Favorite poem?

Howard pls

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

b (anonymous, 2015)

Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

Memory of Maria A

One day in blue-moon September,
Silent under a plum tree,
I held her, my silent pale love
in my arms like a fair and lovely dream.
Above us in the summer skies,
Was a cloud that caught my eye.
It was so white and high up,
and when I looked up, it was no longer there.

And since that moment, many a September
Came sailing in, then floated down the stream.
No doubt the plum trees were cut down for timber
And if you ask what happened to my dream
I shall reply: I cannot now remember
Though what you have in mind I surely know.
And yet her face: I really don’t recall it.
I just recall I kissed long ago.

Even the kiss would have been long forgotten
If that white cloud had not been in the sky.
I know the cloud, and shall know it forever,
It was pure white and, oh, so very high.
Perhaps the plum trees still are there and blooming.
Perhaps that woman has six children too.
But that white cloud bloomed only for a moment:
When I looked up, it vanished in the blue.

I don't have a singular favorite, but I'll name a few.

The Palace of Art, by Lord Alfred Tennyson

The Lake Isle of Innisfree, by William Butler Yeats

Many of the haiku by Matsuo Basho, Issa, Kikaku, and Buson.

Here's are some examples:

The beggar -
He has heaven and earth
For his summer clothes. - Kikaku

Furui ike ya The old pond
Kawazu tobikomu A frog jumps in.
Mizu no oto. The sound of water.

- Matsuo Basho

This poem is deceptively simple. The imagery you have here is a "furui" pond. It can be translated as old, but also as ancient. The frog who jumps in is a "kawazu." This is a frog who has been hibernating and just awoken - a Spring frog. The Japanese word for "sound" is "oto," the last word in the poem, which is pronounced with a hard stop on the "t." So when you say, "oto," it literally mirrors the sound of the water at the frog jumps in to the still pond. When you take a closer look at the imagery in the poem one realizes that in his viewing of the spring frog jumping into the still, silent, and ancient pond - a collision resulting in a single sound - he sees a representation of a constantly reemerging phenomena of existence.
The clash between the old and the new.

And like the clash between the newly emerged frog and the ancient pond, the ultimate result of their meeting is a return to the original state of a still, ancient, and silent pond.

The clash only has meaning at that time, before and beyond it, all you have is something once new, and eventually ancient.

Beautiful, right? To say so much about life in three short lines.

Here is one of my favorite Tanka poems, by Oshikochi Mitsune.

Yuki furite
Hito mo kayowanu
Michi nare ya
Atohaka mo naku
Omoikiyu ran

The snow falls on
Covering the road where not a person
Comes to visit me -
And will I melt in lonely grief
Leaving no trace of my transitory life?

This poem really amazes me. First of all the imagery is both poignant and beautiful. His fears are so perfectly mirrored in the short, cyclical lifespan of the snow. Like the snow also, Oshikochi likely believes he will merely take on another form.

The whitewashing of the road seems reflective of his washing away from human memory.

There are just so many layers to this short poem! It is a very succinct, but deep expression of fears of loneliness and existential perspectives on human relationships (i.e., our lives mean nothing other than what they mean to others, etc.).

Anyway, these are some of my favorites, and I hope you all like them.

I

On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.

The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.

II

O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.

It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;

It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees!

Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!
You melted to him as snow does to a fire;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!

III

- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

Arthur Rimbaud

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a ‘wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

And yet, so many of these semi-human, vice-ridden beasts have outpaced your achievements and those of your ancestors.

How far you must have fallen, Jovian man.

you mean paradife loft?

t. Joyce

The bloody cops are bloody keen
To bloody keep it, bloody clean
The bloody chief's a bloody swine
Who bloody draws a bloody line

At bloody fun and bloody games
The bloody kids, he bloody blames
Are nowhere to be bloody found
Anywhere in chicken town

The bloody scene is bloody sad
The bloody news is bloody bad
The bloody weed is bloody turf
The bloody speed is bloody surf

The bloody folks are bloody daft
Don't make me bloody laugh
It bloody hurts to look around
Everywhere in chicken town

The bloody train is bloody late
You bloody wait, you bloody wait
You're bloody lost and bloody found
Stuck in fucking chicken town

The bloody view is bloody vile
For bloody miles and bloody miles
The bloody babies bloody cry
The bloody flowers bloody die

The bloody food is bloody muck
The bloody drains are bloody fucked
The color scheme is bloody brown
Everywhere in chicken town

The bloody pubs are bloody dull
The bloody clubs are bloody full
Of bloody girls and bloody guys
With bloody murder in their eyes

A bloody bloke is bloody stabbed
Waiting for a bloody cab
You bloody stay at bloody home
The bloody neighbors bloody moan
Keep the bloody racket down
This is bloody chicken town

The bloody pies are bloody old
The bloody chips are bloody cold
The bloody beer is bloody flat
The bloody flats have bloody rats

The bloody clocks are bloody wrong
The bloody days are bloody long
It bloody gets you bloody down
Evidently chicken town

The bloody train is bloody late
You bloody wait, you bloody wait
You're bloody lost and bloody found
Stuck in fucking chicken town

>paradise loft

Atm i really like the snake by DH Lawrence

Nah, here's a good one.
Roses are red
My mother a sopranist
"I want to fuck her lungs"
Reads my diary desu

O love, the interest itself in thoughtless Heaven,
Make simpler daily the beating of man's heart; within,
There in the ring where name and image meet ect...

Lycidas, duh

Alas! What boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Ich hab mein Sach' auf nichts gestellt
Drum ist's so wohl mir in der Welt

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land

Canada the creepy,
by senpai desu

...

Watch out for the beau
Who'll approach you in the snow.
He makes l'amour faux.

The Rubaiyat, by Borges, from In Praise of Darkness.

what am i reading

looks like the cover art for the next kanye west album

Roses are red, violets are blue.
Lolwtfbbq.

Fog comes in.
On little cat feet.

They flee from me, that sometime did me seek
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
Therewithal sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?"
It was no dream, I lay broad waking.
But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go, of her goodness,
And she also to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindely am served,
I fain would know what she hath deserved.

Some skandi dogshit.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

literally Twilight tier

but yes it's nice

Grand Gallop by John Ashbery, Cornkind by Frank O'Hara, The Moon by David Berman, Always a Rose by Li-Young Lee

is this art???

Hello New York Schoolchan. Nice to know there are others out there.

My fave O'Hara is probably For Grace, After a Party. I don't even think it's his best work but it's the poem I return to most often.

With Ashbery it's impossible to say. Almost every poem of his I read I get the sense that I'm reading his best. Bird's Eye View of the Tool and Die Co. is the first best poem that comes to mind, or the one I've spent the most time with at least.

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

Às vezes, sobre um soneto voraz e abrupto, passa

uma rapariga lenta que não sabe,
e cuja graça se abaixa e movimenta na obscura
pintura de um paraíso mortal.
Nesse soneto noturno escrevo que grito, ou então que durmo,
ou às vezes que enlouqueço. E a matéria grave
e delicada do seu corpo pousa no centro
desse sopro feroz. E o soneto
veloz abranda um pouco, e ela curva o corpo
teatral – e o ânus sobe como uma flor animal.
O meu pénis avança, no soneto que soletro
como uma dança, ou um peixe negro nos
frios planos sombrios e sonâmbulos:

— a aliança intrínseca de um pénis e de um ânus.

Herberto Helder

Un blues llora con lágrimas de música
en la mañana fina.
El Sur blanco sacude
su látigo y golpea. Van los niños
negros entre fusiles pedagógicos
a su escuela de miedo.
Cuando a sus aulas lleguen,
Jim Crow será el maestro,
hijos de Lynch serán sus condicípulos
y habrá en cada pupitre
de cada niño negro,
tinta de sangre, lápices de fuego.

Así es el Sur. Su látigo no cesa.

En aquel mundo faubus,
bajo aquel duro cielo faubus de gangrena,
los niños negros pueden
no ir junto a los blancos a la escuela.
O bien quedarse suavemente en casa.
O bien (nunca se sabe)
dejarse golpear hasta el martirio.
O bien no aventurarse por las calles.
O bien morir a bala y saliva.
O no silbar al paso de una muchacha blanca.
O en fin, bajar los ojos yes,
doblar el cuerpo yes,
arrodillarse yes,
en aquel mundo libre yes,
de que hablar Foster Tonto en aeropuerto
y aeropuerto,
mientras la pelotilla blanca,
una graciosa pelotilla blanca,
presidencial, de golf, como un planenta mínimo,
rueda en el césped puro, terso, fino,
verde, casto, tierno, suave, yes.

Y bien, ahora,
señoras y señores, señoritas,
ahora niños,
ahora viejos peludos y pelados,
ahora indios, mulatos, negros, zambos,
ahora pensad lo que sería
el mundo todo Sur,
el mundo todo sangre y todo látigo,
el mundo todo escuela de blancos para blancos,
el mundo todo Rock y todo Little,
el mundo todo yanqui, todo faubus…
Pensad por un momento,
imaginadlo un solo instante.

Nicolás Guillén

These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said
You are, he said,
beautiful.
That is not love, she said rightly.

Robert Bringhurst.

WRONG

I wish to be misunderstood;
that is,
to be understood from your perspective.

Bill Knott

Beginnings of spring come to mind,
and I realize autumn's already over.

Chasing after the very heart of joy,
I missed the year's splendor passing.

Dover Beach Related Poem Content Details
BY MATTHEW ARNOLD
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Jabberwocky

>Dover Beach Related Poem Content Details
odd title

shakespeare sonnet 14

Literally can't read Ode to a Nightingale without tearing up