Thread: What is Your Favourite Poem and Why?

I hope that this thread comes under the aegis of the classification of Art and Culture. I have a few nominations but this one comes up first in my mind. The sheer power of the phrasing and the rhythm speaks directly to my heart. I can well understand why Bob Zimmerman changed his name to Bob Dylan. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you...Dylan Thomas.

The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
By Dylan Thomas 1914–1953 Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

The poem to me is about human frailty and development from youth to helpless old age and about 'life force' running its thread through all living things.

Originally Posted by jimmythesaint

I hope that this thread comes under the aegis of the classification of Art and Culture. I have a few nominations but this one comes up first in my mind. The sheer power of the phrasing and the rhythm speaks directly to my heart. I can well understand why Bob Zimmerman changed his name to Bob Dylan. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you...Dylan Thomas.

The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
By Dylan Thomas 1914–1953 Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

The poem to me is about human frailty and development from youth to helpless old age and about 'life force' running its thread through all living things.

Sorry!
Theres too little redundance
in your favorite poetry,
If I dont undertand
one word
and one only
the whole poem is destroyed!

Sigurd V - I do apologise. I should have said favourite poems in the English language. I was being a bit insular and non-inclusive. Dylan Thomas was a master of the English language - every word has been carefully chosen for an effect. With apologies to students of the English language this is what I personally take from the first verse:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

[The force that pushes the makes a flower come into maturity from a bud is the same force that drives my youth (green age). This force is Nature. The same force is so strong that it can destroy the roots of trees and the poet cannot tell the flower now grown old and crooked, that his own youth will also end up in the same way as the dried up flower in the 'winter' or old age of his own life. ]

The above is in my opinion as a science enthusiast who dabbles, in an amateurish way, in English literature.

Jimmy, nice choice. Ignore the ramblings of our tame fool. Anyone who thinks poetry requires redundancy should demand a refund of their tuition fees.I would probably pick something by t.s.elliot.

I like this one because it's so, so hard to find a love poem written by a woman that isn't from the dreary 19th century "Romantic" movement. It's by a 17th century poet named Anne Bradstreet. If any words or expressions seem unusual or unclear, use the link below and when the cursor hovers over some words there may be an explanation.

To my dear and loving husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.


My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet : Poem Guide : Learning Lab : The Poetry Foundation

(I like it so much I got a professional calligrapher to write it up and frame it for my husband.)

Originally Posted by adelady

](I like it so much I got a professional calligrapher to write it up and frame it for my husband.)

you old romantic, you!

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

Originally Posted by cosmictraveler

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

I typed this out 50 years ago, and carried it about with me
then
my brother added
"If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs
Perhaps, you do not understand the true nature of the problem"

Originally Posted by John Galt

Jimmy, nice choice. Ignore the ramblings of our tame fool. Anyone who thinks poetry requires redundancy should demand a refund of their tuition fees.I would probably pick something by t.s.elliot.

Yawn...Im a bit tired otherwise id show you a poem in Swedish and listen to your lecture on why translation is not necessary in order to understand it.
Notice the guy said each word was carefully selected. I spotted that
Not understanding something tells you something about it...
Oupps! Sorry that does perhaps not include you.

Originally Posted by adelady

I like this one because it's so, so hard to find a love poem written by a woman that isn't from the dreary 19th century "Romantic" movement. It's by a 17th century poet named Anne Bradstreet. If any words or expressions seem unusual or unclear, use the link below and when the cursor hovers over some words there may be an explanation.

To my dear and loving husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.


My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet : Poem Guide : Learning Lab : The Poetry Foundation

(I like it so much I got a professional calligrapher to write it up and frame it for my husband.)

So manifold has not only a technical meaning...No prob in appreciating that one...cya vermin!

I quite like Albert and the Lion, don't really know why just seems like something that stays in the memory and seems familiar or nostalgic.

Albert and the Lion

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That's noted for fresh air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert,
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
With a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much of the Ocean:
The waves, they were fiddlin' and small,
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,
Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

So, seeking for further amusement,
They paid and went into the Zoo,
Where they'd Lions and Tigers and Camels,
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big Lion called Wallace;
His nose were all covered with scars -
He lay in a somnolent posture,
With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about Lions,
How they was ferocious and wild -
To see Wallace lying so peaceful,
Well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,
Not showing a morsel of fear,
Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallace's ear.

You could see that the Lion didn't like it,
For giving a kind of a roll,
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im,
And swallowed the little lad 'ole.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,
And didn't know what to do next,
Said 'Mother! Yon Lion's 'et Albert',
And Mother said 'Well, I am vexed!'

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom -
Quite rightly, when all's said and done -
Complained to the Animal Keeper,
That the Lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it;
He said 'What a nasty mishap.
Are you sure that it's your boy he's eaten?'
Pa said "Am I sure? There's his cap!'

The manager had to be sent for.
He came and he said 'What's to do?'
Pa said 'Yon Lion's 'et Albert,
'And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too.'

Then Mother said, 'Right's right, young feller;
I think it's a shame and a sin,
For a lion to go and eat Albert,
And after we've paid to come in.'

The manager wanted no trouble,
He took out his purse right away,
Saying 'How much to settle the matter?'
And Pa said "What do you usually pay?'

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone.
She said 'No! someone's got to be summonsed' -
So that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the P'lice Station,
In front of the Magistrate chap;
They told 'im what happened to Albert,
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion
That no one was really to blame
And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing,
'And thank you, sir, kindly,' said she.
'What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!'




by Marriott Edgar

Sounds Of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools", said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence

scan0038 (2).jpgscan0162.jpg westwind

Love's Coming

ByElla Wheeler Wilcox


She had looked for his coming as warriors come,
With the clash of arms and the bugle's call;
But he came instead with a stealthy tread,
Which she did not hear at all.

She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun,
As he rode like a prince to claim his bride:
In the sweet dim light of the falling night
She found him at her side.

She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye
Would wake her heart to a sudden glow:
She found in his face the familiar grace
Of a friend she used to know.

She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul,
As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife:
He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm,
And a peace which crowned her life.

love_prison-wide.jpg

One of my favourite poems is this rather sad one by William Wordsworth, called “The Childless Father”.

“Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.”

—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy’s door;
A coffin through Timothy’s threshold had past;
One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said:
“The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.”
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

What struck me when I first read it was its rhythm: it is in triple metre (most of Wordsworth’s poetry is in duple metre). I believe it’s technically called anapaestic tetrameter: it evokes very powerfully indeed the sounds of galloping hooves in the poem.

I really like Sylvia Plath's Bee poems. The first in the series is The Arrival of the Bee Box.

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree;
And only God who makes the tree
Also makes the fools like me.
But only fools like me, you see,
Can make a God, who makes a tree.

I give you now, Professor Twist
A conscientious scientist.
Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"
And sent him off to distant jungles.

Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, his guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.

Professor Twist could not but smile,
"You mean," he said, "A crocodile."

-Ogden Nash


I rattled this off from memory, so apologies to Nash's corpse if I bungled it. I'm not Professor Twist.

Someone wants redundancy? Try Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha.



Desiderata (It seems to be the "answer" about life, and it uses assertions, which seems a rather difficult — or noble — thing to attempt.)

The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God (I like stories/ballads ... and sometimes mixed with a little film noir ... my dark side. I read it in my mind with a British accent, and I snicker out the line that begins "And the Colonel's daughter ..." in an aside.)

When Father Carves the Duck (Simple family fun, but maybe at the expense of father[hood?] ... this reading has a couple errors in it.)

A Heap o' Livin' (I love anything/everything by Edgar A Guest from my childhood, but this is his masterpiece. He was a Brit transplanted to America, and yet could write "American life" poetry absolutely perfectly.)

The Shooting of Dan McGrew (Another ballad-like story with all sorts of exciting elements and melodrama.)



Ballads ... that's also why I like the songs El Paso by Marty Robbins and Jack of Hearts by Bob Dylan.

jrmonroe

Thanks for reminding me of that poem, I had almost forgotten it, old age is setting in fast these days, so I'd like to post it here for all to read.


Desiderata - by max ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann c.1920

Although I do not believe in God, I do think the essence of this poem brings a warm glow to my heart and strive to follow its intent.

Well I have two favourite poems, one by an English author, William Shakespeare and the Arabic one by

English poem is the 18th sonnet by Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

And the Arabic poem is "Will of Life" by Abu Qasim Elchabbi, it's very long and not many translations are available online so here's a part of it

” If, one day, people desire to live, then fate will answer their call. And their night will then begin to fade, and their chains shall break and fall.

For he who is not embraced by a passion for life will dissipate into thin air,

At least that is what all creation has told me, and what its hidden spirits declare…”

You didn't die just recently,
You died some time ago.
Although your body stayed a while,
And didn't really know.


For you had got Altzheimer's,
You failed to comprehend.
Your body went on living.
But your mind had reached its end.


So we've already said, "Goodbye",
To the person that we knew.
The person that we trully loved,
The person that was, "You".


And so we meet again today,
To toast your bodies end.
For it was true and faithful,
Until right at the end.


And so, when we remember,
We'll think of all the rest.
We'll concentrate on earlier,
And remember all the best.


For in the real scheme of things,
Your illness wasn't long.
Compared to all the happiness,
You brought your whole life long.


We think of you as yesterday,
When you were fit and well.
And when we're asked about you,
It's those things that we'll tell.


And so we meet in 'membrance,
Of a mind so fit and true.
We're here to pay our last respects
To say that, "We love you".


© 2010 Dick Underwood


Copied from www.funeral-poems.net website with permission.

The poem by Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken, reminds me that every day we make countless little decisions that shape the course of our lives. Sometimes I ponder on what the outcomes may have been had I taken the other option at one or several of these junctures, but I am not one to while away much time in regret for the way of time goes ever forward and always there is another fork in the road....

I was delighted to find that someone has made an audio/video of this poem, and done a credible job, in my opinion.

Favourite peom ⁰?
Peotry is for girls!

And the other hand...

Wm Blake's Jerusalem ¹ (probably because the song was my school's "national anthem"), a much misunderstood one ², and a rousing song ³
Virtually anything by Emily Dickinson.
And virtually anything by e e cummings.
All geniuses in their own way, although Blake was a little eccentric ⁴.

Tu m’as donné les ailes,
1’ange de mes reves
je me souviens de toi,
quand je m’enleve.
Au fin du jour,
quand je me couche,
ton nom est un baiser
sur ma bouche.

Tu m’as donné les ailes, et puis tu as les amputé ⁵

0 Spelling is a tribute to Nigel Molesworth.
1 Working my slowly through Songs of Innocence and Experience though.
2 Very few people realise what he meant by "dark satanic mills".
3 I forget which play, but the line "Why should God have all the best songs?" comes to mind.
4 "A little eccentric" in the sense of "just this side of batshit crazy".
5 Written by none of the above.

Originally posted by Dywyddyr:

Tu m’as donné les ailes, et puis tu as les amputé ⁵

"You gave me wings and then you cut them off..." or approximation.

Yes. Love can be a cruel irony at times, love being the topic of more poetry, literature and song than anything else as far as I can see from reading and research.

Originally Posted by scheherazade

"You gave me wings and then you cut them off..." or approximation.

Approximation is all you'll get. It was written in French originally.
Le Ton Beau de Marot by Hofstadter is a brilliant, interesting, thought-provoking, learned treatise on the problems of translating peotry. I recommend it unreservedly.

Yes. Love can be a cruel irony at times, love being the topic of more poetry, literature and song than anything else as far as I can see from reading and research.

Oh well... change of pace then:

The Joy of Numeracy

S = u t + ½ a t²
has a joyous concinnity,
‘less you’re mentally impaired

v² = u² + 2 a s
is of sufficient elegance,
to pull you through any mess

e^ip + 1 = 0
the man who discovered that
must be some sort of hero


Same author as the previous one.

Originally Posted by Dywyddyr

Originally Posted by scheherazade

"You gave me wings and then you cut them off..." or approximation.

Approximation is all you'll get. It was written in French originally.
Le Ton Beau de Marot by Hofstadter is a brilliant, interesting, thought-provoking, learned treatise on the problems of translating peotry. I recommend it unreservedly.

Yes. Love can be a cruel irony at times, love being the topic of more poetry, literature and song than anything else as far as I can see from reading and research.

Oh well... change of pace then:

The Joy of Numeracy

S = u t + ½ a t²
has a joyous concinnity,
‘less you’re mentally impaired

v² = u² + 2 a s
is of sufficient elegance,
to pull you through any mess

e^ip + 1 = 0
the man who discovered that
must be some sort of hero


Same author as the previous one.

Not an easy work to trace. Would the author, by chance, be you?

Originally Posted by scheherazade

Not an easy work to trace. Would the author, by chance, be you?

Shhh! It's a secret.

Originally Posted by Dywyddyr

Originally Posted by scheherazade

Not an easy work to trace. Would the author, by chance, be you?

Shhh! It's a secret.

I'm a Scorpio, lol....We absolutely loves secrets and are the keeper of many such. Something about my penetrating gaze...total strangers tell me their innermost thoughts, lol...

Now if only they would tell me something useful, like the winning lottery numbers!

Originally Posted by scheherazade

Now if only they would tell me something useful, like the winning lottery numbers!

I CAN do that.
In fact it is my proud boast, never shown to be wrong, that I can answer, on the spot, within 5 seconds, ANY question anyone may ask, correctly. And without reference to anything other than my own knowledge.
I win many free coffees with that.

(Must interject poetry or be chastised for being off-topic... You need to charge more for your talents Dywyddyr. )

Coffee
by Richard Brautigan

Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
-from Revenge of the Lawn

Good day all. So many poems, and all of them thought-provoking. Lovely pieces of work. I was wondering, would any of you mind if I added one of my own poems? I'm not the best with words, but I would like to add a personal one for critique. Would that be ok?

Well I snuck two of mine in!
Damn! Now I've answered Scherezade's question.

Originally Posted by Dywyddyr

Well I snuck two of mine in!
Damn! Now I've answered Scherezade's question.

Hahahahaha... Yeah, I saw. And it was quite good for being quick off the bat. . Mine however, took a bit longer than that. So I'm hoping it's good.

So u say you're sorry
So u say it's been a while
So u say it was wrong
So u say it was bad treatment

I say you're lying
I say it hasn't been long enough
I say it was wrong
I say it was bad treatment

They say there's many fish in the sea
They say time heals all wounds
They say everything happens for a reason
They say what doesn't kill u makes u stronger

But all this means nothing because I have come to realise:

We were told by our hearts we're happy
We were told by our hearts we'll never part
We were told by our hearts it'll be made right
We were told by our hearts we're forever.

We were perfect together because of love. And now you've gone, leaving me cold because u have my heart with u. My heat, my love, my force is YOU. Always was, Always will be.

THE REVELATION.
By Jaco Weideman

Originally Posted by WaterWalker

Hahahahaha... Yeah, I saw. And it was quite good for being quick off the bat.

Grr! I wrote them years ago.
And they both took some time.

Originally Posted by WaterWalker

Good day all. So many poems, and all of them thought-provoking. Lovely pieces of work. I was wondering, would any of you mind if I added one of my own poems? I'm not the best with words, but I would like to add a personal one for critique. Would that be ok?

I hereby grant you artistic license to contribute your works for 'peer review'.

Originally Posted by Dywyddyr

Originally Posted by WaterWalker

Hahahahaha... Yeah, I saw. And it was quite good for being quick off the bat.

Grr! I wrote them years ago.
And they both took some time.

Oh. Oops. Ok, well, in that case, I will stay with my original point of view being that they were quite good. But I'll take back the "off the bat" remark.

Originally Posted by scheherazade

Originally Posted by WaterWalker

Good day all. So many poems, and all of them thought-provoking. Lovely pieces of work. I was wondering, would any of you mind if I added one of my own poems? I'm not the best with words, but I would like to add a personal one for critique. Would that be ok?

I hereby grant you artistic license to contribute your works for 'peer review'.

Thank you. . It's post number 35. Think I posted too soon.

Originally Posted by WaterWalker

Originally Posted by scheherazade

Originally Posted by WaterWalker

Good day all. So many poems, and all of them thought-provoking. Lovely pieces of work. I was wondering, would any of you mind if I added one of my own poems? I'm not the best with words, but I would like to add a personal one for critique. Would that be ok?

I hereby grant you artistic license to contribute your works for 'peer review'.

Thank you. . It's post number 35. Think I posted too soon.

We'll just blame it on the Yukon, where I live, having only one ISP hence the delay in your license getting to you, lol...

Shall I surmize that it was a relationship ending that provided the inspiration for your post? It sometimes is required that some things come to an end to provide opportunity for new beginnings.

Ultimate mourning poems (I do have my sad times) ...





Funeral Blues
by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message “He Is Dead,”
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.





When Tomorrow Starts Without Me
by: David M. Romano

When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not there to see;
If the sun should rise and find your eyes all filled with tears for me;

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry the way you did today,
While thinking of the many things, we didn’t get to say.

I know how much you love me, as much as I love you,
And each time that you think of me, I know you’ll miss me too;

But when tomorrow starts without me, please try to understand,
That an angel came and called my name, and took me by the hand,

And said my place was ready, in heaven far above,
And that I’d have to leave behind all those I dearly love.

But as I turned to walk away, a tear fell from my eye,
For all my life, I’d always thought, I didn’t want to die.

I had so much to live for, so much yet to do,
It seemed almost impossible, that I was leaving you.

I thought of all the yesterdays, the good ones and the bad,
I thought of all the love we shared, and all the fun we had.

If I could relive yesterday, just even for awhile,
I’d say good-bye and kiss you and maybe see you smile.

But then I fully realized, that this could never be,
For emptiness and memories, would take the place of me.

And when I thought of worldly things I might miss come tomorrow,
I thought of you, and when I did, my heart was filled with sorrow.

But when I walked through heaven’s gates, I felt so much at home.
When God looked down and smiled at me from His great golden throne,

He said “This is eternity, and all I’ve promised you.”
Today for life on earth is past, but here it starts anew.

I promise no tomorrow, but today will always last,
And since each day’s the same way there’s no longing for the past.

But you have been so faithful, so trusting and so true.
Though there were times you did some things, you knew you shouldn’t do.

But you have been forgiven and now at last you’re free.
So won’t you take my hand and share my life with me?

So when tomorrow starts without me, don’t think we’re far apart,
For every time you think of me, I’m right here, in your heart.

Poem on radioactivity:

As alpha rays are thrown out from their source,
The parent atoms undergo a change;
These helium nuclei need little force
To stop them going past a certain range.
Another radioisotope decays,
And more unseen electronvolts are freed;
But these more penetrating beta rays
Are just electrons with a lot of speed.
Possessing no rest mass and zero charge,
The nuclear gamma photons stream about;
They have a penetrating strength so large
That nothing short of lead will cut them out.

Big whorls have little whorls
That feed on their velocity,
And little whorls have lesser whorls
And so on to viscosity.

-- Lewis F. Richardson.

What is Your Favourite Poem and Why?

Poetry I have written and lived

Originally Posted by scheherazade

[We'll just blame it on the Yukon, where I live, having only one ISP hence the delay in your license getting to you, lol...

Shall I surmize that it was a relationship ending that provided the inspiration for your post? It sometimes is required that some things come to an end to provide opportunity for new beginnings.

Not really. It was actually a re-encounter with the other after a few years.

And, how about a limerick?

There once was a man named Zhough
Who lived in a place called Whough.
When folks scratching their head
Asked how these should be said,
He said: “Simple! They both rhyme with Khough.”

There once was a trapper from Whitehorse,
Whose profession was trapping (of course),
Your hide I must take
To pay for my steak,
He said to the lynx with remorse.

King Crimson Epitaph Lyrics

The wall on which the prophets wrote
Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with dreams,
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams.

Confusion will be my epitaph.
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back
And laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.

Between the iron gates of fate,
The seeds of time were sown,
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who are known;
Knowledge is a deadly friend
When no one sets the rules.
The fate of all mankind I see
Is in the hands of fools.

Confusion will be my epitaph.
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back
And laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.

My favorite poem is "Ulysses" by Alfred Lord Tennyson because it shows an old man still striving and trying to achieve.
Alfred,Lord Tennyson : Ulysses

When I woke up and looked up at the sky,
Lugubrious, sombre, grey clouds met my eye.
No pretty images to see up there …
So much for dreams of castles in the air.

Glad to see Im not the only one that loves it.

Originally Posted by cosmictraveler

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