The Great Poetry Thread

[holcaul]

Let’s share our favourite poems here.

I’ll start…

If- by 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 impostors 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!

[JackMcThorn]

Good Hours
Robert Frost - 1874-1963


I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.

[Heart to heart]

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

W B Yeats

Had I heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with gold and silver light,
The blue, the dim and the dark cloths
of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

[mizo]

The first poem I heard and learnt from my early childhood...

A peanut sat on a railroad track,
His heart was all a-flutter.
The five-fifteen came rushing by -
Toot toot! Peanut butter!


Funny how these little ditties stay with you throughout life.

[Mari]

Now for some fun..


I wish I'd looked after me teeth.
By Pam Ayres


Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth,
And spotted the perils beneath,
All the toffees I chewed,
And the sweet sticky food,
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

I wish I'd been that much more willin'
When I had more tooth there than fillin'
To pass up gobstoppers,
From respect to me choppers
And to buy something else with me shillin'.

When I think of the lollies I licked,
And the liquorice allsorts I picked,
Sherbet dabs, big and little,
All that hard peanut brittle,
My conscience gets horribly pricked.

My Mother, she told me no end,
"If you got a tooth, you got a friend"
I was young then, and careless,
My toothbrush was hairless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right,
I flashed it about late at night,
But up-and-down brushin'
And pokin' and fussin'
Didn't seem worth the time... I could bite!

If I'd known I was paving the way,
To cavities, caps and decay,
The murder of fiIlin's
Injections and drillin's
I'd have thrown all me sherbet away.

So I lay in the old dentist's chair,
And I gaze up his nose in despair,
And his drill it do whine,
In these molars of mine,
"Two amalgum," he'll say, "for in there."

How I laughed at my Mother's false teeth,
As they foamed in the waters beneath,
But now comes the reckonin'
It's me they are beckonin'
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

[ExomatrixTV]

• 'The Matrix' by RodneyParadox - Poems4Truth

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=cNU7ge6D8to

• Paul Point - Those Who Wait (Original Poetry):

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=DzgpSx3PO24

[Lasuh]

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=9qUxa7Kr71w

[Eva2]

One of my favourites:

In the light of the silent stars
that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and
the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that
weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither
and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April
with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die
and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman
who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk,
and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and
the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that
carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver
that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence
where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless
that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness
that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness?
Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages
returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread
of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver
that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’
the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling,
the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish,
the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day,
one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains
that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond
the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver
that weaves the Web of Years.

Alfred Noyes'

[Tigger]

Gwen Harwood: In the Park

She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date.
Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt.
A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt
Someone she loved once passed by – too late

to feign indifference to that casual nod.
“How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”
From his neat head unquestionably rises
a small balloon…”but for the grace of God…”

They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing
the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet
to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive, ”
she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing
the youngest child, sits staring at her feet.
To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

[Tigger]

Gwen Harwood (Again): Hospital Evening:

Sunset: the blaze of evening burns
through the curtains like a firelit ghost.
Kröte, dreaming of snow, returns
to something horrible on toast

slapped at him by a sulky nurse
whose boyfriend’s waiting. Kröte loves
food. Is this food? He finds it worse
than starving, as he cuts and shoves

one nauseating mouthful down.
Kröte has managed to conceal
some brandy in his dressing gown.
He gulps it fast, until the real

sunset’s a field of painted light
and his white curtains frame a stage
where he’s the hero and must fight
his fever. He begins to rage

fortissimo, in German, flings
the empty bottle on the floor;
roars for more brandy, thumps and sings.
Three nurses crackle through the door

and hold him down. He struggles, then
submits to the indignities
nurses inflict, and sleeps again,
dreaming he goes, where the stiff trees

glitter in silence, hand in hand
with a young child he does not know,
who walking makes no footprint and
no shadow on soft-fallen snow.

[Tigger]

Posted by Tigger (here)
Gwen Harwood (Again): Hospital Evening:

Sunset: the blaze of evening burns
through the curtains like a firelit ghost.
Kröte, dreaming of snow, returns
to something horrible on toast

slapped at him by a sulky nurse
whose boyfriend’s waiting. Kröte loves
food. Is this food? He finds it worse
than starving, as he cuts and shoves

one nauseating mouthful down.
Kröte has managed to conceal
some brandy in his dressing gown.
He gulps it fast, until the real

sunset’s a field of painted light
and his white curtains frame a stage
where he’s the hero and must fight
his fever. He begins to rage

fortissimo, in German, flings
the empty bottle on the floor;
roars for more brandy, thumps and sings.
Three nurses crackle through the door

and hold him down. He struggles, then
submits to the indignities
nurses inflict, and sleeps again,
dreaming he goes, where the stiff trees

glitter in silence, hand in hand
with a young child he does not know,
who walking makes no footprint and
no shadow on soft-fallen snow.

The reason why I chose this poem to share is that we studied this poem in 3U English (Australia) in 1987. Yes, it sticks in my memory very well.

For those of you who don’t know: “3U” means three units of English studies (in high school / senior year), instead of the usual two, or 2U. So we’re talking about advanced English studies. It’s a bit of a ‘cult’, really, because if you took 3U English, you almost certainly took up music and dramatic arts subjects. And then you turned gay LOL.

Yeah, well I did all of that. But there was always this one poem that we had to study (the one quoted) that really grabbed me. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I seriously paid attention to this piece. It seemed to pry one’s attention away from ‘the window’ and focus upon something more visceral, more central, more personal.

[Heart to heart]

Posted by Jill (here)
One of my favourites:

In the light of the silent stars
that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and
the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that
weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither
and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April
with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die
and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman
who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk,
and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and
the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that
carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver
that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence
where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless
that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness
that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness?
Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages
returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread
of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver
that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’
the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling,
the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish,
the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day,
one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains
that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond
the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver
that weaves the Web of Years.

Alfred Noyes'

I love this poem but especially so because Alfred Noyes lived here on the Isle of Wight just a couple of miles from my home in St Lawrence where his family still live. I can remember saying to his wife many years ago that my favourite poem was The Highwayman and recall her answer to this day “Everyone remembers him for that but I wish they would remember him for other than that!” She was a lady who spoke her mind!
Thank you for reminding me of these beautiful words.

[Rawhide68]

These word is stuck in my mind for some reason

I was six weeks gone.
on a merciless Alabama road.
the old Lincoln coasted,
like a big boat in calm waters.

[Dorjezigzag]

Pursuit
By Sylvia Plath

There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?

Insatiate, he ransacks the land
Condemned by our ancestral fault,
Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
The singeing fury of his fur;
His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body's bait.

Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
And I run flaring in my skin;
What lull, what cool can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?

I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blood;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:

The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.

[happyuk]

It seems Britain's favourite poet Pam Ayres agrees with me on the lamentable trend of pubs/restaurants using slates/slabs/wood etc instead of good old hygienic crockery. Enjoy.

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=vrgrCh7dlGE

[Sue (Ayt)]

Trees
BY JOYCE KILMER

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

[Eva2]

[samsdice]

My favourite poet is Mervyn Peake, author of the Gormenghast trilogy. He fought and was wounded in WW2 and later hospitalised in my hometown of Southport UK. He is an underrated poet but here's one of my faves:



TO LIVE IS MIRACLE ENOUGH

To live at all is miracle enough.
The doom of nations is another thing.
Here in my hammering blood-pulse is my proof.

Let every painter paint and poet sing
And all the sons of music ply their trade;
Machines are weaker than a beetle’s wing.

Swung out of sunlight into cosmic shade,
Come what come may the imagination’s heart
Is constellation high and can’t be weighed.

Nor greed nor fear can tear our faith apart
When every heart-beat hammers out the proof
That life itself is miracle enough.

[Mike Gorman]

Mortality is a recurring topic in all of Poetry, it seems songs and written verse offer us a much more sensitive and detailed opportunity to voice our innermost musings on the bleak reality of our limited lifespan.
One of the most powerful poems I have encountered which distills the subject of our mortality down to a devastatingly strong draught is this one, written by an English man who only lived 33 years himself 'The Days of Wine & Roses', by Ernest Dowson. I think this is one of my most favorite poems because it is hauntingly true, and beautifully expressed:

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter.

Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.


Our path does emerge for a short time, and of course it closes like a wreath of mist behind us, we are created from light, and we speed with the photons in our ephemeral quest to see the universe.

[Mike Gorman]

Posted by samsdice (here)
My favourite poet is Mervyn Peake, author of the Gormenghast trilogy. He fought and was wounded in WW2 and later hospitalised in my hometown of Southport UK. He is an underrated poet but here's one of my faves:



TO LIVE IS MIRACLE ENOUGH

To live at all is miracle enough.
The doom of nations is another thing.
Here in my hammering blood-pulse is my proof.

Let every painter paint and poet sing
And all the sons of music ply their trade;
Machines are weaker than a beetle’s wing.

Swung out of sunlight into cosmic shade,
Come what come may the imagination’s heart
Is constellation high and can’t be weighed.

Nor greed nor fear can tear our faith apart
When every heart-beat hammers out the proof
That life itself is miracle enough.

Thank you for this one, Mervyn Peake was truly a unique manifestation, he was such a colossal talent: I truly believe that people were so taken aback with his immense aesthetic gifts and enormous intellect that they didn't believe he was real! One of my great favorite writers, bless you.