Who is Veeky Forums's favorite poet? pic related

Hopkins

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Another "poet" who is only famous for sucking Tao Lin's cock. This nepotism has to stop.

Sames OP, sames.

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Probably this right now.

Tao is a pedophile?

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Solid choices

For me it's AE Housman

eh, way too inconsistent. HD can sometimes hit it out of the park but also has this tendency to sound like a whiney little teen just getting how to string words along. Even at her best though she'sgot nothing on stein

>stein
Stop shilling this dyke, her work is complete nonsense

>writes 2 epic poems with the same level of word economy as her short works
>know (when knowm) for her precision in her shorter works
>rando on Veeky Forums decided she's immature and amateurish

stein's p cool tho

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just fuck off, stein is modernist that America hardly deserved:

A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading.

meanwhile HD is way easier to cherrypick for exactly the opposite side of the spectrum in qualitfy:

Greece sees unmoved,
God’s daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

>*watches Paterson once*

Rimbaud

Seamus Heaney. Definitely underrated

Irishfag? I read Station Island a little while back and loved it.

>I liked him before it was cool

You presumptuous little tart.

Oh stfu, Heaney isn't underrated anywhere. Take your head out of your ass, it isn't a hat.

No, I've never liked him.

>Underrated
>Won Nobel Prize

Also as an NI fag my secondary school English teacher pretty much worshipped Seamus Heaney and would constantly remind us of the time he met him.

The natural evolution of WCW. Both based, but O'Hara is just slightly more based

I think my guy would have approved of your guy

What are you even doing here?

Holding my superior taste over you? It's pretty fucking stupid to insinuate that because I dislike Williams I dislike poetry.

Trakl

american poets are worthless

>nonsense is better than cherrypicked subpar poetry
Stein's twee Edward Lear for adults pose gets old fast

Post your own favourite. Stop presuming the worst of others and they'll stop doing the same to you. Gobdaw.

Quién más

I assumed the worst in someone? What the fuck are you on about

>*watches Paterson once*

Honestly.

(N.) Irishfags, give pic related a read by and tell me how it strikes you.

1/2

2/2

>tfw quiero leer Borges en el original pero no sé suficiente español
Un día

pic related or basil bunting.

I like Montague, he mentioned my father indirectly in one of his best known poems. I went to the funeral a few months ago and saw Theo Dorgan and Heaneys wife there

This absolute madman.
If you can guess my favourite poem of his I'll be surprised.

someone didn't read Richard Yates

El español es uno de los idiomas más ricos en obras literarias, vale la pena aprenderlo

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paradise regained

que es obras literarias bueno en español (otros que don quixote)

Did your Da rob Jamie MacCrystal's house?

Probably the most life-affirming writer there ever was.

>thought that the sexual revolution would lead to free love for everyone
>thought that democracy was great
I can't even blame him, but Whitman seems so hopelessly naive today

Here's a poem about Whitman allegedly touching a boy for you
waxwingmag.org/writing.php?item=250

True, maybe - a lot like the romantics. But he was expressing the spirit of things, not the facts. Song of Myself is still perhaps the grandest and boldest thing a poet ever did outside of epic form. It just can't conceivably be hampered because of the poet himself.

Pretty bad poem there desu.

good guess but it's a shorter one

It's in the 2016 America's Best Poems lmao

Nabokov

THIS

i mean about trakl

Based Scott Cairns

Shelley

hart crane

some pretty bad taste. his poems were atrocious. why do you think he started writing prose?

how the fuck can anyone understand him

Lycidas and that is my final guess

Tarkovsky's papa is pretty good.

I love early 20th century hungarian poets.

>blocks your anus

Haha, no but he remembers McCrystal had a very attractive daughter. He mentions my father in "errigal road", he was one of the two men beaten up in dark altamuskin, he was only made aware of this poem when i showed it to him a few years ago.

A famous battle happened in this valley.
You never understood the nature poem.
Till now. Till this moment—if these statements
seem separate, unrelated, follow this

silence to its edge and you will hear
the history of air: the crispness of a fern
or the upward cut and turn around of
a fieldfare or thrush written on it.

The other history is silent: The estuary
is over there. The issue was decided here:
Two kings prepared to give no quarter.
Then one king and one dead tradition.

Now the humid dusk, the old wounds
wait for language, for a different truth:
When you see the silk of the willow
and the wider edge of the river turn

and grow dark and then darker, then
you will know that the nature poem
is not the action nor its end: it is
this rust on the gate beside the trees, on

the cattle grid underneath our feet,
on the steering wheel shaft: it is
an aftermath, an overlay and even in
its own modest way, an art of peace:

I try the word distance and it fills with
sycamores, a summer's worth of pollen
And as I write valley straw, metal
blood, oaths, armour are unwritten.

Silence spreads slowly from these words
to those ilex trees half in, half out
of shadows falling on the shallow ford
of the south bank beside Yellow Island

as twilight shows how this sweet corrosion
begins to be complete: what we see
is what the poem says:
evening coming—cattle, cattle-shadows—

and whin bushes and a change of weather
about to change them all: what we see is how
the place and the torment of the place are
for this moment free of one another.

Even Better:

In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking – they were both walking – north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.