Poems that you love

[Leanne]

I dinnae think Andy Stewart's still playing Hogmanay, Ed

[abu nuwas]

Andy took the High Road to the great White Heather Club in the sky some twenty years ago, but not before making his mark, esp. in Australia where he had this awesome No1 :

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqtFnAZu1YI

[Leanne]

Ah yes, a whole generation of troosers thanks him.

[Brownlie]

In honor of that poem about Frankenstein's Mistress. People have rated this poem poorly on poem hunter.com, but it does have a cool sentiment.

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved, -- a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.

When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair,
Held up at a window, seen through a door.
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.

This is a dead scene forever now.
Nothing will ever stir.
The end will never brighten it more than this,
Nor the rain blur.

The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground.

And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.

-Louise Bogan

[Caleb Murdock]

I haven't read all the posts in this series. I intend to, but I am going to do it slowly -- there are so many lovely poems in here. If the poem I am posting below has already been posted, I will substitute something else.

May Sarton was a free-verse poet, but the one time she wrote a poem in form, it turned out to be one of the loveliest poems ever written (in my view). One wonders why she didn't write in form more:

A Handful of Thyme

"What are you doing
Now the end is not far?
Remembering? Ruing?"
"No rue, my dear."

"Are you still seeding?"
"Now and then I do."
"You are frail for weeding,
And the weeds grow."

"Yes, the weeds flourish.
Too brief the hours
When I can still nourish
Poems or flowers."

"The muses have died?"
"Not died. I must be
My own muse beside
My own mystery.

And the memories move
Without warning to break
Happiness, even love
For poetry’s sake."

"But what will you keep
When you can’t even rhyme?"
"Sleep, my dear, sleep
And a handful of thyme."

May Sarton

[Jinxy]

Leaning from a city window
absorbing heavy October sunset, clouds apricot and wool,
leaning far out to grasp traffic lights, cars and substantial people
(a Diesel truck bruises my heart in passing)
leaning far out, far out, till the wind is an arm at my back,
is a paratrooper sergeant. I'm out!
See how the pavement recieves me, shatters me,
see all my life spread in glittering shards on the cool cement,
glittering fragments of traffic lights, of sunset reflect.
Now the girls from the factory grind me beneath their sharp heels.
I am a sparkle of powdered glass on the sidewalk,
a smear of frost. Now a boy scuffs his toe and whirls me to air.
I am frost cystals, seperate and dazzling.
I disseminate, claim all the city for my various estate.
Bidding myself farewell, I ride a stenographer's eyelash,
enter the open collar of a labourers coat
and nest in the warm mat of hair at the base of his throat
and carousing above the street
ride like a carnival the wild loops of light in a neon sign.

Leaning from a City Window - Pat Lowther, 1968

[nb]

Poems that i love?

Just about anything by Stephen Crane.

Have you ever made a just man?

"Have you ever made a just man?"
"Oh, I have made three," answered God,
"But two of them are dead,
And the third --
Listen! Listen!
And you will hear the thud of his defeat."

hits you like a punch to the stomach.

The first six lines of Once there was a man

Once there was a man -
Oh, so wise!
In all drink
He detected the bitter,
And in all touch
He found the sting.
At last he cried thus:
'There is nothing -
No life,
No joy,
No pain -
There is nothing save opinion,
And opinion be damned.'

remind me of way too many people I know & of how I do not want to be.

The livid lightnings flashed in the clouds

The livid lightnings flashed in the clouds;
The leaden thunders crashed.
A worshipper raised his arm.
"Hearken! Hearken! The voice of God!"

"Not so," said a man.
"The voice of God whispers in the heart
So softly
That the soul pauses,
Making no noise,
And strives for these melodies,
Distant, sighing, like faintest breath,
And all the being is still to hear."

is simply wonderful.

nb

[ellajam]

Looks like I'll be reading some Stephen Crane. Thanks

[Brownlie]

Looks like I'll be reading some Stephen Crane. Thanks

Great is the battle God!

[ChristopherSea]

This is my favorite:

-Stephen Crane-

"I saw a man pursuing the horizon..."

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never -- "

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.

[Brownlie]

I guess Carroll got Longfellow pretty good here.

Hiawatha's Photographing

[In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.]

From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;

But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod -
Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.

All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die ill tempests.

Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.

Next, his better half took courage;
SHE would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it came into the picture?"
And the picture failed completely.

Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.

Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty.'

Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left-eye,
Was a drooping of the right-eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils.

Hiawatha, when she asked him,
Took no notice of the question,
Looked as if he hadn't heard it;
But, when pointedly appealed to,
Smiled in his peculiar manner,
Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'
Bit his lip and changed the subject.

Nor in this was he mistaken,
As the picture failed completely.

So in turn the other sisters.

Last, the youngest son was taken:
Very rough and thick his hair was,
Very round and red his face was,
Very dusty was his jacket,
Very fidgety his manner.
And his overbearing sisters
Called him names he disapproved of:
Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'
Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.'
And, so awful was the picture,
In comparison the others
Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy,
To have partially succeeded.

Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
('Grouped' is not the right expression),
And, as happy chance would have it
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.

Then they joined and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.
'Giving one such strange expressions -
Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
Really any one would take us
(Any one that did not know us)
For the most unpleasant people!'
(Hiawatha seemed to think so,
Seemed to think it not unlikely).
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.

But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
Thus departed Hiawatha.


Lewis Carroll

[just mercedes]

Made me smile - but there was a lot to wade through - no offense, but this wouldn't make my Favourite Poems list.

[Todd]

The White Room
By Charles Simic

The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.

They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me,
And then didn’t.

Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild

Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
More and more dark houses
Hushed and abandoned.

There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The thought of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.

The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn’t leave her room much.

The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact,
The simplest things,

Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People describe as “perfect.”

Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins? A hand-mirror?
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn’t it.

Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light,
And the trees waiting for the night.

[just mercedes]

Thanks Todd - great poem.

[Todd]

One I just read:

Outgoing
BY MATT RASMUSSEN

Our answering machine still played your message,
and on the day you died Dad asked me to replace it.

I was chosen to save us the shame of dead you
answering calls. Hello, I have just shot myself.

To leave a message for me, call hell. The clear cassette
lay inside the white machine like a tiny patient

being monitored or a miniature glass briefcase
protecting the scroll of lost voices. Everything barely

mattered and then no longer did. I pressed record
and laid my voice over yours, muting it forever

and even now. I'm sorry we are not here, I began.

[Truerenigma]

One I just read:

Outgoing
BY MATT RASMUSSEN

Our answering machine still played your message,
and on the day you died Dad asked me to replace it.

I was chosen to save us the shame of dead you
answering calls. Hello, I have just shot myself.

To leave a message for me, call hell. The clear cassette
lay inside the white machine like a tiny patient

being monitored or a miniature glass briefcase
protecting the scroll of lost voices. Everything barely

mattered and then no longer did. I pressed record
and laid my voice over yours, muting it forever

and even now. I'm sorry we are not here, I began.

Thank you very much for this one, Todd. I will have to find the publication.

[NobodyNothing]

Let me redo this: This poem is from Joanne M. Clarkson's newly published book of poetry "Believing The Body." She's spent several years as a Hospice and Community nurse. Many of the poems in this collection have to do with the theme of death and dying. She's a poetry buddy of mine from my neck of the woods who frequents some of the same poetry haunts as I do. I really like her poetry, and have a lot of respect for her strength of heart in caring for people at such a vulnerable time in their lives.

DEEP MERCY

Copper, his life given for this
shine. Now he goes even deeper
into the wet collapse of lungs,
hunting, desperate, for any vein of air.

The miner, retired, slumps over his
coffee mug, gasping like the rainbow trout
he cast on Montana's riverbanks.

She is at the range, stirring, watching
sideways, her air wrinkling
into his, so that as she forces out
breath, she panics and calls it back.

She packed his lunch for thirty-five years,
worrying while he headed for shafts
where, beyond the daylight, he harvested the stuff of
wire, bullets and pennies.

He is coughing again, shaking the table,
sloshing coffee, hot, onto his hands.
She moves across the kitchen, then,
knowing he is ready.
"May I lay upon you one more time my husband?"

Weary as habit, he follows her up
impossible stairs, stopping on every other one
to wheeze and pant, collect enough
wind for one more tread
toward the room where he hasn't slept for years.

The ceiling sighs, the bedsprings creak
once, then again, as she drapes her body
over his, presses down, breasts to chest,
so that no amount of will can make
it rise. Silence, then weeping. An old
remedy. A kindness, really

[Truerenigma]

Musee des Beaux Arts
W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

[NobodyNothing]

^^^ Nice. I haven't read a lot of Auden (know his worth, though); but that's one of the best I've read/heard by him. Thanks for that.

God damn it...poetry can be fucking amazing.

[Truerenigma]

^^^ Nice. I haven't read a lot of Auden (know his worth, though); but that's one of the best I've read/heard by him. Thanks for that.

God damn it...poetry can be fucking amazing.

Yeah, it almost halfway does the painting justice - in far less that 500 words!