Who's your favourite poet?

only languages that use them excessively

Thanks for sharing but what is the point in posting a poem in German on an English-speaking board? 2% of the users here will understand this, the rest will just have to ignore you and move on.

They can post their own favourite poets and poems in any language they want, I made this thread mostly to be introduced to some great poetry. I'm also pretty sure that there are more German speakers here than anywhere else on the site, given that this is the literature board and German works are discussed all the time.

goat poet? god emperor George, no competition

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Schilling is great
youtu.be/JsHjgXgVJAU

Hurt Hawks
By Robinson Jeffers
I

The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,

No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.

He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.

He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,

The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.

You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.

II

I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.

We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance.

I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.

Antun Branko Šimić

JEDANPUT

Ženo
što iz bijede našeg svagdanjeg života
očajale i krotke oći dižeš k meni

Sav ovaj život... oh, sav ovaj život
ženo

jedanput ja odsvirat ću na harfi

i kad poslije harfe
progovore ćutke naše duše

znaš li što će govoriti?

Kako bjesmo srećni. Kako bjesmo srećni

You're completely retarded

bump

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Patrician taste, although I cannot appreciate him fully due to the language.

My personal favs are Baudelaire and Leopardi though.

T.S. “Six Million More” Eliot

T. Sixmillionmore Eliot

1st
Sailing to Byzantium
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
I

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

2nd
Ode on a Grecian Urn
BY JOHN KEATS
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

kek

Pottery.

rudyard kipling

Thanks user. I on the other hand already struggle with English poetry, not to speak of French or Italian. While I have absolutely no problem with reading prose in translation I'm still unsure whether I should try some translated poetry...

Rubén Darío.

Psicologia de um vencido

Eu, filho do carbono e do amoníaco,
Monstro de escuridão e rutilância,
Sofro, desde a epigênesis da infância,
A influência má dos signos do zodíaco.

Profundíssimamente hipocondríaco,
Este ambiente me causa repugnância…
Sobe-me à boca uma ânsia análoga à ânsia
Que se escapa da boca de um cardíaco.

Já o verme — este operário das ruínas —
Que o sangue podre das carnificinas
Come, e à vida em geral declara guerra,

Anda a espreitar meus olhos para roê-los,
E há-de deixar-me apenas os cabelos,
Na frialdade inorgânica da terra!

Damo Sazuki

I love Novalis, great dude all around, love everything hes done, has some great poems, tremendous, like, rly rly smart guy, the best, but when it comes to pure poetry hes not only overshadowed by later poets like Rilke, George, Trakl etc. but also contemporaries like Hölderlin

How do I get started with poetry (in English) are you actually supposed to read a book that teaches you how to read it like the wiki says?

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This guy

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: - )

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I'm disgusted by my own meme

Robert Frost

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John Berryman. Can feel the hurt in his words everytime.

once you start seeing these people as evil the way they present themselves becomes reality breaking, the devil is looking at you in a forced demure gesture of allure but with no pretense to being human. a simulacra of a poet who can’t even honestly present her own face hiding behind MAC and 10,000$ lighting, career forged by op-eds and women’s conferences. no human could bear that much shame, she’s almost certainly some diabolic entity, there’s question she couldn’t be human

t.s. 'almost toilets backwards' eliot

Homer, the Iliad and the Odyssey feel amazing to read, even if the text has been altered by translations.
I also like the guy who wrote Beowulf, whoever he may have been.

Ginsberg
>cock and endless balls

Brecht and Neruda

Tennyson

from Mariana:

With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

from Idylls of the King
O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail,
All palled in crimson samite, and around
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes.
And but for all my madness and my sin,
And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw
That which I saw; but what I saw was veiled
And covered; and this Quest was not for me.'

Shel Silverstein.

Just being honest - he gives me the most pleasure.

bump

Patricians.

Post something by him. I wanted to read Novalis for some time. What book buy?

Are you fluent enough in German?

just buy his complete works, he died pretty young, so he didnt get to write that much; my copy of his complete works (poems+fiction+aphorisms/essays+fragments+even letters & his diary desu) is 700 pages (500p. without letters/diary)

Ian Curtis

He died at 28, let’s not be ungrateful ! Also, he’s better than George.

Yes. I'm the OP. Schilling swoons about Novalis all the time.
(and of Rilke, George, Trakl and Hölderlin )

Oh. Perfect! Any preferred editions?

Julio Herrera y Reissig' 'Oblación Abracadabra'

Lóbrega rosa que tu almizcle efluvias
y, pitonisa de epilepsias libias,
ofrendaste a Gonk-Gonk vísceras tibias
y corazones de panteras nubias,

para evocar los genios de las lluvias
tragedizaste póstumas lascivias
entre osamentas y mortuorias tibias
y cabelleras de cautivas rubias.

Sonó un trueno. A los últimos reflejos
de fuego sangre, en místicos sigilos,
se aplacaron los ídolos perplejos...

Picó la lluvia en crepitantes hilos
y largamente suspiró a lo lejos
el miserere de los cocodrilos.

Keats.

Bukowski

mine is just some old-ass leatherbound copy I picked up at the thrift store for 3€

Ginsberg was a favorite of the hippie English teacher, but later, Turco, introduced me why Shakespeare was great.

To be honest, the bathroom poets were the best, and most remembered. That guy from Nantucket not withstanding.

Celan
Rimbaud
Rilke
Trakl
Oppen
Crane

Rupi :^)

Shakespeare, Poe, and Earl's dad