A thread neither mad nor sad.

[--Pete]

Hi,

Perhaps my favorite poem of all time is Lepanto. I especially like how Chesterton uses the sounds of the language to evoke images.

--Pete

[DeeBye]

Does Dr. Seuss count as poetry?

[Doc]

Does Dr. Seuss count as poetry?
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Would you, could you, you silly goose

Could you, would you ask this like Dr. Seuss?

[Armin]

For obvious reasons, the choices to pick from are a bit more limited for me, most poetry having read myself being german... :)

But among British or American authors I always liked the works of Robert Frost. (I know, pretty well standard and well-trodden path :rolleyes: )

Two examples:

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

[--Pete]

Hi,

Does Dr. Seuss count as poetry?
[right][snapback]64815[/snapback][/right]

And why should it not? :)

We start infants off with such priceless treasures as "One fish, two fish, red, fish, blue fish". Kids love the rhyme and rhythm, the word play of this poetry which is at a level they can understand. This love is reinforced in good children's programming (Sesame Street and The Electric Company for example).

And then we send them to school where all interest in the language is killed with "see spot run" and 'stories for children' written by incompetent hacks. So much so that, as adults, many cannot even think of any poem, much less a favorite poem.

--Pete

[[wcip]Angel]

I like The Lady of Shalott (linkie)

The story is: There's a lady who's trapped herself in a tower. She can only see the outside world through a window reflected in a mirror. One day, what she sees outside the window, is the reflection in a river of a striking young man. She can see his image perfectly, as her vision is doubly reflected; first in the lake, than in the mirror. After much trepidation and thought she decides to leave the tower to pursue this young man. She sails down the river towards the town, and just as she's about to marvel at its beauty for the first time, she dies.

Basically, the theme is: if you don't take part in world and the joys of life, you will be safe, but also alone and ever-watchful of what's happening "out there". However, if you do take the plunge into life's many winding trails, you will also have to deal with life's finality: death.

At least, that's what I remember from my Victorian Literature-class :)

[pakman]

I have always been a fan of Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost.

When I was a kid, however, I loved listening to my parents read Shel Silverstein. I have all of his books :D

[Doc]

The poem that effected me most profoundly? Changed my life?

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Why did it effect me? I have no idea. None at all. Just seemed deeply profound at the time. I have, or so I have been told, an overwhelming sense of whimsy that dominates my secret inner workings. Mayhap I do.

And I absolutely love the following as well.

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloopy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts...
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall...
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course, it was too late...
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!

And as for poems that make for very silly songs, just look at my sig. If you have never heard the Bananaphone Song, you have lived a very sad and sorry life.

[Occhidiangela]

Hi,

Perhaps my favorite poem of all time is Lepanto.  I especially like how Chesterton uses the sounds of the language to evoke images.

--Pete
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Can't say I have a favorite, though I will admit a weakness for Limericks, and a \ love for the humorous poems of Ogden Nash. (Such classics as "A Panther is like a leopard, except it hasn't been peppered . . .)

I was introduced to Shel via the lyrics of Dr Hook songs. "I was stoned and I missed it" was one I never forgot. :whistling: Some of Kiplings stuff I keep around all the time, but I can't call him a favorite.

I'd have to say that my top two faves are "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere and "The Wreck Of the Hesprus." The first was read to me when I was young by a father who understood how to read poetry, and who was able to put a background of adventure into it. The second was my first ever long poem ever memorized, and again, 'twas an adventure story.

One of the most fun to write was "The Diablazetta" . . . :P Blame the caffeine, if you like, but sometimes, the muse is there to bring us joy, even if the audience groans!

Occhi

[LochnarITB]

There once was a man from Nantucket...

[Doc]

There once was a man from Nantucket...
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That had to soak his balls in a bucket...

[Dozer]

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

by Lord Tennyson Alfred



Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

[ShadowHM]

Hi,
And why should it not? :)

We start infants off with such priceless treasures as "One fish, two fish, red, fish, blue fish".  Kids love the rhyme and rhythm, the word play of this poetry which is at a level they can understand.  This love is reinforced in good children's programming (Sesame Street and The Electric Company for example).

And then we send them to school where all interest in the language is killed with "see spot run" and 'stories for children' written by incompetent hacks.  So much so that, as adults, many cannot even think of any poem, much less a favorite poem.

--Pete
[right][snapback]64825[/snapback][/right]

From the first book of poetry I ever received (for my second birthday) and thus a sentimental favourite:

The Island

If I had a ship,
I'd sail my ship,
I'd sail my ship
Through Eastern seas;
Down to a beach where the slow waves thunder-
The green curls over and the white falls under-
Boom! Boom! Boom!
On the sun-bright sand.
Then I'd leave my ship and I'd land,
And climb the steep white sand,

And climb to the trees,
The six dark trees,
The coco-nut trees on the cliff's green crown -
Hands and knees
To the coco-nut trees,
Face to the cliff as the stones patter down,
Up, up, up, staggering, stumbling,
Round the corner where the rock is crumbling,
Round this shoulder,
Over this boulder,
Up to the top where the six trees stand ....

And there I would rest, and lie,
My chin in my hands, and gaze
At the dazzle of sand below,
And the green waves curling slow,
And the grey-blue distant haze
Where the sea goes up to the sky....

And I'd say to myself as I looked so lazily down at the sea:
"There's nobody else in the world, and the world was made for me."

A.A. Milne

[Leshy]

"De tuinman en de Dood"

As the title implies, the original is in Dutch, which I'm afraid is not particularly useful for replication on this forum. Hence, I have translated the poem into English, which explains why the flow is not particularly nice. Keep in mind that it does have a good meter in the original Dutch version ;)

The gardener and Death

A Persian nobleman:

This morning my gardener came, pale of fright,
into my room: "Good lord, hear my plight!"

Out there, in the rosegarden, I was cutting away,
But upon looking behind me, I saw Death with dismay.

I was frightened and escaped across the other side,
But I'm afraid for the threat of his hand I cannot hide.

Master, a horse, and let me leave with speed,
I'll be at Isfahan tonight on your fastest steed.

This afternoon - the gardener had long since fled,
I went outside and met Death near the flowerbed.

"How come", I asked him as he stood there dark and tall,
"Did you threaten my servant this morning at all?"

He smiled and answered: "A threat it was surely not
that made the good man flee. But surprise was my lot,

When I came upon the man here in the morning light,
that I am supposed to take away in Isfahan by night."

[LemmingofGlory]

I like dark things. Poe's "The Raven" is all kinds of awesome to me, and all the more so because I can't scan un/stressed syllables worth a flip. I don't know what it is about that, but I just never got the hang of it. It always seemed to me that how you pronounced it would determine the stressing.

But here's a poem everyone should recognize.

I can see what you see not,
Vision milky then eyes rot,
When you turn they will be gone,
Whispering their hidden song.

Then you see what cannot be,
Shadows move where light should be,
Out of darkness, out of mind,
Cast down into the Halls of the Blind.

Anyone who doesn't recognize the source of this poem will be promptly flayed.

(Edit: Thought of another)

Sometimes I walk around with this one going through my head.

-Dicrostonyx torquatus

[whyBish]

Can't say I have a favorite, though I will admit a weakness for Limericks
Occhi
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There now is an Occhi from Texas,
Who works in the military Nexus,
He works with a quorum,
To mod our great forum,
Trolls only post when he lets us.

:P

[whyBish]

That had to soak his balls in a bucket...
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They were bloodsoaked, oh yay <_< ,
from when the baseball Came his way,
and he didn't manage to duck it.

Points for PG-13 recovery?

He worked at a stall,
where ten bucks for a ball,
gained a prize if you managed to chuck it.

Points for a G recovery?

Where are the points!!!

[Raven Vale]

One of my favourites is "The Raven " by Edgar allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

[ShadowHM]

One of my favourites is "The Raven " by Edgar allen Poe&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

One of The Simpsons episodes featured Homer declaiming that poem (with Bart playing the part of the Raven, and screeching 'Nevermore'). It was wonderful. :D

However, it is rather sad to know that for many, it was their introduction to the poem.

[--Pete]

Hi,

I always liked that one, too. But Kipling greatly changed the feelings it engenders:

The Last of the Light Brigade
1891
Rudyard Kipling


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THERE were thirty million English who talked of England’s might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and gray;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old troop sergeant muttered, “Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites.”

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant’s order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toilbowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old troop sergeant was spokesman, and “Beggin’ your pardon,” he said,
“You wrote o’ the Light Brigade, sir. Here’s all that isn’t dead.
An’ it’s all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin’ the mouth of hell;
For we’re all of us nigh to the workhouse, an’ we thought we’d call an’ tell.

“No, thank you, we don’t want food, sir; but couldn’t you take an’ write
A sort of ‘to be continued’ and ‘see next page’ o’ the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an’ couldn’t you tell ’em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now.”

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with “the scorn of scorn.”
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

O thirty million English that babble of England’s might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children’s children are lisping to “honour the charge they made—”
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

--Pete