Poems I like.

[Longstreet]

I like poetry. Some of it any way. I don't pretend to be a critic, or to know that much about meter and structure and rhythm and all that. I just know what I like. I have these on the wall in my offices and at home.

The first two are by Steve Turner.

How to Hide Jesus
There are people after Jesus.
They have seen the signs.
Quick, let's hide Him.
Let's think; carpenter,
fishermen's friend,
disturber of religious comfort.
Let's award Him a degree in theology,
a purple cassock
and a position of respect.
They'll never think of looking here.
Let's think;
His dialect may betray Him,
His tongue is of the masses.
Let's teach Him Latin
and seventeenth century English,
they'll never think of listening in.
Let's think;
humble,Man of Sorrows,
nowhere to lay His head.
We'll build a house for Him,
somewhere away from the poor.
We'll fill it with brass and silence.
It's sure to throw them off.

There are people after Jesus.
Quick, let's hide Him.

Chance
If chance be the Father of all flesh,
disaster is his rainbow in the sky,
and when you hear
State of Emergency!
Sniper Kills Ten!
Troops on Rampage!
Whites go Looting!
Bomb Blasts School!
It is but the sound of man worshiping his maker.


This is by Sir Henry Newboldt

Clifton Chapel
This is the Chapel: here, my son,
Your father thought the thoughts of youth,
And heard the words that one by one
The touch of Life has turn'd to truth.
Here in a day that is not far,
You too may speak with noble ghosts
Of manhood and the vows of war
You made before the Lord of Hosts.

To set the cause above renown,
To love the game beyond the prize,
To honour, while you strike him down,
The foe that comes with fearless eyes;
To count the life of battle good,
And dear the land that gave you birth,
And dearer yet the brotherhood
That binds the brave of all the earth.--

My son, the oath is yours: the end
Is His, Who built the world of strife,
Who gave His children Pain for friend,
And Death for surest hope of life.
To-day and here the fight's begun,
Of the great fellowship you're free;
Henceforth the School and you are one,
And what You are, the race shall be.

God send you fortune: yet be sure,
Among the lights that gleam and pass,
You'll live to follow none more pure
Than that which glows on yonder brass:
'Qui procul hinc,' the legend's writ,--
The frontier-grave is far away--
'Qui ante diem periit:
Sed miles, sed pro patria.'


What do y'all like?

[TuckEverlasting]

What do y'all like?
I'm really into limericks! For example:


A fellow there was named "Longstreet"
Whom critters endeavoured to eat.
"Let go my arm!"
He cried with alarm -
"My butt's the best cut of meat!"

[Longstreet]

"My butt's the best cut of meat!"

And just HOW do you know THAT?!?!?!

:rofl:

[The Curtmudgeon]

Much of my favourite poetry is dramatic monologue, such as Browning's "Andrea del Sarto" or "My Last Duchess", or Kipling's "M'Andrew's Hymn" or "The 'Mary Gloster'", and as such is probably too long for posting here. I do like almost all of Kipling's work, including his shorter stuff. I'll post one here that doesn't have the form of most poetry (of his age, anyway; modern verse believes in avoiding form at all cost); I won't try to document all the Anglo-Indian words and phrases, but if you need help with anything in particular just ask. Maxim #XV is the main reason this is one of my favourite poems, btw.

Certain Maxims of Hafiz 1

I.
IF IT be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai,
Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy?
If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say?
“Lo! She is pleasant to look on, give Her to me to-day!”


II.
Yea, though a Kafir die, to him is remitted Jehannum
If he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent. per anuum.


III.
Blister we not for bursati? So when the heart is vexed,
The pain of one maiden’s refusal is drowned in the pain of the next.


IV.
The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano’s tune—
Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June?


V.
Who are the rulers of Ind—to whom shall we bow the knee?
Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L.G.


VI.
Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash? Does grass clothe a new-built wall?
Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall?


VII.
If She grow suddenly gracious—reflect. Is it all for thee?
The black-buck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy.


VIII.
Seek not for favor of women. So shall you find it indeed.
Does not the boar break cover just when you’re lighting a weed?


IX.
If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold,
Take his money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold.


X.
With a “weed” amoung men or horses verily this is the best,
That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly—but give him no rest.


XI.
Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage;
But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thorn-bit of Marriage.


XII.
As the thriless gold of the babul, so is the gold that we spend
On a derby Sweep, or our neighbor’s wife, or the horse that we buy from a friend.


XIII.
The ways of man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tame
To the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same.


XIV.
In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet.
It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet.
In public Her face is averted, with anger She nameth thy name.
It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game?


XV.
If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed,
And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.
If She have written a letter, delay not an instant, but burn it.
Tear it to pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it!
If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,
Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.


XVI.
My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o’er,
Yet lip meets with lip at the last word—get out! She has been there before.
They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore.


XVII.
If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the course.
Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse.


XVIII.
“By all I am misunderstood!” if the Matron shall say, or the Maid:
“Alas! I do not understand,” my son, be thou nowise afraid.
In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.


XIX.
My son, if I, Hafiz, the father, take hold of thy knees in my pain,
Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour—refrain.
Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man’s chain?

1 The name should be pronounced with a long 'i' (i.e., "Half-(w)ise", which predates JRRTolkien's use of Samwise [Gamgee] from an Anglo-Saxon word with the same meaning).

The (Hafiz myself) Curtmudgeon

[semmie]

Emily Dickinson.

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because—
The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—
And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He's Sunrise—and I see—
Therefore—Then—
I love Thee—

[historic salve]

I have a sort of passion for modern poetry. I haven't read very much (most of what I know is broad, but sound, information from Humanities classes). I'd say one of my favorites is the predictable "Dream Deferred" by Langston Hughes.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

[shadowmaster]

Shadowmaster heard this in the 4th grade and carried it with him all of his life.

It Couldn't Be Done
Edgar Guest

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

[SteveF]

I'm not especially knowledgeable about poetry, but I do like Stop all the Clocks by WH Auden (I think pretty much everyone likes this). If by Rudyard Kipling is good too, in a stirring kind of way.

Funeral Blues (aka Stop all the Clocks)

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 crepe 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.

[Lisa Hejazi]

To the Hafiz himself, Curtmudgeon, (To the Protector himself, Curtmugeon)

Regarding your note on the pronunciation of “Hafiz”, with the long “eye”, what import do you think the word itself, as it would be enunciated and interpreted in the language of its origin contains within the poem’s context? As importantly, to what do you think the poem speaks? Do you think it has any relation to Auden's "Funeral Blues"? or Dickinson's "Why Do I Love You Sir" or Langston's "A Dream Deferred" or, for that matter, Milton's "Paradise Lost"?

Regards,
Lisa

[Longstreet]

Found a new one to add!

Originally posted by Jawa Man
Here is my Valentine's Day poem to Callisto. It is called, "Cataphracts". Return to me soon, mon amante!

Lo, my lady of lovely Helen,
See my horsie, clad in steel!
Neigh! My love be not a felon;
I go to battle for thy appeal.
I wear thy banner upon my heart,
And proclaim thee in all my talks,
Idolatrous though these things art,
It's okay: we're Orthodox.

Our line stops; we see ahead
The Armenian heavy corps.
We offer prayers, to be God sped,
And accept our obliged chore.
We blow trumpet and ready cuirass
And spear, if thou likest to joust.
Yet think I only of thee, bonny lass
Whose love Johnny had doused.

We charged their force, and truth be told,
It was a bowelish mess.
I saw companion make sloth poo mold,
And soiled his soldier's dress.
My steed is struck; I smack the ground
Thrust into drowning muck.
And in my heart, I hear your sounds:
"Beef", and "pal" and "you suck!"

Oh, and I just died right there,
So my poem kind of ended.
But my lady, do not despair;
In memory, this poem, I send-ed!!

Idolatrous though these things art,
It's okay: we're Orthodox.
I had to clean coffee off the monitor...
:rofl:

[The Curtmudgeon]

To the Hafiz himself, Curtmudgeon, (To the Protector himself, Curtmugeon)

Regarding your note on the pronunciation of “Hafiz”, with the long “eye”, what import do you think the word itself, as it would be enunciated and interpreted in the language of its origin contains within the poem’s context? As importantly, to what do you think the poem speaks? Do you think it has any relation to Auden's "Funeral Blues"? or Dickinson's "Why Do I Love You Sir" or Langston's "A Dream Deferred" or, for that matter, Milton's "Paradise Lost"?

Regards,
Lisa

My apologies for missing this, Lisa; I haven't been intentionally ignoring you, but I hadn't subscribed to this thread and forgot to check up on it until today.

Personally, my feeling about Hafiz is that it was Kipling's subtle attempt to poke fun at himself, and especially his penchant for giving out gratis advice to young men in the service of The Raj. Much of the advice itself is obviously not intended to be helpful -- after all, suggesting to a young man that he refrain from following after women is just asking to be ignored -- and I reckon the poem is roughly half joking, and half serious advice (consistent with his designation of "Half-wise").

The poem, then, speaks to humanity's need to pass on wisdom to the next generation, while also highlighting humanity's inability to do so to any truly useful extent. Each generation gains wisdom and understanding through mistakes, it attempts to pass on this wisdom to the next generation so that they can bypass all the mistakes, it is summarily ignored by the next generation who promptly proceeds to make all the old mistakes over again, while the older generation sadly shakes its collective head and murmers, I really tried to raise that boy better. And so on, until the round of decades replaces one "older generation" with the next, and the comedy begins again.

Ignoring all of which, I enjoy the poem because it's funny, which cannot be said of Auden, Dickinson or Langston, and only occasionally of Milton.

The (which is generally why I'm not an English Lit professor by now) Curtmudgeon

[Iconoclastithon]

What do y'all like?

I'm a big fan of "Inno A Satana" by Giosue Carducci.

I don't read alot of poetry though.

I might include "lyrics"{a "form" of poetry} however. Too many to mention. By metal bands of various kinds; Iron Maiden, Dimmu Borgir, Cradle of Filth, and others.

I'm also a BIG fan of the poetry of Jewel Kilcher{a.k.a. JEWEL} and Amy Lee of Evanescence.

In Reason:
Icono

[NeilUnreal]

There was an old soldier named Drew,
Whose limericks stopped at line two.

There was an old soldier named Dun.

(Anonymous)

-Neil

[lucyR212]

Of course I love the The Divine Comedy; The Epic Poem that pulls together European Literature, the Western Church, and Roman Catholic spirituality. John Ciardi's translation, while one of the most readable and probably comes closest to the spirit of the original work, is one of the best. It is essential among the translations to have on hand, and is near, but not at the top of my list. That spot probably goes to Pinsky, but that can change with my mood.

However, some of Ciardi's other poetry is on my list of favorites.
The first that came to mind is;

Most Like an Arch This Marriage

Most like an arch—an entrance which upholds
and shores the stone-crush up the air like lace.
Mass made idea, and idea held in place.
A lock in time. Inside half-heaven unfolds.

Most like an arch—two weaknesses that lean
into a strength. Two fallings become firm.
Two joined abeyances become a term
naming the fact that teaches fact to mean.

Not quite that? Not much less. World as it is,
what’s strong and separate falters. All I do
at piling stone on stone apart from you
is roofless around nothing. Till we kiss

I am no more than upright and unset.
It is by falling in and in we make
the all-bearing point, for one another’s sake,
in faultless failing, raised by our own weight.

-from I Marry You (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1958)
Source: The Collected Poems of John Ciardi (University of Arkansas Press, 1997).