Would anyone be able to recommend me their favourite poem?

[Purplturpl]

Particularly if it evokes strong emotions. I want to convince my teenager poetry can be amazing

I am old enough to remember singers singing The Road To Mandalay on the radio, and if I have the words in front of me I can remember the tune.
There's also a Kipling poem about a piece of land and the owners and stewards from Roman times. I like it a lot.

How wonderful to find someone else who knows this extraordinarily powerful poem. Thank you.

It's so amazing isn't it Crystal.

Incidentally I'm convinced that the footnoted words should actually be 'O scala enigmatica' which scans better and means more. I think it was typed incorrectly on a website and has spread from there. But I'm not a Latin scholar so I don't know.

If you are 14 I think a poem probably needs to have an obvious immediate emotional impact rather than requiring a bit of musing on.

It was the sounds and rhythms of the words that used to attract me to poetry when I was young. Night Mail was one. And the hard consonants of 'Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack' compared to the softer, more long drawn out syllables of the previous stanzas.

There's also a Kipling poem about a piece of land and the owners and stewards from Roman times. I like it a lot.

It's just called The Land. Puck's Song has similar ideas behind it.

How about the Ancient Mariner? I'd think that would appeal to a teenage boy (though I've never been one, and don't know many...)

My ds recently performed this for his LAMDA exam 😊

Sorry if someone's already posted this..

Get him to read Owen's Dulce er Decorum Est

then this by Carol Ann Duffy. So moving and so so clever:

Last Post

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud…
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home -
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce - No - Decorum - No - Pro patria mori.
You walk away.

You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too -
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert -
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.

You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.

Dulce et

Tsk!

Aw. And how did it go?

He got a distinction 😊

Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Another slant on the Romans in Britain

Roman Wall Blues

Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

W.H.Auden

Ozymandias

Or what about
THE POWER OF THE DOG

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it’s your own affair—
But… you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in—Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Me too. It’s a haunting poem

Yes it is amazing, although I first read it in (probably) a Sunday Times article and your final 'scala enigmatica' section was missing. IIRC, these were the final lines I remember. Hugely moving.

"... I owe a death to you – one day
The time will come for me to pay
When your slim shape from photographs
Stands at my door and gently asks
If I have any work to do
Or will I come to bed with you."

When I get a minute I'll do some research and see what I find.

Shamelessly adding a few of my own to bump this thread because it's opened my eyes to some gorgeous poems I didn't know...

I love Sophie Hannah's "If People Disapprove Of You"

Make being disapproved of your hobby.
Make being disapproved of your aim.
Devise new ways of scoring points
In the Being Disapproved Of Game.

Let them disapprove in their dozens.
Let them disapprove in their hordes.
You’ll find that being disapproved of
Builds character, brings rewards.

Just like any form of striving
Don't be arrogant; don't coast
On your high disapproval rating.
Try to be disapproved of most.

At this point, if it's useful,
Draw a pie chart or a graph.
Show it to someone who disapproves.
When they disapprove, just laugh.

Count the emotions you provoke:
Anger, suspicion, shock.
One point for each of these
And two for each boat you rock.

Feel yourself warming to your task -
You do it bloody well.
A last you've found an area
In which you can excel.

Savour the thrill of risk without
The fear of getting caught.
Whether they sulk or scream or pout,
Enjoy your new-found sport.

Meanwhile all those who disapprove
While you are having fun
Won't even know your game exists
So tell yourself you've won.

Also it wouldn't be poetry without mentioning e e Ccummings

let it go – the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear
so comes love

Get him to have a listen to Anthony Smieszek too- he's a spoken word poet/ musician who's funny and cool and would appeal to teenagers.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree - Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

I'm just shamelessly bumping this thread for traffic because I love it and it's opened my eyes to lots of new poetry.

Miracle on St David’s Day by Gillian Clarke is another that always brings tears to my eyes
www.gillianclarke.co.uk/gc2017/miracle-on-st-davids-day/

John Betjeman has been getting a plug on another thread. Here's a lesser known one by him.

Margate 1940

From out The Queen’s Highcliffe for weeks at a stretch
I watched how the mower evaded the vetch,
So that over the putting-course rashes were seen
Of pink and of yellow among the burnt green.

How restful to putt, when the strains of a band
Announced a the dansant was on at The Grand,
While over the privet, comminglingly clear,
I heard lesser Co-Optimists down by the pier.

How lightly municipal, meltingly tarr’d,
Were the walks through the lawns by the Queen’s Promenade
As soft over Cliftonville languished the light
Down Harold Road, Norfolk Road, into the night.

Oh! then what a pleasure to see the ground floor
With tables for two laid as tables for four,
And bottles of sauce and Kia-Ora and squash
Awaiting their owners who’d gone up to wash –

Who had gone up to wash the ozone from their skins
The sand from their legs and the rock from their chins
To prepare for an evening of dancing and cards
And forget the sea-breeze on the dry promenades.

From third floor and fourth floor the children looked down
Upon ribbons of light in the salt-scented town;
And drowning the trams roared the sound of the sea
As it washed in the shingle the scraps of their tea.

Beside The Queen’s Highcliffe now rank grows the vetch,
Now dark is the terrace, a storm-battered stretch;
And I think, as the fairy-lit sights I recall,
It is those we are fighting for, foremost of all.

I didn’t know that Betjeman one. My favourite of his is Death in Leamington

Beside her the lonely crochet
Lay patiently and unstirred
But the fingers that would have worked it
Were dead as the spoken word.

There’s a lovely YouTube video of Maggie Smith reading it.

I love listening to Hollie McNish read her poetry

Sylvia Path reading her poetry.

This is a fab thread and thanks so much for bumping it, @BosworthBosworth. Not sure how much these will appeal to a teenage boy, but here are my favourite poems:

Five Ways to Kill A Man by Edwin Brock (written apparently after hearing the Britten War Requiem)

The Solution by Bertolt Brecht (which always makes me laugh)

Settling for the Night/Noswylio, by Ifor ap Glyn (which always makes me cry)

and Auden's Stop All the Clocks. So many other favourites which have been posted upthread, too.

Oh, and 40 Love, by Roger McGough, which is so clever on a number of levels.