Post your favourite Poems

[orbital]

Too many great poems appearing here to comment on all of them, but this one particularly fascinates me.  Loved hearing Brooks read it (and her intro is pretty amusing, too, including her description of June and comments on the word "jazz"), which echoes how the poem actually looks on the printed page.

--Bruce

There are many more poems on that website which are presented in the voices of their authors. There are a few by Ginsberg as well, but he is not the best reciter of his poems 

[DavidRoss]

             The Heart

In the midst of words your wordless image
Marches through the precincts of my night
And all the structures of my language lie undone:
The bright cathedrals clatter, and the moon-
Topped spires break their stalks.
Sprawled before that raid, I watch the towns
Go under.  And in the waiting dark, I loose
Like marbles spinning from a child
The crazed and hooded creatures of the heart.

                                     --Harvey Shapiro

[mozartsneighbor]

So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart by still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

Byron

[DavidRoss]

    Love Poem
     
My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.

Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars—
Misfit in any space. And never on time.

A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.

Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses—
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.

                       --John Frederick Nims

[Chosen Barley]

Thanks for Love Poem, DR.  It is very nice.  Never even heard of Nims before (I'm not highly educated.)

[mozartsneighbor]

Du Fu
TO MY RETIRED FRIEND WEI

It is almost as hard for friends to meet
As for the morning and evening stars.
Tonight then is a rare event,
Joining, in the candlelight,
Two men who were young not long ago
But now are turning grey at the temples.
...To find that half our friends are dead
Shocks us, burns our hearts with grief.
We little guessed it would be twenty years
Before I could visit you again.
When I went away, you were still unmarried;
But now these boys and girls in a row
Are very kind to their father's old friend.
They ask me where I have been on my journey;
And then, when we have talked awhile,
They bring and show me wines and dishes,
Spring chives cut in the night-rain
And brown rice cooked freshly a special way.
...My host proclaims it a festival,
He urges me to drink ten cups --
But what ten cups could make me as drunk
As I always am with your love in my heart?
...Tomorrow the mountains will separate us;
After tomorrow-who can say?

[tr. pianist]

This is by Kharm who was a Russian poet. I discovered him recently.
I thought long and hard about eagles,
And I came to understand a lot:
Eagles fly among the clouds,
They fly without bothering anyone.
I came to understand that eagles live on cliffs and on mountains,
And that they're friends with the water spirits.
I thought long and hard about eagles,
But it seems that I confused them with flies.

March 15, 1939

[ezodisy]

Daniil. I have a bunch of his children's poems from when I was studying Russian, ones like Очень-очень вкусный пирог

I think poems and children's stories are the best way to learn and are easy to memorise. My two favourite ones were:

http://www.litera.ru/stixiya/authors/axmatova/ya-pyu-za.html

and

http://www.stihi-rus.ru/1/Blok/57.htm

I have been thinking about starting again. I think I will after Christmas when I can concentrate better.

[adamdavid80]

Me

Wheee!

- Muhammad Ali

[tr. pianist]

ezodisy, Here is Agnia Barto in Russian

Мячик (TheBall)                                           

Наша Таня громко плачет:                         
Уронила в речку мячик.
- Тише, Танечка, не плачь:
Не утонет в речке мяч.

Зайку бросила хозяйка -
Под дождем остался зайка.
Со скамейки слезть не мог,
Весь до ниточки промок.

Teddy. Teddy

On the floor lies tiny Teddy
Half a paw is gone already.
He is tattered, torn, and lame.
Yet I love him just the same.

Bunny. Bunny

Once a little scatter-brain
Left poor Bunny in the rain.
What could little Bunny do?
He got wet just through and through.
Once a little scatter-brain
Left poor Bunny in the rain.
What could little Bunny do?
He got wet just through and through.


The Wooden Bull Calf. The Wooden Bull Calf.

The Bull-Calf walks with shaking knees.
The funny thing's so small
The board is ending soon, he sees.
And he's afraid to fall.



My Horse. My Horse.

How I love my little horse!
I will brush him very well, of course,
I will comb his tail and mane,
And go riding out again.

Teddy. Teddy

On the floor lies tiny Teddy
Half a paw is gone already.
He is tattered, torn, and lame.
Yet I love him just the same.

[tr. pianist]

Here is Mayakoavsky's poem.
I heard on Russian television debate about Mayakovsky. Many people think that he poetry doesn't worth much because of his communist (bolshevic) idiology. However, many disagree. He was crucified twice. First he was persecuted while he was alive, then he was made an official poet and people did not like him.
Now he is absolete. There is one of the poems I found on the net.

Some words.
Heavy as a blow.
"Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's- to God what is God's."
And one
such as I,
where shall I squeeze in?
Where is my den?

If only I were
small
as the great Pacific -
I'd stand up on the waves' tiptoes
and caress the moon with my tides.
Where am I to find a beloved
equal to myself?
Such a woman has no place in the tiny heavens!

If only I were poor!
As a billionaire!
What's money to the soul?
There's an insatiable thief in mine.
All the gold in California couldn't feed
the unbridled horde of my desires.

If I could only be as tongue-tied
as Dante
or Petrarch!
Turn my soul's fire on one woman!
Make it smolder out in verse!
My words
and my love-
are a triumphal arch:
the beloveds of all ages
would pass through it gloriously,
without a trace.

If only I were
quiet
as thunder-
I would whimper
and, trembling, embrace earth's decrepit cloister.
If I outroar in an enormous voice
with all the power of thunder-
comets will wring their burning hands,
and fling themselves down in despair.

I would crack open nights with my eye's ray,
if only I were
dim as the sun!
I so need
to slake with my shining
the sunken bosom of the earth!

I will pass by,
dragging my giant-love.
In what
delirious
feverish night,
by what Goliaths was I conceived-
so big
and so useless?

1916

[ezodisy]

Thank you. I have heard that before somewhere. There's a lot out there.

[J.Z. Herrenberg]

It is the 400th anniversary of John Milton's birth (9 December, to be precise), one of my great heroes. I celebrate this fact by a randomly-chosen passage from Paradise Lost, which is surprisingly fitting for both this board and the miracle that a poet long dead (1674) should still be alive today:

No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all
The multitude of Angels, with a shout
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung
With jubilee, and loud Hosannas filled
The eternal regions: Lowly reverent
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast
Their crowns inwove with amarant and gold;
Immortal amarant, a flower which once
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence
To Heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows,
And flowers aloft shading the fount of life,
And where the river of bliss through midst of Heaven
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream;
With these that never fade the Spirits elect
Bind their resplendent locks inwreathed with beams;
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone,
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.
Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took,
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet
Of charming symphony they introduce
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high;
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven.

(Paradise Lost, Book III 344-371)

[Dundonnell]

Magnificent

[Chosen Barley]

December 13th is Saint Lucy's Day, and here is a fine poem by John Donne:

http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/nocturnal.htm

   
A NOCTURNAL UPON ST. LUCY'S DAY,
BEING THE SHORTEST DAY.
by John Donne


'TIS the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ;
    The sun is spent, and now his flasks
    Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
            The world's whole sap is sunk ;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring ;
    For I am every dead thing,
    In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
            For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness ;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have ;
    I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
    Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
            Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two ; oft did we grow,
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else ; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing the elixir grown ;
    Were I a man, that I were one
    I needs must know ; I should prefer,
            If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means ; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love ; all, all some properties invest.
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am none ; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
    At this time to the Goat is run
    To fetch new lust, and give it you,
            Enjoy your summer all,
Since she enjoys her long night's festival.
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.

[J.Z. Herrenberg]

Great poem.

[pjme]

Nightingales
   
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.

Robert Seymour Bridges

[Keemun]

Here is a poem I read recently that is related to classical music, so I thought I'd share it.  Plus, this thread has been dormant for too long. 

The Composer's Winter Dream
by Norman Dubie

for my father

Vivid and heavy, he strolls through dark brick kitchens
Within the great house of Esterhazy:
A deaf servant's candle
Is tipped toward bakers who are quarreling about
The green kindling! The wassail is
Being made by pouring beer and sherry from dusty bottles

Over thirty baked apples in a large bowl: into
The wassail, young girls empty their aprons of
Cinnamon, ground mace, and allspice berries. A cook adds
Egg whites and brandy. The giant glass snifters
On a silver tray are taken from the kitchen by two maids.
The anxious pianist eats the edges of a fig

Stuffed with Devonshire cream. In the sinks the gallbladders
Of geese are soaking in cold salted water.
Walking in the storm, this evening, he passed
Children in rags, singing carols; they were roped together
In the drifting snow outside the palace gate.
He knew he would remember those boys' faces. . .

There's a procession into the kitchens: larger boys, each
With a heavy shoe of coal. The pianist sits and looks
Hard at a long black sausage. He will not eat

Before playing the new sonata. Beside him
The table sags with hams, kidney pies, and two shoulders
Of lamb. A hand rings a bell in the parlor!

No longer able to hide, he walks
Straight into the large room that blinds him with light.
He sits before the piano still thinking of hulled berries. . .
The simple sonata which

He is playing has little
To do with what he's feeling: something larger
Where a viola builds, in air, an infinite staircase.
An oboe joins the viola, they struggle
For a more florid harmony.   
But the silent violins now emerge

And, like the big wing of a bird, smother everything
In a darkness from which only a single horn escapes—
That feels effaced by the composer's dream. . .
But he is not dreaming,
The composer is finishing two performances simultaneously!

He is back in the dark kitchens, sulking and counting
His few florins—they have paid him
With a snuffbox that was pressed
With two diamonds, in Holland!
This century discovers quinine.
And the sketchbooks of a mad, sad musician

Who threw a lantern at his landlord who was standing beside
A critic. He screamed: Here, take the snuffbox, I've filled
It with the dander of dragons! He apologizes
The next morning, instructing the landlord to take
This stuff (Da Ist Der Wisch) to a publisher,
And sell it! You'll have your velvet garters, Pig!

The composer is deaf, loud, and feverish. . . he went
To the countryside in a wet sedan chair.
He said to himself: for the piper, seventy ducats! He'd curse
While running his fingers through his tousled hair, he made
The poor viola climb the stairs.
He desired loquats, loquats with small pears!   

Ludwig, there are Spring bears under the pepper trees!
The picnic by the stone house. . . the minnows
Could have been sunlight striking fissures
In the stream; Ludwig, where your feet are
In the cold stream
Everything is horizontal like the land and living.

The stream saying, "In the beginning was the word
And without the word
Was not anything made that was made. . .
But let us believe in the word, Ludwig,
For it is like the sea grasses
Off which with giant snails eat, at twilight!" But then

The dream turns to autumn; the tinctures he
Swallows are doing nothing for him, and he shows
The physicians his spoon which has dissolved
In the mixtures the chemist has given him!
After the sonata was heard: the standing for applause
Over, he walked out where it was snowing.

It had been dark early that evening. It's here that the
Dream becomes shocking: he sees a doctor
In white sleeves
Who is sawing at the temporal bones of his ears. There is
A bag of dampened plaster for the death mask. And
Though he is dead, a pool of urine runs to the

Middle of the sickroom. A brass urinal is on the floor, it is
The shape of his ears rusting on gauze. The doctors

Drink stale wassail. They frown over the dead Beethoven. Outside,
The same March storm that swept through Vienna an hour before
Has turned in its tracks like the black, caged panther
On exhibit in the Esterhazys' candlelit ballroom. The storm crosses
Over Vienna once more: lightning strikes the Opera House, its eaves
And awnings filled with hailstones,

Flames leaping to the adjacent stables! Someone had known,
As thunder dropped flower boxes off windowsills,
Someone must have known
That, at this moment, the violins would emerge
In a struggle with the loud, combatant horns.

[secondwind]

I liked this poem a lot. Thanks for the introduction to Norman Dubie, Keemun.  I am considering music-related poems to post, but this is a tough act to follow.

[Chosen Barley]

I like this poem, too, tho it's rather prose-like, in my books. And I hate the aristocracy more than ever. 

"Poetry: the best words in the best order" --Coleridge.