Who is your favorite poet?

[senior citizen]

..............................

[LI SNOWBIRD]

Gibran is wonderful -- but there are so many great poets. I mostly favor the romantics. If pressed i would say T.S Eliot.
My daughter recently gave me a coffee mug with a TS eliot quote "I have mesured out my life in coffee spoons", from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I means a great deal to me. Hmm can you guess I was a lit major?

[birdawg]

Barry White Baby baby baby!

[graciegirl]

Dr. Suess. You can take the teacher outa Kindergarten, but you can't take the Kindergarten outa the teacher.

[bluedog103]

Whoever wrote the Man From Nantucket!

[Taltarzac725]

John Donne : The Poetry Foundation (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/john-donne)

I really liked a lot of these poems after seeing a special on his poems and his life. This was on BBC and had Simon Schama and Fiona Shaw discussing and reading his works. http://www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason/poets/john_donne.shtml

[senior citizen]

...........................

[zcaveman]

The Limerick guy (or gal).

Z

[senior citizen]

.................................................. ..........

[zcaveman]

STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING by Robert Frost
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.
************************************************** *********
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
************************************************** ***********8
If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda
12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral / Chile
I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.


SONNET XVII by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
　
　

　
　
　
　
　


You asked for the name of a poet - not a recitation of his/her works. If you name the poet we can look up the works.

Z

[graciegirl]

The Limerick guy (or gal).

Z


There was a young vicar called Herman,
Who came here to preach his first sermon;
He failed to enthuse
The folk in the pews,
Because he could only speak German.

The Mad Hatter said to the Hare:
"I think someone's taken my chair".
Said Alice: "I see—
And who might that be?"
"Myself", said the Hatter, "so there!"

There was an old mathematician,
Who had a profound intuition;
A smart operation
Called multiplication
Would speed up the task of addition.

There was a young girl called Felicity
Whose body gave off electricity;
It produced enough wattage
To power her cottage,
And earned her a lot of publicity.

When Jesus turned water to wine,
The crowd thought it tasted just fine.
A rich connoisseur
Remarked with hauteur:
"It's vintage BC 29!"

There was an American resident
Who'd long had a wish to be President,
But the modest amount
In his savings account
Was probably why he felt hesitant.

I once heard a wise observation
On how to improve education:
If children have ardour,
They'll want to try harder—
They just need enough inspiration.

A bright undergraduate's query
About the relativity theory
Was met with a dry
Professorial sigh:
"Just study your lecture notes, dearie".

A funeral rite was progressing,
And the priest was pronouncing his blessing,
When the coffin lid rose,
The worshippers froze,
And a voice cried: "I'm dead? How distressing!"

There was a composer called Handel,
Who said to a rival: "You vandal!
You've arranged my Messiah
For all-female choir—
I think it's an absolute scandal!"

"In Britain", said Julius Caesar,
"I faced the odd tactical teaser.
One tribe gave me grief,
So I captured their chief
And slaughtered the stubborn old geezer".

The newspaper headline said "Shame!
Loose morals of Queen are to blame!"
It intended to slate
Not their dear Head of State,
But the well-known rock band of that name.

The above poem was blatantly stolen from someone named Bowdein.

I also know another one about a guy from an island just off the coast of Massachusetts.

[The Mountaineer]

William Shakespeare. Playwright, but his words are poetry to me. A rose by any other name is just as sweet. Penetrating philophy in 10 words. If you insist on a poet, Wordsworth's "Prelude."

[Bizdoc]

Like all good Alaskans, Robert Service. While reading the threda on cremation, I kept thinking that I wanted to be cremated on the marge of Lake Labarge under the Northern Lights...

[Taltarzac725]

Like all good Alaskans, Robert Service. While reading the threda on cremation, I kept thinking that I wanted to be cremated on the marge of Lake Labarge under the Northern Lights...

I have read a lot of Robert Service. I lived in Nevada from 1969 or so through 1984. With much of that last year getting a MA in Librarianship and Information Management from the University of Denver. Alaska and Northern Nevada seem to have a lot of similarities with landscape and people. There were three Alaskans in some of my classes at the University of Denver. All went to work in public or school libraries in Alaska.

[Tennisnut]

Sorry, don't have one. Never got "lit" by English lit! Remember spending an hour discussing one sentence in a poem or passage. Thank God that class is over! As an engineering major, thought it was better to use the KISS principal in speech and exchange of thoughts. Have a friend who loves Emily Dickinson. Can anyone please explain what she is trying to say?

[Laurie2]

Did not intend,
To offend.

[TheVillageChicken]

Robert Zimmerman aka Bob Dylan

"Subterranean Homesick Blues"


Johny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollar bills
You only got ten.

Maggie comes fleet foot
Face full of black soot
Talkin' that the heat put
Plants in the bed but
The phone's tapped anyway
Maggie says that many say
They must bust in early May
Orders from the DA
Look out kid
Don't matter what you did
Walk on your tip toes
Don't try, 'No Doz'
Better stay away from those
That carry around a fire hose
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows.

Get sick, get well
Hang around an ink well
Ring bell, hard to tell
If anything is goin' to sell
Try hard, get barred
Get back, write Braille
Get jailed, jump bail Join the army, if you failed
Look out kid
You're gonna get hit
But losers, cheaters
Six-time users
Hang around the theaters
Girl by the whirlpool
Lookin' for a new fool
Don't follow leaders
Watch the parkin' meters.

Ah get born, keep warm
Short pants, romance, learn to dance
Get dressed, get blessed
Try to be a success
Please her, please him, buy gifts
Don't steal, don't lift
Twenty years of schoolin'
And they put you on the day shift
Look out kid
They keep it all hid
Better jump down a manhole
Light yourself a candle
Don't wear sandals
Try to avoid the scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
You better chew gum
The pump don't work
'Cause the vandals took the handles.

[bkcunningham1]

ee cummings

[Bizdoc]

As my FIL's dementia deepened, one of the last portions of his memory to go was the memory of poetry he had memorized in school. He didn't know his daughter, but he knew Horatio at the bridge...

When Phil Condit was CEO of Boeing, he ran a leadership development program for the very senior managers. Part of the week long program was poetry readings by David Whyte, a former management consultant turned author and poet. His goal was to help these folks (mostly engineers as he was) see that aesthetics are an important part of good design and of good business.

Poets are the experts at distilling events, emotions, and observations down to the minimum critical elements.

[geri317]

Mary Oliver is a favorite of mine.

[rubicon]

Gibran is wonderful -- but there are so many great poets. I mostly favor the romantics. If pressed i would say T.S Eliot.
My daughter recently gave me a coffee mug with a TS eliot quote "I have mesured out my life in coffee spoons", from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I means a great deal to me. Hmm can you guess I was a lit major?

LI Snowbird: Me too. "And the women come and go speaking of Michelangelo"............................

Poetry/prose subject to mood

I was fascinated with Guy de Maupassant writings Mother Savage ,etc

and my mood from reading Katherine a Porters' The Jilting of Granny Weatherall" comical to bereavement

I need to read more poems and short stories

[Bosoxfan]

Andrew Dice Clay LOL :):what:

[LI SNOWBIRD]

LI Snowbird: Me too. "And the women come and go speaking of Michelangelo"............................

Poetry/prose subject to mood

I was fascinated with Guy de Maupassant writings Mother Savage ,etc

and my mood from reading Katherine a Porters' The Jilting of Granny Weatherall" comical to bereavement

I need to read more poems and short stories

Thanks but I have to add Emily Dickenson... : "Because I could not stop for death-he kindly stopped for me..."
PS I am so happy that there alot of other poetry lovers out there

[Uptown Girl]

Poem of the Day: Immigrant Picnic
[http://poetryfoundation.org/poem/29817] by Gregory Djanikian

It's the
Fourth of July, the flags are painting the town, the plastic forks and
knives are laid out like a parade.

And I'm grilling, I've got my apron, I've got potato salad, macaroni,
relish, I've got a hat shaped like the state of Pennsylvania.

I ask my father what's his pleasure and he says, "Hot dog, medium rare,"
and then, "Hamburger, sure, what's the big difference," as if he's
really asking.

I put on hamburgers and hot dogs, slice up the sour pickles and Bermudas,
uncap the condiments. The paper napkins are fluttering away like lost
messages.

"You're running around," my mother says, "like a chicken with its head
loose."

"Ma," I say, "you mean cut off, loose and cut off being as far apart
as, say, son and daughter."

She gives me a quizzical look as though I've been caught in some
impropriety. "I love you and your sister just the same," she says, "Sure,"
my grandmother pipes in, "you're both our children, so why worry?"

That's not the point I begin telling them, and I'm comparing words to fish
now, like the ones in the sea at Port Said, or like birds among the
date palms by the Nile, unrepentantly elusive, wild.

"Sonia," my father says to my mother, "what the hell is he talking about?"
"He's on a ball," my mother says.
"That's roll!" I say, throwing up my hands, "as in hot dog, hamburger, dinner roll...."

"And what about roll out the barrels?" my mother asks, and my father claps
his hands, "Why sure," he says, "let's have some fun," and launches into
a polka, twirling my mother around and around like the happiest top,

and my uncle is shaking his head, saying "You could grow nuts listening to
us,"

and I'm thinking of pistachios in the Sinai burgeoning without end,
pecans in the South, the jumbled flavor of them suddenly in my mouth,
wordless, confusing, crowding out everything else.

[graciegirl]

Poem of the Day: Immigrant Picnic
[http://poetryfoundation.org/poem/29817] by Gregory Djanikian

It's the
Fourth of July, the flags are painting the town, the plastic forks and
knives are laid out like a parade.

And I'm grilling, I've got my apron, I've got potato salad, macaroni,
relish, I've got a hat shaped like the state of Pennsylvania.

I ask my father what's his pleasure and he says, "Hot dog, medium rare,"
and then, "Hamburger, sure, what's the big difference," as if he's
really asking.

I put on hamburgers and hot dogs, slice up the sour pickles and Bermudas,
uncap the condiments. The paper napkins are fluttering away like lost
messages.

"You're running around," my mother says, "like a chicken with its head
loose."

"Ma," I say, "you mean cut off, loose and cut off being as far apart
as, say, son and daughter."

She gives me a quizzical look as though I've been caught in some
impropriety. "I love you and your sister just the same," she says, "Sure,"
my grandmother pipes in, "you're both our children, so why worry?"

That's not the point I begin telling them, and I'm comparing words to fish
now, like the ones in the sea at Port Said, or like birds among the
date palms by the Nile, unrepentantly elusive, wild.

"Sonia," my father says to my mother, "what the hell is he talking about?"
"He's on a ball," my mother says.
"That's roll!" I say, throwing up my hands, "as in hot dog, hamburger, dinner roll...."

"And what about roll out the barrels?" my mother asks, and my father claps
his hands, "Why sure," he says, "let's have some fun," and launches into
a polka, twirling my mother around and around like the happiest top,

and my uncle is shaking his head, saying "You could grow nuts listening to
us,"

and I'm thinking of pistachios in the Sinai burgeoning without end,
pecans in the South, the jumbled flavor of them suddenly in my mouth,
wordless, confusing, crowding out everything else.


Reading this is the first time I have UNDERSTOOD poetry that didn't rhyme.

It paints a picture.

I am very sincere. We are NEVER too old to learn.

Thank you girl.

I loved the poem.

[elbear]

Good to read - Actually I have the Sand and Foam book on my little desk at the cottage here right now. I love to sit outside on a sunny day and just take one short piece at a time and let it wash over me, then mull it over and over in my mind.



WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE POET?


One of mine has always been Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)

The young emigrant from Lebanon who came through Ellis Island in 1895 never became an American citizen: he loved his birthplace too much. But he was able to combine two heritages and achieved lasting fame in widely different cultures. This aphorism from Sand and Foam convey Gibran's message:

"Faith is an oasis in the heart which will never be reached by the caravan of thinking."

Lebanese writer and artist Kahlil Gibran influenced modern Arabic literature and composed inspirational pieces in English, including The Prophet.

Kahlil Gibran, baptized Gibran Khalil Gibran, the oldest child of Khalil Gibran and his wife Kamila Rahme, was born January 6, 1883, in Besharri, Lebanon, then part of Syria and the Ottoman Turkish Empire. His childhood in the isolated village beneath Mt. Lebanon included few material comforts and he had no formal early education. However, he received a strong spiritual heritage.

Surrounded for centuries by members of the Moslem and Druze religions, residents of Maronite Christian villages like Besharri evolved a mystical philosophy of life.

His later work was influenced by legends and biblical stories handed down for generations in the scenic region near the ancient Cedars of Lebanon.

Seeking a better future, the family, except for their father, moved to America in 1895. They joined relatives and shared a tenement in South Boston, Massachusetts. Kamila Gibran sold lace to support her four children and opened a small dry goods store. While registering for public school, Gibran\'s name was shortened and changed.

His life changed when a settlement house art teacher noticed his artistic skill. Florence Peirce with Jessie Fremont Beale, a philanthropist, arranged for Gibran\'s introduction to Fred Holland Day in December 1896.

A Boston patron of literature and fine arts who was also an \"artistic\" photographer, Day used Gibran, his younger sisters Marianna and Sultana, half-brother Peter, and Kamila as models.

After discovering Gibran\'s aptitude for literature and art, Day proclaimed him a \"natural genius\" and became his mentor. Gibran designed book illustrations, sketched portraits, and met Day\'s friends.

He then went to Beirut, Lebanon, in 1898 to attend Madrasat-al-Hikmah, a Maronite college where he studied Arabic literature and cofounded a literary magazine.

Returning to Boston in 1902, he experienced family tragedy. During 1902 and 1903 Kamila, Sultana, and Peter died from disease. Marianna, a seamstress, supported both herself and Gibran, who resumed his art work and renewed his friendship with Day.

In 1903 Josephine Preston Peabody, a poetess and friend, arranged for an exhibition of his work at Wellesley College; in 1904 Gibran and another artist exhibited their work at Day\'s Boston studio.

Here, Gibran met Mary Elizabeth Haskell, who became his patron and tutor in English for two decades. The owner of Miss Haskell\'s School for Girls and, later, headmistress of the Cambridge School, she believed he would have an outstanding future.

She aided several talented, needy people and was a major factor in Gibran\'s success as an English writer and artist.

From 1908 to 1910 Haskell provided funds for Gibran to study painting and drawing in Paris. Before going to France, he studied English literature with her and had an essay, \"al-Musiqa\" (1905), published by the Arabic immigrant press in New York City.

Diverse influences, including Boston\'s literary world, the English Romantic poets, mystic William Blake, and philosopher Nietzsche, combined with his Besharri experience, shaped Gibran\'s artistic and literary career. Although his drawings depict idealized, romantic figures, the optimistic philosophy of his later writing resulted from a painful personal evolution. Understanding Gibran\'s attitude towards authority gives greater insight to his work in English.

Gibran opposed Ottoman Turkish rule and the Maronite Church\'s strict social control. After \"Spirits Rebellious,\" an Arabic poem, was published in 1908, Gibran was called a reformer and received widespread recognition in the Arabic world. Other Arabic writings, including \"Broken Wings\" (1912), were published in New York where a large Syrian-Lebanese community flourished. He became the best known of the \"Mahjar poets\" or immigrant Arabic writers. His most respected Arabic poem is the \"The Procession\" (1919). He was president of Arrabitah, a literary society founded in New York in 1920 to infuse \"a new life in modern Arabic literature.\"

Gibran sought and won acceptance from New York\'s artistic and literary world. His first work in English appeared in 1918 when The Madman was published by the American firm of Alfred A. Knopf. The sometimes cynical parables and poems on justice, freedom, and God are illustrated by three of Gibran\'s drawings. In 1919 Knopf published Gibran\'s Twenty Drawings; in 1920 The Forerunner appeared. Each book sold a few hundred copies.

In October 1923 The Prophet was published; it sold over 1,000 copies in three months.

The slim volume of parables, illustrated with Gibran\'s drawings, is one of America\'s all-time best selling books; its fame spreads by word of mouth. Critics call it overly sentimental. By 1986, however, almost eight million copiesâ€"all hard-bound editionsâ€"had been sold in the United States alone. Several of his other works enjoyed substantial sales. Gibran bequeathed his royalties to Besharri; ironically, the gift caused years of feuding among village families.

Gibran\'s views on the brotherhood of man and man\'s unity with nature appeal primarily to young and old readers. The parables present a refreshing, new way of looking at the world that has universal appeal. By 1931 The Prophet had been translated into 20 languages. In the 1960s it reached new heights of popularity with American college students.

Although in failing health, Gibran completed two more books in Englishâ€"Sand and Foam (1926) and Jesus, The Son of Man (1928)â€"that illustrate his philosophy. After his death earlier essays were compiled and published, and his Arabic work has been translated into many languages.

Gibran was 48 when he died in New York City on April 10, 1931, of cancer of the liver. The Arabic world eulogized him as a genius and patriot.

A grand procession greeted his body upon its return to Besharri for burial in September 1931.

Today, Arabic scholars praise Gibran for introducing Western romanticism and a freer style to highly formalized Arabic poetry. \"Gibranism,\" the term used for his approach, attracted many followers.

In America, the West Tenth Street Studio for Artists in Greenwich Village, where he lived after 1911, has been replaced with a modern apartment building. But Gibran\'s books are in countless libraries and book stores. Five art works, including a portrait sketch of Albert Pinkham Ryder, are at New York City\'s Metropolitan Museum of Art, the gift of his patron Mary Haskell Minis.

[elbear]

Well, some of us enjoyed the read
Having only a moment to spare
But if it annoyed you so
I must respond, I just don't care

[Walt.]

It was in 1931 that Ogden Nash stirred the emotions with the pithy classic:

The Bronx?
No Thonx.

[shcisamax]

Although not really uplifting, I have never forgotten this poem:

Spring
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

[OldManTime]

Yes, T.S. Eliot, ditto*.......and when I was much younger, Elizabeth Barrett Browning......

*great minds think alike....thanks for sharing...

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (https://www.talkofthevillages.com/forums/../../menu.html) (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


　


From amherst.edu





I agree, that poem has stayed in the back of my head since a child.
March 2012 i went by her grave, i really forget where it was, Barcelona, Paris??

[graciegirl]

I remember this one.

Hats off. along the street there comes
a blare of bugles a ruffle of drums
and loyal hearts are beating high.
Hats off. The Flag is passing by!

[NottaVillager]

My father is my favorite poet.

[Halibut]

What about Allen Ginsberg or Lawrence Ferlinghetti? I went through a period in my teens when I would read the hell out of the Beat poets.

The poem that has most struck a personal chord with me and that I still have memorized is Ernest Dowson's Cynara (http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/2000/04/poem-ernest-dowson.html) (Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae).

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

[Carl in Tampa]

My favorite poet is Basho. Matsuo Bashō (松尾 芭蕉), born in 1644 in Japan, is probably the greatest master of haiku.

I read his poems in translation, of course, but even in English they still retain the pungent word pictures typical of the haiku style.

I have also gotten a great deal of pleasure from reading the works of other Japanese and Chinese poets who specialize in vivid word pictures drawn from nature and human experience.

---------

I also enjoy the works of a variety of American and English poets, many of whom have already been mentioned in this thread.

Strangely, although I thoroughly enjoy Shakespeare's plays, I don't care for his poetry.

.

[LI SNOWBIRD]

What about Allen Ginsberg or Lawrence Ferlinghetti? I went through a period in my teens when I would read the hell out of the Beat poets.

The poem that has most struck a personal chord with me and that I still have memorized is Ernest Dowson's Cynara (http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/2000/04/poem-ernest-dowson.html) (Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae).

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I remember attending a reading of "Howl" by Ginsberg himself in the late '60s-eary 70's.
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry
fix, "
I still am stirred by poetry and I do think that Shakeaspeare"s plays are poetry in iambic pentameter.

[skyguy79]

I've never been much for poetry, but I would have to say that my favorite poet was my late uncle. All through my life he was an inspiration to me.

He was career Army serving 23 years and retired as a Sergeant Major. He was always a distance away from me and I rarely got to see him. However, he never forgot me and always showed it. As a child he would send me something regularly or bring it on the rare visits. It could be his old uniform stripes following the numerous times he was promoted or the occasional magic trick or metal puzzle. When I became an adult he would occasionally write me a poem and send it to me.

Just 18 months before his death he wrote a poem that was included in his Mass of Christian Burial Testimonial. I'd like to share that poem with you:

My Legacy

Some days were good... some days were sad;
But Lord, I gave it all I had.
With spirit abounding, to carry my "cross,"
Some battles were won... some battles were lost.

I reflect on my past, on most every chore...
Then contemplate: "Could I have done more?"
But, to look back would be a formidable task...
What lies in the future, is difficult to ask.

My time and talents were "gifts" to invest...
To do my best and let God do the rest.
Giving of my "treasurers" will truly beam...
Like helping others achieve a goal or a dream.

How humble to realize, at each new dawn:
All my yesterdays are forever gone.
Thus, it's today I must act and not remain mum,
For my "tomorrow" may never come.

My "highway to heaven' and happiness,
Lies in saint-like deeds... with a very small "s"...
To give life's journey my best each day,
In doing great things in a very small way.

Life's journey remains arduous, but I readily admit...
To rest when I must... but never to quit.
By selfless actions, I can foresee:
My Legacy of Love to God and my country!

Ezio M. Tozzi - November 2011

[graciegirl]

I've never been much for poetry, but I would have to say that my favorite poet was my late uncle. All through my life he was an inspiration to me.

He was career Army serving 23 years and retired as a Sergeant Major. He was always a distance away from me and I rarely got to see him. However, he never forgot me and always showed it. As a child he would send me something regularly or bring it on the rare visits. It could be his old uniform stripes following the numerous times he was promoted or the occasional magic trick or metal puzzle. When I became an adult he would occasionally write me a poem and send it to me.

Just 18 months before his death he wrote a poem that was included in his Mass of Christian Burial Testimonial. I'd like to share that poem with you:

My Legacy

Some days were good... some days were sad;
But Lord, I gave it all I had.
With spirit abounding, to carry my "cross,"
Some battles were won... some battles were lost.

I reflect on my past, on most every chore...
Then contemplate: "Could I have done more?"
But, to look back would be a formidable task...
What lies in the future, is difficult to ask.

My time and talents were "gifts" to invest...
To do my best and let God do the rest.
Giving of my "treasurers" will truly beam...
Like helping others achieve a goal or a dream.

How humble to realize, at each new dawn:
All my yesterdays are forever gone.
Thus, it's today I must act and not remain mum,
For my "tomorrow" may never come.

My "highway to heaven' and happiness,
Lies in saint-like deeds... with a very small "s"...
To give life's journey my best each day,
In doing great things in a very small way.

Life's journey remains arduous, but I readily admit...
To rest when I must... but never to quit.
By selfless actions, I can foresee:
My Legacy of Love to God and my country!

Ezio M. Tozzi - November 2011




Thank you Joe.

Beautiful.

[gatherer47]

Shel Silverstein

[Lauren Sweeny]

I would read Shel Silverstein to my kindergarten students for a group sitting time. They enjoyed the silliness. Later we would share our thoughts and individual ideas about the poem. Students would dictate to me their creative poetry and draw a picture . These master pieces would then be displayed and later proudly given to their l parents.did the same with classical music , creative movement and art.

[Loudoll]

I loved reading the poetry and thank you for going to the trouble to post it. God bless you.

[Loudoll]

Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas

[Uptown Girl]

I would read Shel Silverstein to my kindergarten students for a group sitting time. They enjoyed the silliness. Later we would share our thoughts and individual ideas about the poem. Students would dictate to me their creative poetry and draw a picture . These master pieces would then be displayed and later proudly given to their l parents.did the same with classical music , creative movement and art.

Oh wow- :clap2: What wonderful seeds you planted!
You sound like the kind of teacher one fondly remembers for a lifetime.
:mademyday:

[slipcovers]

This may be a little offtopic, these are the lyrics to a beautiful song sung by Irishman Daniel O'Donnell (youtube)

Special Absent Friends

The time has come to say goodnight
For every road must end
To the ones who care, and always there
Our very special absent friends

Let's say goodnight to those we love
And maybe shed a tear
But before we close, think of those
We love but cant be here

Let's raise our hand to absent friends
For every road must end
You'll always be there in our hearts
Our special absent friends

And when it's time for us to go
And our long journey ends
We'll never be alone you see
We'll be with absent friends

So, let's raise our hand to absent friends
For every road must end
You'll always be there , in our hearts
Our special absent friends

[eweissenbach]

Bob Dylan, Shel Silverstein, Carl Sandburg, Ogden Nash, Leonard Cohen

[Lauren Sweeny]

Song lyrics are very poetic. Some of the early ( think 70

[gamby]

deleted

[Uptown Girl]

One of my favorite contemporary poets lives right here in TV.
Arlene Bernstein
Friends of Poetry - Home (http://www.friendsofpoetry.com)

One of her poems, "Two Zuzim" was written when her brother Joel died in Viet Nam. If interested, you will find it on her link.

The Mad Poets Society did a wonderful article on her.

[Villages PL]

I have an old book, copyright 1936, with the title, "The Best Loved Poems Of The American People."

Poem title: The Optimist

The optimist fell ten stories.
At each window bar
He shouted to his friends:
"All right so far"

Author unknown

[Jdmiata]

Edgar Allen Poe

[Chi-Town]

Robert Zimmerman aka Bob Dylan

"Subterranean Homesick Blues"


Johny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollar bills
You only got ten.

Maggie comes fleet foot
Face full of black soot
Talkin' that the heat put
Plants in the bed but
The phone's tapped anyway
Maggie says that many say
They must bust in early May
Orders from the DA
Look out kid
Don't matter what you did
Walk on your tip toes
Don't try, 'No Doz'
Better stay away from those
That carry around a fire hose
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows.

Get sick, get well
Hang around an ink well
Ring bell, hard to tell
If anything is goin' to sell
Try hard, get barred
Get back, write Braille
Get jailed, jump bail Join the army, if you failed
Look out kid
You're gonna get hit
But losers, cheaters
Six-time users
Hang around the theaters
Girl by the whirlpool
Lookin' for a new fool
Don't follow leaders
Watch the parkin' meters.

Ah get born, keep warm
Short pants, romance, learn to dance
Get dressed, get blessed
Try to be a success
Please her, please him, buy gifts
Don't steal, don't lift
Twenty years of schoolin'
And they put you on the day shift
Look out kid
They keep it all hid
Better jump down a manhole
Light yourself a candle
Don't wear sandals
Try to avoid the scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
You better chew gum
The pump don't work
'Cause the vandals took the handles.
The Weather Underground (Weathermen) took its name from that song.

[TheVillageChicken]

Worlds Shortest Rhyming Poem

Fleas

Adam
Had'em

[jbdlfan]

I would say Walt Whitman first, then my students....

O Captain! My Captain!
By Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
The arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

[DaleMN]

Bob Dylan & Dylan Thomas, espcially "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night".
:doh:

[senior citizen]

　................................................. ................

[coolkayaker1]

She offered her honor,
He honored her offer,
And all night long,
He was on 'er and off 'er.

(Sorry, couldn't resist. LOL)

[nicoletta]

Khalil Gibran--

glad to see someone else like this!!

[Villages PL]

"Me, we." by Muhammad Ali.

He was asked to recite a poem while giving a lecture at Harvard, and he made up the above poem on the spot. At that time, it was the shortest poem.

[steamdogman]

Robert Frost

[senior citizen]

Khalil Gibran--

glad to see someone else like this!!


Here are some popular ones as summer wedding readings.....


1883-1931 Lebanese-American author Kahlil Gibran

Raised in a Maronite Catholic Family in Lebanon; later studied Bahai teachings & Islam, .........the poet lived in Boston, Massachusetts.
"His power came from some great reservoir of spiritual life else it could not have been so universal and so potent, but the majesty and beauty of the language with which he clothed it were all his own." -- Claude Bragdon

Thoughts on Marriage from Kahlil Gibran
You were born together, and together you shall be forever more.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your
days.
Yes, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness.
And let the winds of heaven dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but each one of you be
alone--even as the strings of a lute are alone though the quiver
with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not in each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the Cyprus grow not in each other's shadows

- Kahlil Gibran

Love Excerpt from Kahlil Gibran
Let these be your desires:
To wake at dawn with a winged heart
and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the
beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

-- Kahlil Gibran


Follow Love When it Calls
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep,
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart,
and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say,
'God is in my heart,' but rather,
'I am in the heart of God.'
And think not you can direct the course of love,
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night,
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
- Kahlil Gibran

[collie1228]

I'm happy to see Ogden Nash mentioned in this thread. The only poem I know by heart is by Nash:

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

[graciegirl]

I'm happy to see Ogden Nash mentioned in this thread. The only poem I know by heart is by Nash:

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

LOVE IT!

Concise is nice, sayeth the English scholar.

[Patty55]

You are one of the bestest on here. Maybe the bestest.

Thank you, Do you know where Missouri is?

[DruannB]

I have so many favorites. I teach Romantic poetry, but this is my favorite because it reminds me of my children.

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
Galway Kinnell, 1927

For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.

[Moderator]

Topic is your favorite poet. Please do not direct your comments at other members.

[Vinny]

I will never know who my favorite poet may be;
It could be you or even me;
What I do know is that poetry stiffs my soul;
Especially since I have grown very old.

[Bogie Shooter]

Thank you, Do you know where Missouri is?

Patty.......enjoy!

Situated in the western edge of the north-central United States, within the coordinates 38.5° N and 92.5° W, Missouri covers an area of 112,167 square miles. While Illinois borders Missouri on the east, Nebraska, Kansas and Oklahoma share the western border of the state. Missouri is bound by Arkansas on the south, and Iowa forms the northern boundary of the state.

[Patty55]

Patty.......enjoy!

Situated in the western edge of the north-central United States, within the coordinates 38.5° N and 92.5° W, Missouri covers an area of 112,167 square miles. While Illinois borders Missouri on the east, Nebraska, Kansas and Oklahoma share the western border of the state. Missouri is bound by Arkansas on the south, and Iowa forms the northern boundary of the state.

Thank you, that was as clear as mud.

My favorite poem/poet is John Donne No Man is an Island.

[Barefoot]

For some inexplicable reason, I memorized this poem when I was 14.
I have no idea why, but I still like it.

Requiem

UNDER the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you 'grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

[dbussone]

Robert Frost. Poem=Fences

[mtdjed]

Recently attended a funeral and heard this which is now my favorite poem :The Dash:

The Dash - Linda Ellis (http://thedashpoems.com/)

[CFrance]

Thank you, Do you know where Missouri is?
I think I was there once!

[jblum315]

Although my major was 19th century literature, my favorite poet is Billy Collins. He was our Poet Laureate a few years ago.His poetry is witty, wise and very accessible. Look him up.

[graciegirl]

Of all the words of tongue and pen,
The saddest are, "It might have been".


I know it is hard to get here, but the destination IS worth the journey.