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What is your favourite poem? (and why?)

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  • What is your favourite poem? (and why?)

    The poem that I like the best, even though I like alot of the poetry that appears in novels and books, is "If" by Rudyard Kipling.

    I liked it since grade school.


    If by Joseph Rudyard Kipling

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

    If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two imposters just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

    Why I like it? It speaks for itself,really.

    A good moral example.


    Thanks!


    -Lemec

    "With a deep, not-unhappy sigh, Elric prepared to do battle with an army." (Red Pearls)
    - Michael Moorcock

  • #2
    Sorry, i hate it, viscerally, i cannot say why but i hate it !

    I love poetry .....

    one of my favourites ones :

    Léo Ferré
    LES ANARCHISTES


    Y'en a pas un sur cent et pourtant ils existent
    La plupart Espagnols allez savoir pourquoi
    Faut croire qu'en Espagne on ne les comprend pas
    Les anarchistes

    Ils ont tout ramassé
    Des beignes et des pavés
    Ils ont gueulé si fort
    Qu'ils peuvent gueuler encore
    Ils ont le coeur devant
    Et leurs rêves au mitan
    Et puis l'âme toute rongée
    Par des foutues idées

    Y'en a pas un sur cent et pourtant ils existent
    La plupart fils de rien ou bien fils de si peu
    Qu'on ne les voit jamais que lorsqu'on a peur d'eux
    Les anarchistes

    Ils sont morts cent dix fois
    Pour que dalle et pourquoi?
    Avec l'amour au poing
    Sur la table ou sur rien
    Avec l'air entêté
    Qui fait le sang versé
    Ils ont frappé si fort
    Qu'ils peuvent frapper encore

    Y'en a pas un sur cent et pourtant ils existent
    Et s'il faut commencer par les coups de pied au cul
    Faudrait pas oublier que ça descend dans la rue
    Les anarchistes

    Ils ont un drapeau noir
    En berne sur l'Espoir
    Et la mélancolie
    Pour traîner dans la vie
    Des couteaux pour trancher
    Le pain de l'Amitié
    Et des armes rouillées
    Pour ne pas oublier

    Qu'y'en a pas un sur cent et pourtant ils existent
    Et qu'ils se tiennent bien le bras dessus bras dessous
    Joyeux et c'est pour ça qu'ils sont toujours debout
    Les anarchistes
    Sorry but too difficult for me to translate ....

    some translation are on the web .. not good ....

    Comment


    • #3
      Morgan Kane,


      The poem I chose is famous, but not always loved. haha!


      The one that you posted looks very interesting, it's time I learned another language.

      I will have to find a good translation somewhere.


      Thanks!


      -Lemec

      "With a deep, not-unhappy sigh, Elric prepared to do battle with an army." (Red Pearls)
      - Michael Moorcock

      Comment


      • #4
        Carl Sandburg
        Grass

        PILE the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
        Shovel them under and let me work--
        I am the grass; I cover all.

        And pile them high at Gettysburg
        And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
        Shovel them under and let me work.
        Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor:
        What place is this?
        Where are we now?

        I am the grass.
        Let me work.



        Found this almost 40 years ago, it's still my favorite.
        "A man is no man who cannot have a fried mackerel when he has set his mind on it; and more especially when he has money in his pocket to pay for it." - E.A. Poe's NICHOLAS DUNKS; OR, FRIED MACKEREL FOR DINNER

        Comment


        • #5
          Originally posted by Léo Ferré
          THE ANARCHISTS


          There are not one per cent but still they exist
          Most of them spanish, guess why
          It is to believe in Spain they are not understood
          The anarchists

          They have collect everything
          Punches and pavements
          They have yelled so loud
          That they can still yell
          There hearts are on the front
          And their dreams deep inside
          And a soul rotten
          By fuckin' ideas

          There are not one per cent but still they exist
          Most of them spanish, guess why
          It is to believe in Spain they are not understood
          The anarchists

          They are dead a hundred ten times
          For nothing for what?
          With a fist of love
          On the table or on nothing
          With a stubborn shape
          Which makes the blood splitted
          They have hitten so loud
          That they can still hit

          There are not one per cent but still they exist
          And if it has to start with kicks in the butt
          Don't forget they go in the streets
          The anarchists

          They have a black flag
          At half mast on hope
          And melancholy
          To drag their lifes
          Knives to cut
          Bread and friendship
          And rotten guns
          To not forget

          That There are not one per cent but still they exist
          And they hold together tightly
          Scheerful and that's why they stand still up
          The anarchists
          Something like that...


          In my concern:
          Originally posted by Arthur Rimbaud
          Au Cabaret-Vert

          Depuis huit jours, j'avais déchiré mes bottines
          Aux cailloux des chemins. J'entrais à Charleroi.
          -Au Cabaret-Vert: je demandai des tartines
          De beurre et du jambon qui fût à moitié froid.

          Bienheureux, j'allongeai les pattes sous la table
          Verte, je contemplai les sujets très naïfs
          De la tapisserie. -Et ce fut adorable,
          Quand la fille aux tétons énormes, aux yeux vifs,

          -Celle-là, ce n'est pas un baiser qui l'épeure!-
          Rieuse m'apporta des tartines de beurre,
          Du jambon tiède, dans un plat colorié,

          Du jambon rose et blanc parfumé d'une gousse
          D'ail, -et m'emplit la chope immense, avec sa mousse
          Que dorait un rayon de soleil arriéré.

          Which gives:


          At the Green Cabaret

          Since eight days, I had teared my boots apart
          On the rocks of the path. I was entering Charleroi.
          -At the Green Cabaret: I ordered slices of bread
          With butter and ham which was half-cold.

          Very happy, I laid my paws on the table
          Of green, I stared to naive subjects
          of the tapestry. -And it was lovely,
          When the huge tits girl, with gliterring eyes,

          -This one, she would not be scared by a kiss!-
          Laughing brought me the buttered bread,
          Cool ham, in a colored dish,

          Pink and white ham perfumed with a clove
          Of garlic, -and fulfilled my huge pint, with its foam
          Goldened by a ray of sun from behind.



          This small poem is connected with the time, 15 years ago, when I travelled across Europe with my bag and a few coins in my pockets. A single ray of sun was a firework. A single meal was a feast...
          Last edited by Mespheber; 09-04-2006, 12:50 PM.
          Free the West Memphis Three

          Comment


          • #6
            Mespheber : very great job !

            i am fully admiring

            Comment


            • #7
              very good poems!

              it's great to read them! (I don't know many poems, this thread will be great to see what all can discover.)



              Thanks!

              "With a deep, not-unhappy sigh, Elric prepared to do battle with an army." (Red Pearls)
              - Michael Moorcock

              Comment


              • #8
                Tristesses de la Lune
                Charles Baudelaire

                Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
                Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
                Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
                Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

                Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
                Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
                Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
                Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.

                Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
                Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
                Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,

                Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
                Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
                Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.

                Sad, sensual, musical. I studied Baudelaire at school more than 20 years ago but never found a poem more touching since.

                Comment


                • #9
                  My all-time fave poem of all-time would be Allen Ginsberg's Howl, but that's far too long to reproduce here! Many, many pages long. I think the imagery is genius, although perhaps I'm not quite so keen on the "Beat poets" as I was. The section on 'Moloch' (an industrial god made of concrete and glass to whom young people are sacrificed) still has a relevance today, as it will in any time when land (and oil and money) are "bought" with the bodies and blood of innocent people. If you see what I mean. It's not a perfect poem, and I laugh at parodies of it (and the catchy They Might Be Giants musical tribute!), but I still think it contains vital, urgent truths.

                  My current fave is William Blake's The Tyger, as reproduced below. Like all the best poems, it sounds fantastic when read aloud, and has gorgeous images in it. It also poses the interesting question of how a benevolent Creator can give the world lambs, and tigers... prey and predators... which fits in very neatly with something I'm writing at the moment, so hurrah! Plus, tigers are cool.

                  THE TYGER

                  Tyger, tyger, burning bright
                  In the forests of the night,
                  What immortal hand or eye
                  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

                  In what distant deeps or skies
                  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
                  On what wings dare he aspire?
                  What the hand dare seize the fire?

                  And what shoulder and what art
                  Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
                  And, when thy heart began to beat,
                  What dread hand and what dread feet?

                  What the hammer? what the chain?
                  In what furnace was thy brain?
                  What the anvil? what dread grasp
                  Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

                  When the stars threw down their spears,
                  And watered heaven with their tears,
                  Did he smile his work to see?
                  Did he who made the lamb make thee?

                  Tyger, tyger, burning bright
                  In the forests of the night,
                  What immortal hand or eye
                  Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
                  Oh, and it was quoted in a Calvin & Hobbes comic strip, which is also a mark of quality!
                  "That which does not kill us, makes us stranger." - Trevor Goodchild

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    HI Dee, one of my fave paintings of a tiger - Franz Marc 1912

                    "A man is no man who cannot have a fried mackerel when he has set his mind on it; and more especially when he has money in his pocket to pay for it." - E.A. Poe's NICHOLAS DUNKS; OR, FRIED MACKEREL FOR DINNER

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      Originally posted by Talisant
                      HI Dee, one of my fave paintings of a tiger - Franz Marc 1912
                      How dare he frame its fearful symmetry!

                      Just kidding. That's a damn good painting... of course, it helps that tigers are so naturally stylish!
                      "That which does not kill us, makes us stranger." - Trevor Goodchild

                      Comment


                      • #12


                        another Sandberg poem -

                        The fog comes
                        on little cat feet.

                        It sits looking
                        over harbor and city
                        on silent haunches
                        and then moves on.

                        "A man is no man who cannot have a fried mackerel when he has set his mind on it; and more especially when he has money in his pocket to pay for it." - E.A. Poe's NICHOLAS DUNKS; OR, FRIED MACKEREL FOR DINNER

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

                          I know that I shall meet my fate
                          Somewhere among the clouds above;
                          Those that I fight I do not hate,
                          Those that I guard I do not love;
                          My country is Kiltartan Cross,
                          My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
                          No likely end could bring them loss
                          Or leave them happier than before.
                          Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
                          Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
                          A lonely impulse of delight
                          Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
                          I balanced all, brought all to mind,
                          The years to come seemed waste of breath,
                          A waste of breath the years behind
                          In balance with this life, this death.

                          William Butler Yeats

                          But also every poems by Baudelaire, Poe, Wilde, Swinburne, Shelley, Keats, Byron,Blake, Shakespeare, Villon, John Donne, Dylan Thomas...
                          Hieronymus

                          - Dalmatius -

                          "I'm forbidden to reign, but I'll never yield before the facts: I am the Cat"

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            It seem that most of you like french poets, so why do we use english?
                            Free the West Memphis Three

                            Comment


                            • #15
                              The Sea And the Hills by Rudyard Kipling (1902) is one of my favourites


                              Who hath desired the Sea? -- the sight of salt wind-hounded --
                              The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber win hounded?
                              The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing --
                              Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing --
                              His Sea in no showing the same his Sea and the same 'neath each showing:
                              His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
                              So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills!

                              Who hath desired the Sea? -- the immense and contemptuous surges?
                              The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bow-sprit emerges?
                              The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder --
                              Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder --
                              His Sea in no wonder the same his Sea and the same through each wonder:
                              His Sea as she rages or stills?
                              So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

                              Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies?
                              The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses?
                              The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that de clare it --
                              White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it --
                              His Sea as his fathers have dared -- his Sea as his children shall dare it:
                              His Sea as she serves him or kills?
                              So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwisc -- hillmen desire their Hills.

                              Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather
                              Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather
                              Inland, among dust, under trees -- inland where the slayer may slay him --
                              Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him
                              His Sea from the first that betrayed -- at the last that shall never betray him:
                              His Sea that his being fulfils?
                              So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

                              And 17th century:
                              Andrew Marvell's To his Coy Mistress


                              Had we but world enough, and time,
                              This coyness, Lady, were no crime
                              We would sit down and think which way
                              To walk and pass our long love's day.
                              Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
                              Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
                              Of Humber would complain. I would
                              Love you ten years before the Flood,
                              And you should, if you please, refuse
                              Till the conversion of the Jews.
                              My vegetable love should grow
                              Vaster than empires, and more slow;
                              An hundred years should go to praise
                              Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
                              Two hundred to adore each breast,
                              But thirty thousand to the rest;
                              An age at least to every part,
                              And the last age should show your heart.
                              For, Lady, you deserve this state,
                              Nor would I love at lower rate.

                              But at my back I always hear
                              Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
                              And yonder all before us lie
                              Deserts of vast eternity.
                              Thy beauty shall no more be found,
                              Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
                              My echoing song: then worms shall try
                              That long preserved virginity,
                              And your quaint honour turn to dust,
                              And into ashes all my lust:
                              The grave's a fine and private place,
                              But none, I think, do there embrace.

                              Now therefore, while the youthful hue
                              Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
                              And while thy willing soul transpires
                              At every pore with instant fires,
                              Now let us sport us while we may,
                              And now, like amorous birds of prey,
                              Rather at once our time devour
                              Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
                              Let us roll all our strength and all
                              Our sweetness up into one ball,
                              And tear our pleasures with rough strife
                              Thorough the iron gates of life:
                              Thus, though we cannot make our sun
                              Stand still, yet we will make him run.
                              Google ergo sum

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