General Chat

I love poetry. Who is your favourite poet? :-)

If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream and not make dreams your master; If you can think and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And which is more you'll be a Man, my son! Rudyard Kipling My favourite Lucia and I love poetry! Davexx

I love that Dave - great poem :-)

I like Wordsworths :'I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD' And Miracle on St David's Day by Gillian Clarke An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed with daffodils. The sun treads the path among cedars and enormous oaks. It might be a country house, guests strolling, the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs. I am reading poetry to the insane. An old woman, interrupting, offers as many buckets of coal as I need. A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic on a good day, they tell me later. In a cage of first March sun, a woman sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling. In her neat clothes, the woman is absent. A big mild man is tenderly led to his chair. He has never spoken. His labourer's hands on his knees, he rocks gently to the rhythm of the poems. I read to their presences, absences, to the big, dumb, labouring man as he rocks. He is suddenly standing, silently, huge and mild but I feel afraid. Like slow movement of spring water or the first bird of the year in the breaking darkness, the labourer's voice recites 'The Daffodils'. The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect. Outside the daffodils are still as wax, a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables unspoken, their creams and yellows still. Forty years ago, in a Valleys school, the class recited poetry by rote. Since the dumbness of misery fell he has remembered there was a music of speech, and that he once had something to say. When he's done, before the applause, we observe the flowers silence. A thrush sings, and the daffodils are flame.

I wandered loney as a cloud.......................right onto your thread Lucia..................love poetry. Lin

Lunar, I love Wordsworth. Here is one of my favourites: A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad. 'Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?' 'How many? Seven in all,' she said And wondering looked at me. 'And where are they? I pray you tell.' She answered, 'Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. 'Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.' 'You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.' Then did the little Maid reply, 'Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.' 'You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.' 'Their graves are green, they may be seen,' The little Maid replied, 'Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. 'My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. 'And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. 'The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. 'So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. 'And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.' 'How many are you, then,' said I, 'If they two are in heaven?' Quick was the little Maid's reply, 'O Master! we are seven.' 'But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!' 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, 'Nay, we are seven!' 1798. I think this one is very sweet :-)

Dave just like you, IF, is my favourite, one of the best poems written, it's a pity everyone doesn't live there life by it.

I'd like to see a tankcome down the stalls, Lurching to ragtime tunes and home sweet home Then ther'd be no more songs in music halls to mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume. Sigfried Sassoon a w.w.1 war poet, also worth reading is his 'memoirs of a foxhunting man'.

I love Wilfred Owen's 'Dulce Et Decorum Est'. :-)

I think I was conditioned by school in the poetry I like as my faviouret ever has now lost its words. A few more I like This time William Blake ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ London I wandered through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear: How the chimney-sweeper's cry Every blackening church appals, And the hapless soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace-walls. But most, through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Infant Joy 'I have no name; I am but two days old.' What shall I call thee? 'I happy am, Joy is my name.' Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet Joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Lamb Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bid thee feed, By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, Little Lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Infant Sorrow My mother groaned, my father wept, Into the dangerous world I leapt; Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) Ozymandias. I MET a Traveler from an antique land, Who said, 'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings.' Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair! No thing beside remains. Round the decay Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. Kind of puts things into perspective? Jay

I like the Metaphysical poets, especially Andrew Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress'. Not mad keen Wordsworth, Keats, Sheeley etc. More modern stuff - I enjoy the comic poems of Wendy Cope and Ogden Nash. nell

I've enjoyed reading you poems :-) Nell, I've read 'To his coy mistress' - another one I like :-)

Well, there was some woman who wrote a poem about Sahara Trekkers who springs to mind, but I can't recall her name just now! LOL CB >|<

Also 1st world war poets

I like Christina Rosetti, Robert Frost, T S Eliot and John Betjeman. CB >|<

Walter de la Mare is my favourite poet, and this my favourite poem The Listeners by Walter De La Mare 'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head And he smote upon the door again a second time; 'Is there anybody there?' he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:- 'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,' he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone Reg

Yes, I remember The Listeners from school, its really atmospheric. WH Auden is another goodie. Apart from the Funeral Blues quoted in Four weddings & a funeral, and the well-known 'Lay your sleeping head my love, human on my faithless arm' there's some little gems 'To the man-in-the-street, who, I'm sorry to say, is a keen observer of life, the word 'Intellectual' suggests straight away a man who's untrue to his wife.' and also Shakespeare, especially some of his lovely sonnets!

Yes, I love poetry, and have posted many poems on here. :-) Joy

John Masefield wrote some lovely things.......... Probably his best-known I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. Reg