Best poems ever

this is The Great Poem to me-- it gets me every time

Disillusionment of Ten O Clock

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

So poetry is supposed to illicit an emotional response? Is that the point? To feel things? Doesn't music just do that better? Seriously not shitposting, I'm just confused at the medium. I know it's not "useless," but it just doesn't do anything for me. What am I missing? I feel like I'm hearing music without ears or watching movies without eyes.

>Is that the point?
no. there is no universal point to poetry. poetry's whatever the poems is.

Big key in poetry is presenting an image (unlike creating an image through painting). Presenting an image allows a certain type of imagination that's hard to describe be release. Poetry works in ways prose doesn't because of the plethora of mechanics you haven't learned about. Enjambment, rhythm, rhyme, physical form, structure, etc.etc. all go towards creating one specific image

Best poems in my admittedly slim opinion, are Yeats's Sailing to Byzantium, and Coleridge's Kublai Khan

again, this is a particular method of poetry. not all poems do this.

Poetry is basically an eviscerated form of song, so yes, it is music without music.

Most free verse strikes me as "running on empty." Poetry originated as an ecstatic form of music, improvising words that come with a tune, and then improvising new words to fit the tune of the original phrase, on and on.

It only makes sense as a form of rhythmic ecstasy, so it's no surprise that the even more bloodless and un-ecstatic, schoolmarmish forms of poetry we have nowadays don't grab your attention. Who has ever achieved poetic ecstasy while complaining about their boring childhood or ethnic problems in toneless prose chopped into lines?

The lack of proper function is what is killing poetry right now. In a way, poetry IS music (think about the troubadours-minnesangs etc). But it was also synonym for fiction before the novel came in (the term literature is a modern one).

So now we have a ''poem'' that doesn't tell stories anymore, and doesn't sing anymore, i.e., doesn't have a basic function anymore. It's too amorphous, and that's why people hates poetry, and I can't blame them, despite being a poetry reader myself.

I'm continually amazed at the amount of people on Veeky Forums with little to no knowledge of poetry; in my schooling it was emphasised much more heavily than prose and drama. Anyway, for anyone new to poetry, I'd recommend getting some kind of anthology, which doesn't have to be very thick or exhaustive, then reading at a slow but not meticulous pace until you come across something you instinctively like. Spend some time identifying what it is that you liked, whether it was metric, rhythmic, structural, thematic or whatever. Then try to find more poetry that fits with what you enjoyed. This will not only give you an entry-point to exploring poetry, but also get you thinking critically about it, which is vital as well.

This is a good method, I won't argue. Ultimately, one must find their own way with poetry.

From "Vacillation" by Yeats

Get all the gold and silver that you can,
Satisfy ambition, animate
The trivial days and ram them with the sun,
And yet upon these maxims meditate:
All women dote upon an idle man
Although their children need a rich estate;
No man has ever lived that had enough
Of children’s gratitude or woman’s love.

No longer in Lethean foliage caught
Begin the preparation for your death
And from the fortieth winter by that thought
Test every work of intellect or faith,
And everything that your own hands have wrought
And call those works extravagance of breath
That are not suited for such men as come
proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.

I'll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown
Who worked in a circus that came through town.

His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.

He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,
He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.

He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.

And every time he did a trick,
Everyone felt a little sick.

And every time he told a joke,
Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.

And every time he lost a shoe,
Everyone looked awfully blue.

And every time he stood on his head,
Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!"
And every time he made a leap,
Everybody fell asleep.

And every time he ate his tie,
Everyone began to cry.

And Cloony could not make any money
Simply because he was not funny.

One day he said, "I'll tell this town
How it feels to be an unfunny clown.
"
And he told them all why he looked so sad,
And he told them all why he felt so bad.

He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,
He told of Darkness in his soul,
And after he finished his tale of woe,
Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,
They laughed until they shook the trees
With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees.
"
They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,
They laughed all day, they laughed all week,
They laughed until they had a fit,
They laughed until their jackets split.

The laughter spread for miles around
To every city, every town,
Over mountains, 'cross the sea,
From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.

And soon the whole world rang with laughter,
Lasting till forever after,
While Cloony stood in the circus tent,
With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.

And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT -
I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT.
"
And while the world laughed outside.

Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.

Det var den excentriska lorden
som bodde på Midnight Hill,
- om så att du känner den gården
åt norr eller söder till.

I Afrika - Indien - Kina
han dröjde rätt många år,
och när han kom hem till de sina.
var det frostens färg i hans hår.

En sökare var han, som letat
all jorden kanter omkring
att finna - vad förr man vetat,
att allting är ingenting.

Han gick med en blick som kändes
så tröstlöst däven och ljum;
men ofta om nätterna tändes
en pipa opium.

Det var den excentriska lorden,
en morgon, förrn tuppen väckt,
i vårdträdets skugga på gården
han släckt sin andedräckt.

Om våren, när sipporna vakna
och ungdomen glammar i byn,
om våren det hände - men nakna
stod trädets armar mot skyn...

Det var den excentriska lorden,
han mättes i fot och tum
och fördes till kyrkogården
att få sej ett vilorum -

I jordens ruvande lera
där ligger han stel och stum,
nu tänder han aldrig mera
en pipa med opium.

Han bor som ett ben i mullen
djupt under den blanka skyn,
och solen lyser på kullen
och solen lyser i byn.

Och svalor och måsar susa
som fordon kring Englands strand,
och bambustänglarna brusa
där borta i Österland -

Det var den excentriska lorden
som bodde på Midnight hill.
- En slaktare köpte gården
och byggde en våning till

who is this? trying to get my swedish better, maybe ill try some poetry.

I like Richard Siken