View Full Version : Poetry/Poems
04-29-2003, 06:05 PM
For anyone who likes poetry, what is a favorite type? Who are some of your favorites? What are some of your favorite poems? Why?
04-29-2003, 06:23 PM
I've never been a big fan of poetry, but I love E.E. Cummings and Richard Brautigan. As for a favorite poem, I don't really have one.
04-29-2003, 06:51 PM
Some of my favorite poets include Edgar Allen Poe, and Lermontov. My favorites are The Conqueror Worm and Death of a Poet.
04-30-2003, 12:15 AM
I can't get into old skool poetry. The language barrier evades me. Some people have a propensity to acquire old englishe as a second language. I am not one of those people.
I really like Jim Carroll's stuff. He's the guy that wrote the book The Basketball Diaries, and Leonardo DiCaprio played him in the movie. Not that that's a super-plug or anything, but Carroll's poems definitely get a response from me. check out his book Void of Course, or Fear of Dreaming, for some solid poetry.
04-30-2003, 02:18 AM
I like too many poems and poets to list them all here, but my favorite 20th-century poets are Dylan Thomas and W. B. Yeats. Thomas's "Fern Hill" and "Poem on His Birthday" make all my li'l tiny hairs stand up straight.
04-30-2003, 02:25 AM
Baudilaire and Rimboud.........( not sure if I spelled those right)
Also like TS Elliot and Oscar Wilde and uh, what the hell...Bukowski :p
04-30-2003, 02:34 AM
I also like the poetry of Pasolini, Pushkin, and Percey Shelley as well.
04-30-2003, 10:47 AM
WHAT?! No mention of the Bard himself? William Shakespeare? That's truly sad. There's some of the best poetry ever written.
Of course there is the stuff that I write. :p
04-30-2003, 11:35 AM
the history of one tough motherfucker
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance...give him these pills...his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody cut it off..."
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him,
I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work) he made it to the litter box crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and just looked at me.
"you can make it," I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested, then got up.
you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...
and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look at this!"
but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"
"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!" I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...
it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo- graphed together.
he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.
Charles "Hank" Bukowski (1920-1994)
09-19-2005, 05:10 PM
Christiana Rossetti is another poet whose poems I like to read. I also like Haiku poetry. There are passages in a couple of Yukio Mishima's books that are very poetical.
Paul A J Lewis
09-19-2005, 05:23 PM
I'm fond of the 'earthy' British poets, such as
Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney, W. B. Yeats, Thomas Hardy, Tony Harrison, Philip Larkin and, of course, William Blake!
Thomas Hardy's work is particularly interesting, because it shifts from the pastoral idealism of his early poetry to a more bleak sense of love lost (following the death of Hardy's wife).
Some of my favourite Hardy poems:
Thomas Hardy: 'At Lulworth Cove A Century Back'
Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:
“You see that man?”—I might have looked, and said,
“O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought
Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban’s Head.
So commonplace a youth calls not my thought.”
“You see that man?”—”Why yes; I told you; yes:
Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;
And as the evening light scants less and less
He looks up at a star, as many do.”
“You see that man?”—”Nay, leave me!” then I plead,
“I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,
And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:
I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!”
“Good. That man goes to Rome—to death, despair;
And no one notes him now but you and I:
A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,
And bend with reverence where his ashes lie.”
Hardy: 'He Abjures Love'
At last I put off love,
For twice ten years
The daysman of my thought,
And hope, and doing;
Being ashamed thereof,
And faint of fears
And desolations, wrought
In his pursuing,
Since first in youthtime those
That heart-enslavement brings
To hale and hoary,
Became my housefellows,
And, fool and blind,
I turned from kith and kind
To give him glory.
I was as children be
Who have no care;
I did not shrink or sigh,
I did not sicken;
But lo, Love beckoned me,
And I was bare,
And poor, and starved, and dry,
Too many times ablaze
With fatuous fires,
Enkindled by his wiles
To new embraces,
Did I, by wilful ways
And baseless ires,
Return the anxious smiles
Of friendly faces.
No more will now rate I
The common rare,
The midnight drizzle dew,
The gray hour golden,
The wind a yearning cry,
The faulty fair,
Things dreamt, of comelier hue
Than things beholden! . . .
--I speak as one who plumbs
Life's dim profound,
One who at length can sound
Clear views and certain.
But--after love what comes?
A scene that lours,
A few sad vacant hours,
And then, the Curtain.
Hardy: 'In Death Divided'
I shall rot here, with those whom in their day
You never knew,
And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay,
Met not my view,
Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you.
No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower,
While earth endures,
Will fall on my mound and within the hour
Steal on to yours;
One robin never haunt our two green covertures.
Some organ may resound on Sunday noons
By where you lie,
Some other thrill the panes with other tunes
Where moulder I;
No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby.
The simply-cut memorial at my head
Perhaps may take
A Gothic form, and that above your bed
Be Greek in make;
No linking symbol show thereon for our tales sake.
And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-run
The eternal tie which binds us twain in one
No eye will see
Stretching across the miles that sever you from me.
09-19-2005, 05:41 PM
My favorite poem:
by Steve Martin
oh pointy pointy.
Anoint my head
09-19-2005, 06:33 PM
Of course there is the stuff that I write. :p
Yup, me too. My love poems are all over this board.
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