Feb 27, 2020 11:48:03 AM by John K
I made an art thread here once, and then a Jazz thread. So perhaps a poetry thread would balance all that. Here's one of my favorite poems from probably my favorite poet -- he really doesn't need an introduction, but he and I have the same initials.
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
Feb 27, 2020 11:54:35 AM by Maria T
I don't like poetry much, but there is a Spanish poet that I like, Antonio Machado.
Perhaps because it does not seem to me poetry, it seems to me musical prose.
Feb 27, 2020 11:57:55 AM Edited Feb 27, 2020 11:59:24 AM by John K
One more English Romantic poet, then must find something quite different.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed'and gazed'but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Feb 27, 2020 12:03:20 PM by John K
Maria, this poem by Lorca I encountered in a Spanish class long ago...
Feb 27, 2020 12:07:39 PM by Maria T
From the book "Campos de Castilla" by Antonio Machado
Al olmo viejo, hendido por el rayo
y en su mitad podrido,
con las lluvias de abril y el sol de mayo
algunas hojas verdes le han salido.
¡El olmo centenario en la colina
que lame el Duero! Un musgo amarillento
le mancha la corteza blanquecina
al tronco carcomido y polvoriento.
No será, cual los álamos cantores
que guardan el camino y la ribera,
habitado de pardos ruiseñores.
Ejército de hormigas en hilera
va trepando por él, y en sus entrañas
urden sus telas grises las arañas.
Antes que te derribe, olmo del Duero,
con su hacha el leñador, y el carpintero
te convierta en melena de campana,
lanza de carro o yugo de carreta;
antes que rojo en el hogar, mañana,
ardas en alguna mísera caseta,
al borde de un camino;
antes que te descuaje un torbellino
y tronche el soplo de las sierras blancas;
antes que el río hasta la mar te empuje
por valles y barrancas,
olmo, quiero anotar en mi cartera
la gracia de tu rama verdecida.
Mi corazón espera
también, hacia la luz y hacia la vida,
otro milagro de la primavera.
Feb 27, 2020 12:52:33 PM by Nichola L
I know this poem is so popular that it is almost hackneyed, but it remains one of my favourites:
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and 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.
William Butler Yeats
Feb 27, 2020 01:31:39 PM by Nichola L
And a nonsense poem by Spike Milligan (who could also hit the heartstrings)
Soldier Freddy
was never ready,
But! Soldier Neddy,
unlike Freddy
Was always ready
and steady,
That's why,
When Soldier Neddy
Is-outside-Buckingham-Palace-on-guard-in -the-pouring-wind-and-rain-being-steady-and-ready ,
Freddy
is home in beddy.
Feb 27, 2020 12:47:55 PM Edited Feb 27, 2020 12:49:12 PM by Anthony H
Sometimes there is no difference between poetry and musical prose. But I have a somewhat existential definition of poetry in which someone, anecdotally, says, "Nice poem; what does it mean?" to which the poet answers, "The poem is the explanation. If I could put it any better than that, that would have been the poem instead."
Poetry is interpretive dance with words. Prose is, in contrast, folk dancing. (Before someone bites my head off, both are terrific.)
Feb 27, 2020 12:56:58 PM by Phyllis G
Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to water-ski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Feb 27, 2020 01:21:40 PM Edited Feb 27, 2020 01:29:52 PM by Anthony H
Phyllis -- Ow!!! That's painful.
Here's one I like from Gallway Kinnell.
Prayer
Whatever happens. Whatever
What is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
Feb 27, 2020 02:53:44 PM by John K
To do this one justice requires a screenshot.
Feb 27, 2020 04:51:51 PM by Phyllis G
Anthony, I wasn't aiming for you. Your comment just reminded me of that poem.
Here's another from Billy Collins.
Dharma
The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart with milky admiration.
Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance----
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?
Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment sh would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.
Feb 28, 2020 12:51:00 AM by Jennifer R
This is one is from a time before machine translation and will stay there.
Du tappst die falschen Tisten
O unberachenbere Schreibmischane,
was bist du für ein winderluches Tier?
Du tauschst die Bachstuben günz nach Vergnagen
und schröbst so scheinen Unsinn aufs Papier!
Du tappst die falschen Tisten, luber Bieb!
O sige mar, was kann da ich dafür?
(Joseph Guggenmoos)
Feb 28, 2020 07:19:12 AM Edited Apr 1, 2020 01:46:01 PM by Anthony H
Phyliss: I didn't think that was for me at all. I was speaking for all poets dead and alive.
I won't say which of those categories I fall into.
Apr 11, 2024 09:51:14 AM by Havva Krçiçei A
Even though I follow the world in terms of literature, I usually read Turkish poems because of the different magic in native language.
Thank you for the introduction to Billy Collins.
Feb 28, 2020 11:40:32 AM Edited Feb 28, 2020 11:43:50 AM by Virginia F
John K wrote:I made an art thread here once, and then a Jazz thread. So perhaps a poetry thread would balance all that. Here's one of my favorite poems from probably my favorite poet -- he really doesn't need an introduction, but he and I have the same initials.
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
I've always been fond of Ogden Nash - don't judge me (unless you really need to).
ETA: If anyone is interested: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ogden_Nash
I Didn't Go To Church Today
I didn't go to church today,
I trust the Lord to understand.
The surf was swirling blue and white,
The children swirling on the sand.
He knows, He knows how brief my stay,
How brief this spell of summer weather,
He knows when I am said and done
We'll have plenty of time together.
A Flea And A Fly In A Flue
A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "let us flee!"
"Let us fly!" said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.
A Drink With Something In It (first verse only)
There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth—
I think that perhaps it's the gin.
And one of his most famous one-liners:
Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.
Feb 28, 2020 06:48:44 PM by Amanda L
I'm going to have to use Google translate on some of these. (J/K)
Feb 28, 2020 09:47:42 PM by Reinier B
Poems are a bit like paintings. Impossible to choose a favourite.
Feb 29, 2020 10:33:23 AM by John K
These are song lyrics and I will be posting the song itself in my Jazz thread tomorrow, but it's also wonderful poetry by that incomparable Brazilian genius, Tom (Antonio Carlos) Jobim.
A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass,
It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It's a trap, it's a gun
The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush
The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all
It's the wind blowing free,
It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void,
It's a hunch, it's a hope
And the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart
The foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot's stone
A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bow
The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It's a loss, it's a find
A spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the tale
A truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the night
A mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
It's a cold, it's the mumps
The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud
Afloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of spring
And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart
A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone
A snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toe
A point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of night
A pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stain
A pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue
And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart
A stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome road
A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the run
And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.
Mar 2, 2020 07:04:19 AM by Mary W
Because I adore my big brother, I must share his latest which was published by the Society of Classical Poets. I include his bio at the end because I am so proud of his accomplishments:
Psalm CIV: Benedic, Anima MeaO praise the Lord, my soul. The aspens sigh
As high above Mount Axtell in blue sky
The hawk cries out God’s glory, and the clouds
Grow to a thunderhead that blots and crowds
Out light. The Lord’s electric bolts flash down
Demonstrative on forests and the town:
If He but touch the hills they quake and smoke.
The mighty crashes scare and deafen folk
As far as the elegant condos. Now the sun
Returns, and shines on pumas as they run
On highest peaks, who seek their meat from God
And range down after deer on trails I trod
Before the rain, composing hymns of praise
To sing in aspen country all my days.Psalm CXLIV: Benedictus DominusThe Lord’s bright lightning strikes sharp Whetstone’s peak;
We see how small man is beneath these skies.
Deliver us, O Lord, for we are weak,
From preachers of new vanities and lies.
O bless the Lord, our castle and our shield,
Who cares for us though we are small poor things;
Who guards our sleek fine Herefords in this field
Slaked by canals from Whetstone’s snow-fed springs.
We pray our sons grow tall in our green county
And daughters ski high ridges in deep snow
And summers yield us tons of hay, good bounty;
We’ll savor August sweetness when we mow.
O keep us from the peril of the sword;
O save our peace and well-loved pastures, Lord.Psalm CLVI: Domine, Extra IntellectumO Lord beyond the ken of any mind,
We hope for peace and plenty on our earth;
For prudence, true compassion, and no lies
From leaders who we see are full of vice.
O Lord of galaxies, our human kind
Knows history shows our prayers have little worth.
What then to do but mutter and chastise?
But will complaints and grimaces suffice?
O Lord, we can do much if we are brave
Confronting those who fake the truth for gain;
Ours is a fair Republic we can save
Together in a strong and straight campaign
That works to make us free of haughty men,
Free of foul threats, equal and proud again.Peter Bridges has been hiking and climbing for three decades in the West Elk Mountains near Crested Butte, Colorado. He holds degrees from Dartmouth and Columbia and spent a career in the U.S. Foreign Service, ending as ambassador to Somalia. His diplomatic memoir, Safirka: An American Envoy, and the biographies of two once famous Americans, John Moncure Daniel and Donn Piatt, were published by Kent State University Press. He has self-published a second memoir, Woods Waters Peaks: A Diplomat Outdoors, and a volume of a hundred Sonnets from the Elk Mountains. His articles, essays, and poems have appeared in American Diplomacy, Eclectica, Michigan Quarterly Review, Virginia Quarterly Review and elsewhere.
Mar 7, 2020 08:32:17 AM by Jamie F
I'm a bit if a fan of Pam Ayres
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4oydSZTAns
Mar 8, 2020 04:42:37 AM by Luce N
I must admit I don't really like poetry, but this is what I found when I investigated about the poem "Invictus" after watching the film "Invictus" many times: