Ever since I read (part) of Paradise Lost I’ve been enthralled with poetry. I’m just not very knowledgeable about the most famous poets/poems and would like a place to start. Any tfolk have a favorite poet or poem? Post it here.
paradise lost was a brilliant poem. he was the first man to say, this is why things are the way they are.
The Divine Comedy by Dante. I tried to read it in the Italian but it is rough.
TS Elliot, anything by him is good.
Poetry is for homos. Kidding, kidding…
These are some of my favorites:
Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Kubla Khan
Lord Alfred Tennyson - Collected Works
Allen Ginsberg - Howl
William Wordsworth - Assorted Works
William Cullen Bryant - Thanatopsis
Arthur Rimbaud has some good stuff…
I’m a huge Edgar Allan Poe fan…
Oh yeah, my favorite poem-Together Once Again, by author unknown
TOGETHER ONCE AGAIN
Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose.
And every year her husband had sent them, tied with pretty bows.
The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door.
The card said, “Be my Valentine,” like all the years before.
Each year he’d sent her roses, and the note would always say,
“I love you even more this year, than last year on this day.”
“My love for you will always grow, with every passing year.”
She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.
She thought, “He’d ordered roses in advance before this day.”
Her husband could not have known, that he would pass away.
He always liked to do things early; way before the time.
Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase.
Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face.
And then she sat for hours, in her husband’s favorite chair;
While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there.
A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate.
With loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate.
Then, the very hour, as on Valentines before,
The doorbell rang, and there were roses, sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock.
Then, went to get the telephone, to call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and she asked him, if he would explain,
Why would someone do this to her, causing her such pain?
“I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago,”
The owner said, “I knew you’d call, and you would want to know.”
“The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance.”
“Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance.”
“There is a standing order, that I have on file down here,
And he has paid, well in advance, you’ll get them every year.
There also is another thing, that I think you should know,
He wrote a special little card…he did this years ago.”
“Then, should ever, I find out that he’s no longer here,
That’s the card…that should be sent, to you the following year.”
She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears now flowing hard.
Her fingers shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note.
Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote…
“Hello my love, I know it’s been a year since I’ve been gone,
I hope it hasn’t been too hard for you to overcome.”
“I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real.
For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel.
The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life.
I loved you more than words can say, you were the perfect wife.”
“You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need.
I know it’s only been a year, but please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears.
That is why the roses will be sent to you for years.”
“When you get these roses, think of all the happiness,
That we had together, and how both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you and I know I always will.
But, my love, you must go on, you have some living still.”
“Please… try to find happiness, while living out your days.
I know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways.
The roses will come every year, and they will only stop,
When your door’s not answered, when the florist stops to knock.”
“He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place, where I’ve instructed him,
And place the roses where we are, together once again.”
Even after all these years, I still love everything Frost.
I second id’s last choice.
After reading the last poem, which brought a tear to my eye, I had to add one of my own to change the mood.
Farting can be fun
Be it silent or aloud.
You can do it on the run
by yourself or in a crowd.
Some are very dry
and some are wet
some can make you cry
and some will make you sweat.
So eat some spicy food
and try hard to let one go.
Yes, farting is quite rude
but it’s fun don’t you know…
Osmandious, I think thaks how its spelled.
Strongly recomend “I’ll find a way or make it” by John Godfrey Saxe
There’s motivation for ya!
It’s “Ozymandias”, by Percy Bysshe Shelley. And here it is:
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. 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!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Here’s another one of my favorites. A gold star to anyone who can guess who the author is…
Like the very gods in my sight is he who
sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens
close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness
murmur in love and
laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit;
underneath my breast all the heart is shaken.
Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies,
I can say nothing,
but my lips are stricken to silence,
underneath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;
nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are
muted in thunder.
And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever
shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;
I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that
death has come near me.
(That last bit could serve as an apt description for a Meltdown workout. )
How Did You Die?
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what’s that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It’s nothing against you to fall down fiat,
But to lie there - that’s a disgrace.
The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts;
It’s how did you fight and why?
And though you be done to death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he’s slow or spry,
It isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts,
But only, how did you die?
Edmund Vance Cooke
there once was a sailor named dave
he hid a dead whore in a cave
she was missin a tit
she smelled like shit
but think of the money he saved
Thanks for the clarification Char-dawg, I couldn’t find it last night. Good stuff in this thread.
I like to recite the old standby, “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service to my girls when out camping of fishing.
In faith, Billy
Thanks to this thread, I’ve been reading TS Eliot (since yesterday). The dude rocks. Thanks, Agathos. I plan on hitting a couple of others mentioned here that I’ve never paid much attention to.
Fragile, If you like the grandiose scope and form of Paradise lost then you might like Beowulf. There is a lot of bloody ass-kicking action in that long poem.
I also dig Bob Dylan from a poetic standpoint. You don’t have to like his music to read his lyrics and appreciate the messages and stories. He’s one of the best poets of today.
Just curious, anybody else here dabble in writing?
William Butler Yeats: “The Second Coming”
Cupcake writes. Very touching story about him and his Dad.
Milton kicked ass. But this topic is gay. That is all.