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10/13/2005 10:08:53 AM · #1
Who is your favorite poet and what is your favorite poem?

I have several...I'm a huge Maya Angelou fan (my fave from her is "Phenomenal Woman"), as well as James Weldon Johnson ("Go Down Death"), ee cummings ("humanity i love you" and "somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond"), and probably too many more to list before you'd all be bored to tears. ;)

Anyway, let your poetry flow in this thread. Share original work if you feel the urge as well! :)
10/13/2005 10:27:43 AM · #2
i dont care how old my kids get.... Shel Silverstein will always be my favourite poet

10/13/2005 10:38:30 AM · #3
favorite poet? depends... Mostly Wallace Stevens and Frank OHara.
poems? I love forms: "One Art" Elizabeth Bishop, "Freaks at Spurgin Road Field" Richard Hugo, "The Waking" Roethke
and free verse: "Why I am not a Painter" OHara, "The Day Lady Died" OHara, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a blackbird" Stevens

Really depends on the moment...


10/13/2005 10:42:15 AM · #4
W.B. Yeats "An Irish Airman Forsee's His Death."

Clara
10/13/2005 10:53:54 AM · #5
[somewhere i have never travelled] ee cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

BTW the last line would be a form of Personification.

10/13/2005 10:56:13 AM · #6
For me, it has to be Wordsworth. What can I say? I like the old stuff.

Favourites: the inspiring Recovery and the guaranteed tear-jerker Surprised by Joy - Impatient as the Wind.

--Chris
10/13/2005 10:59:41 AM · #7
Nazim Hikemt Ran
About him
Exemple of his poetry
10/13/2005 11:07:29 AM · #8
Dylan Thomas
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

This might come off as low-brow but I love Rodney Dangerfields reading of that poem in the movie Back To School.

Langston Hughes...the first Def Poet

Message edited by author 2005-10-13 11:21:08.
10/13/2005 11:17:14 AM · #9
Interestingly enough I like a lot of unpublished poetry. I frequent piptalk.com a site dedicated to poetry. You can find any poem to fit your mood. I personally like my own poetry.. lol
10/13/2005 11:31:41 AM · #10
I would love to see a Challenge where you take a line or title of a poem and photograph it(lyrics included).

It would be sweet to visually convey a beautifully constructed set of words. And if that's too deep for someone.....sit it out.
10/13/2005 11:35:51 AM · #11
Originally posted by pawdrix:

I would love to see a Challenge where you take a line or title of a poem and photograph it(lyrics included).

It would be sweet to visually convey a beautifully constructed set of words. And if that's too deep for someone.....sit it out.


I was hoping I wasn't the only one thinking that. I say let's go for it! ;)
10/13/2005 11:59:39 AM · #12
Thomas R. Smith - a writer, friend & college roommate, whom I seldom see these days, but always enjoy. This is poem about his father.

Thomas was actually standing near me when I took this photo of another man which I used for the dpc feet challenge :
96585.jpg
I remember that I told him that I was shooting political feet. He replied and pointed to his own feet and said "I have poet's feet." I might have asked Tom to model his tennis shoes for me, but I did'nt think of it.
10/13/2005 12:09:27 PM · #13
Well, Laurie, you asked:

Poem in the Broken Seasons

The piney watchers watch.
A ripple takes the pond,
wakes waters that lie still
deeper than eye can reach,
as deep as light can sift.
A tree breaks from its leaves.
Nothing that lives, but grieves...

In silence, June retreats:
heat of summer in air,
heat of air on all
the watchers in the trees.
The pond is still once more.
In passage of the year
I shall learn how to please...


The essence of the pond
is air: is to float free,
circling entranced
amidst the broken leaves.
I feel a ripple rise
in my slow body now,
and yet I have not moved

silent through the trees
or stillness of the air,
except to touch the pond.
What place is there to turn?
What hope of breaking free
from circle of the year,
except it turns with me?

The dreaming pond, the air,
trees, watchers even, all
are body of changing love,
encircled in the year.
My voice, my heart, are mute.
The deaf ear hears, but love,
love cries for ways to speak...

Muted in kind, the trees
whisper, remark their days
in passages of quiet and of voice.
Body discovers pond.
Ripple is all.
The season is love. Bright air
sings through the watching trees...


****************

Felipe Viejo

My first clear memory of my father’s face
has haunted me for more than fifty years:
I blamed myself, as if it were my fault
I had seen him in tears.

My father wept to see me dying there,
but as a child, how could I understand?
I only knew he would not answer me.
He would not hold my hand.

What could I think but that his leaving me
was punishment for begging him to stay?
I thought, by screaming at him, I had made
my father mad that day.

I needed to believe that he was strong,
and had been taught that strong men did not weep,
so built an image of him in my heart
I could afford to keep.

I realize now how young he was, and know
he must have been mature beyond his age
to leave his son alone, in pain, to die,
and not explode in rage.

I beg forgiveness now: the child was wrong.
Though tears of grief fell from my father’s eyes,
he proved, confronting my impending death,
he was both strong and wise.

*************

Aubade

Precisely like a pillow she’s, my love,
bringer of comfort where I lay my head:
nor brittle nor harsh nor bitter lurks in her —
she is my sleep, my bright, enormous bed.

Lovely even in anger my love is,
as any rose, more tempting for her thorn.
Beside her, nothing of light outshines her shade —
she is my life, the tree where I was born.

She is my life, that gave my heart back life.
She is my rose, my precious, stinging bloom.
She is my bed, my pillow, my sweet sleep —
and when I wake from sleep, my light-filled room.

***************

The above are a few of mine, the more "accesible" ones...

I'm a big lover of Theodore Roethke, Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, and e e cummings to name but a few.

I'd love a "poetry" challenge :-)

Robt.

10/13/2005 12:16:11 PM · #14
Originally posted by laurielblack:

Originally posted by pawdrix:

I would love to see a Challenge where you take a line or title of a poem and photograph it(lyrics included).

It would be sweet to visually convey a beautifully constructed set of words. And if that's too deep for someone.....sit it out.


I was hoping I wasn't the only one thinking that. I say let's go for it! ;)


I was hoping that Personification would be in the ballpark but it turned out to be "find the penis in the tree bark" type of stuff.
10/13/2005 12:22:44 PM · #15
Shel Silverstein and Anonymous

My Mother's Hands
10/13/2005 12:47:47 PM · #16
Originally posted by bear_music:

Well, Laurie, you asked:

Poem in the Broken Seasons

The piney watchers watch.
A ripple takes the pond,
wakes waters that lie still
deeper than eye can reach,
as deep as light can sift.
A tree breaks from its leaves.
Nothing that lives, but grieves...

In silence, June retreats:
heat of summer in air,
heat of air on all
the watchers in the trees.
The pond is still once more.
In passage of the year
I shall learn how to please...


The essence of the pond
is air: is to float free,
circling entranced
amidst the broken leaves.
I feel a ripple rise
in my slow body now,
and yet I have not moved

silent through the trees
or stillness of the air,
except to touch the pond.
What place is there to turn?
What hope of breaking free
from circle of the year,
except it turns with me?

The dreaming pond, the air,
trees, watchers even, all
are body of changing love,
encircled in the year.
My voice, my heart, are mute.
The deaf ear hears, but love,
love cries for ways to speak...

Muted in kind, the trees
whisper, remark their days
in passages of quiet and of voice.
Body discovers pond.
Ripple is all.
The season is love. Bright air
sings through the watching trees...


****************

Felipe Viejo

My first clear memory of my father’s face
has haunted me for more than fifty years:
I blamed myself, as if it were my fault
I had seen him in tears.

My father wept to see me dying there,
but as a child, how could I understand?
I only knew he would not answer me.
He would not hold my hand.

What could I think but that his leaving me
was punishment for begging him to stay?
I thought, by screaming at him, I had made
my father mad that day.

I needed to believe that he was strong,
and had been taught that strong men did not weep,
so built an image of him in my heart
I could afford to keep.

I realize now how young he was, and know
he must have been mature beyond his age
to leave his son alone, in pain, to die,
and not explode in rage.

I beg forgiveness now: the child was wrong.
Though tears of grief fell from my father’s eyes,
he proved, confronting my impending death,
he was both strong and wise.

*************

Aubade

Precisely like a pillow she’s, my love,
bringer of comfort where I lay my head:
nor brittle nor harsh nor bitter lurks in her —
she is my sleep, my bright, enormous bed.

Lovely even in anger my love is,
as any rose, more tempting for her thorn.
Beside her, nothing of light outshines her shade —
she is my life, the tree where I was born.

She is my life, that gave my heart back life.
She is my rose, my precious, stinging bloom.
She is my bed, my pillow, my sweet sleep —
and when I wake from sleep, my light-filled room.

***************

The above are a few of mine, the more "accesible" ones...

I'm a big lover of Theodore Roethke, Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, and e e cummings to name but a few.

I'd love a "poetry" challenge :-)

Robt.


Robt,

I really like "Felipe Viejo". The flow, meter and word usage is great. The story flows well and ends appropriately. I can relate to the story very well and appreciate it that way. Thanks for sharing.
10/13/2005 12:54:16 PM · #17
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.

-Yeats

Edit: I also definetly consider song writing poetry, that said, Daniel Johnston is a genius.

Message edited by author 2005-10-13 12:55:53.
10/13/2005 12:58:09 PM · #18
Mine is Dr Suess. I'm most fond of "Green Eggs and Ham" although "Cat in the Hat" is quite good as well.
10/13/2005 01:02:16 PM · #19
I enjoyed Robt. sharing so I thought I would post a few of my own as well. If you write poetry and feel comfortable posting please do, I love reading poetry from people I can interact with. Laurie, I apologize if this offends, not trying to thread hyjack :).

Fallen Angel

Single, silver thread…

Dangles in the light of false pretenses,
Mocking the hope of fallen angels.

Peers pass aimlessly…

Ignore this filthy entity,
Visions impaired by bliss less bigotry.

Piecing words hit directly…

“Reeking of shit , you make me sick”,
Tear these bandaged wounds wide open.

Experienced apathy flows freely…

Stagnant rage rises with tears,
Pushing free past her walls of hypocrisy.

She responds…

I stand before all
In judgment of my life.

Fillet my worth, sear my pain,
Build your lies until I’m drained.

Dry as dust I will blow away,
Away to a place where fallen angels sing.


In the end…

Deaths bed comforts her,
Alone she cries tears of absolution.

Single, silver thread…
Trickles down from heaven
Single, silver thread…
Singing carols with dead brethren

Fallen angels never make it to heaven

----------------------------------------------

A Moment For Memories

Unfolding my closed wounds of past experiences
I find that life has another agenda to prove
Opening windows that by my will were closed
Vulnerability overcomes my ability to move

Afraid to step forward and even back to me
I try to ignore and commit myself to hypocrisy
Lying to live and surface this pain
Drinking to forget the reality I live in vain

Forceful forgotten and pasted out inequities
I judge those around me to cover my guilt
Shut out and shut off from those that love me
I blame you for opening my life's greatest inadequacies

Memories forgotten and time my best friend
I live for tomorrow and the opportunity for distance
Distance from you and all your experience
I hate you for making this moment of memories.

-------------------------------------------

What am I fighting for

Beat by beat
Step by step
Left, right, left


Three days in the passing,
We arrived at the gates of hell.
Marching in time.

Beat by beat
Step by step
Left, right, left


Apprehension is gone,
Words of excitement silenced.
The stench of death our daily meal.

Beat by beat
Step by step
Left, right, left


Gunfire, bomb explosions and shrapnel,
Pierce our virgin ears.
Fear taking over what we cannot see, only hear.

Beat by beat
Step by step
Left, right, left


Climbing our fateful hill,
Approaching the point of perspective.
Arriving just in time to find our reason.

Beat by beat
Step by step
Left, right, left


Clear is the picture in front of me,
Tragic battle for the right to be free.
My purpose is ever so clear to me.

Beat by beat
Step by step
Left, right, left


Rushing forward my brothers beside me,
Bullets spearing our wall of flesh.
Upon my back I breathe my last.

Beat by beat
No more steps
Until there's nothing left


In my last moments, this picture clear to me.
The reason I am dieing in a land so foreign to me.
Freedom is precious, but this the cost.
I am honored to die,
I hope America understands.
I hope that those that love peace
Appreciate where I stand.
To those that live to mock my sacrifice,
I forgive you because freedom was my choice,
I died proving my course.
Today is the day your sons and daughters set you free!


------------------------------------------------

Intentions

Pure and true the liar in you
Intention that confuse under a sky so blue

A story painted from the lies of your mouth
Stories of great giving and love to impart

Joy and happiness clouded by fear
Fear that these promises are all but near

Anger, hatred and broken our backs
Living to die or find our way back

Back to the safety we hide our souls in
Back to the lies we can feel comfortable in

Intentions so pure to ignorant virgin eyes
Intentions that create our bastard child

Message edited by author 2005-10-13 13:03:07.
10/13/2005 01:04:37 PM · #20
My favorites come from "local" talent...
10/13/2005 02:05:35 PM · #21
You are speaking, flower touching, your touch is made in the silence between motion. And again my eyes crawl slowly to the end of you. What is it I bring, pulling it through you blooming, I see a flower only I could see.

-Jay Tiernan (a friend)

Also love Walt Whitman.
10/13/2005 02:06:32 PM · #22
Bob Dylans "Tangled Up In Blue" is one of my favorite lyrics.

Also a big fan of Haiku. You're in and you're out in less than a minute.
10/14/2005 01:39:49 PM · #23
bumpity
10/14/2005 01:50:24 PM · #24
Never really read any, but have written a couple:

205822.jpg 243995.jpg
10/14/2005 02:04:13 PM · #25
Somewhere I have never travelled is one of my favs also, though Rilke is my favorite poet.
I was a poet way before I began taking pictures - Have a long boring poetry resume yada yada.
Here is a poem inspired by the poem mention above and my romantized encounter with a killer whale in Niagra Falls. (I hope you like it Steve)

Sea World
"nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."
e. e. cummings.

She dreams he watches her.

The voice in his eyes says
he has searched all his life
for a love with small hands.

She leans over to claim her captain of the sea.

As he rises up to meet his beloved
she touches him with tiny palms,
her lips melt into dark velvet,

and tasting a solid black tear,
she dissolves into a single drop of rain.
*****************************************
Here's one for fun - it was published some years ago in a mag in New York.

Writer's Guidelines

"Editor would prefer to see poems written
in the poet's own voice." – Submission guidelines.

Like…which one, eh?
I got a few.
My talking voice –
or the prosy one
that cuts lines
to look like poetry,
the raw-street stuff now in-vogue,
the poetry of the people,
understandable readable,
like folks blathering
cliché-strewn bilge the Everyman
lays on thick
with colloquial brilliance?

Am I a lexicon
overloaded with just the right words
and all appropriate synonyms?

Would you know my voice if you saw it?
I am the old dog, the lecher,
the paper thin hiding inside the lion
slouching towards war zones
for no earthly reason,
a collage of echoes tattooing white space
into ink-filled readable sounds,
timing my travels
around household chores,
and the voice of the common herd
demanding to be fed.

I am led to market
itching to step outside the guidelines,
to step outside myself.
So. . . can ya tell?
Like, did ya know on playback
everyone hates the sound of their own voice?

Message edited by author 2005-11-04 12:19:21.
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