yeats
by W. H. Auden

I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Do you think Auden should always be read aloud?

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull,
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind's not right.

A car radio bleats,
Oh and reading Elizabeth Bishop reminded me of this, by Robert Lowell, which was dedicated to her, I think?

It's the second half of Skunk Hour

'Love, O careless Love . . . .' I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat . . . .
I myself am hell,
nobody's here--

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air--
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.

Habbibu, I do love this thread ...

Sorry, I posted a sentence in the middle of the poem:

"Oh and reading Elizabeth Bishop reminded me of this, by Robert Lowell, which was dedicated to her, I think?

It's the second half of Skunk Hour"