Post your Favourite poem

[Anonymous No.3982069]

Post your Favourite poem.

Paste it if it's relatively short or link it if it's long. The other poetry thread is progressing without people linking poems.

Here's one of my favourites (I know it's much too long to read at a computer)

>Samuel Taylor Coleridge - The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173253


Previous thread:
>>3981770

[Anonymous No.3982105]

bump

[Anonymous No.3982103]

My cock grew
The sky was blue
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven

[Anonymous No.3982126]

My cock in heaven,
The sky grew.
The bells at eleven
were striking blue.

[Anonymous No.3982156]

>>3982126

Hickory dickory dock
Ya mum did suck me cock
Higgery niggery dick

[Anonymous No.3982162]

>>3982069
The calm, Cool face of the river.
Asked me for a kiss
-Langston Hughes

[Anonymous No.3982196]

Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
As I climb into an empty bed
Oh well, enough said
I know it's over, yet still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Over

Mother I can feel the soil falling over my head
The sea wants to take me
The knife wants to slit me
Do you think you can help me?

I know it's over; it never really began
But in my heart it was so real

- The Smiths

[Anonymous No.3982205]

>>3982196
>song lyrics in poetry thread
read up you scrub

[Anonymous No.3982225]

>>3982205
Real talk.

[Anonymous No.3982232]

>>3982205

Poetry is the art of language, doesn't matter if it's found in a book, a song, or on the side of a cereal box.

[Anonymous No.3982275]

>>3982232

[Anonymous No.3982287]

>>3982205
You realize poetry began as music accompanied with words to match the meter of the music?

[Anonymous No.3982295]

>>3982287
you realize language originated from grunting?

[Anonymous No.3982299]

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

I'm very fond of this one.

[Anonymous No.3982334]

>>3982295

Then why hasn't your mother published her magnum opus yet?

[Anonymous No.3982343]

>>3982334

[Anonymous No.3982370]

>>3982275
literally looks like someone i know.

pic related.

[Anonymous No.3982403]

I'm the dragon of grindly grunn
I breathe fire as hot as the sun
When a knight comes to fight,
I just toast him on sight
Like a hot crispy cinnamon bun

I'm the dragon of grindly grunn
But my lunches aren't very fun
For I like my damsels medium rare
But they always come out well done

All that from memory
Anything by silverstien is super nostalgic and great

[Anonymous No.3982416]

>>3982069

Apologies most sincere my good friend, evidently I had not saged in my pitied attempt of online socialization.

A selection from Stevie Smith:

The owl hunts in the evening and it is pretty
The lake water below him rustles with ice
There is frost coming from the ground, in the air mist
All this is pretty, it could not be prettier.

Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashes
It is becoming an eye that cannot see enough,
Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettier
A field in the evening, tilting up.

The field tilts to the sky. Though it is late
The sky is lighter than the hill field
All this looks easy but really it is extraordinary
Well, it is extraordinary to be so pretty.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176222

[Anonymous No.3983304]

>>3982069

The Genius Of The Crowd - Charles Bukowski

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

[Anonymous No.3983316]

T.S. Eliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

[Anonymous No.3983382]

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
John Keats

[Anonymous No.3983388]

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

[Anonymous No.3983411]

I heard someone do a reading of Half-Hung Marry that was awesome a couple years back. Wish I had recorded it.

www.huffenglish.com/handouts/halfhangedmary.pdf

[Anonymous No.3983414]

The coffins of lead were lying sound asleep,
And the lead flowers and the funeral clothes -
I stood alone in the vault ... and there was wind
...

And the wreaths of lead creaked.
Upturned my lead beloved lay asleep
On the lead flower ... and I began to call -
I stood alone by the corpse ... and it was cold ...
And the wings of lead drooped.

Bacovia - Lead

I'm not a huge fan of poetry but I keep coming back to this one

[Anonymous No.3983421]

Lake Isle of Innisfree - William B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

[Anonymous No.3983423]

>>3983316

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

>feels

[Anonymous No.3983473]

>>3982069
Daughter, dearest daughter, I have done you no wrong
I've wed you to none other than a wealthy man's son
And he will be a man to you when I am dead and gone
He's young but he's daily growin'

Ah, one day as I was walking all alone down by the schoolwall
I saw the boys, they were playing at the ball
And my own true love was the fairest of them all
He was young, but he was daily growin'.

At the age of sixteen years he was a married man
at the age of seventeen he was the father of a son
At the age of eighteen years, 'round his grave the grass grew long
Cruel death had put an end to his growin'

Oh, the springtime is leavin' now, and summer's comin' on
With ornaments and fans the ladies all pass on
Oh yes, once I had a true love, but now I have none.
But I'll watch his bonnie son, while he's growin.

[Anonymous No.3983494]

I hate these threads. My favorite author is Poe, and my favorite poem by him is The Raven.

So of course everyone thinks I have no idea what the fuck a poem is and I'm just saying that.

Motherfucker I'm (hopefully not dropping out of) doing a doctoral thesis on Poe. I just like the goddamn poem.

[Anonymous No.3984397]

>>3983494
So, what is your second most favorite poem and author.

[Anonymous No.3984400]

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

[Anonymous No.3984456]

>>3983423
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas

[Anonymous No.3984474]

>>3984456

[Anonymous No.3984477]

Robert Browning- Porphyria's Lover

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

[Anonymous No.3984480]

[Anonymous No.3984494]

>>3984480
Shut up. I have a damned hernia. Stop mocking me with your squats.

[Anonymous No.3984502]

>>3984494

On friday I shall do some squats in honor of you

[Anonymous No.3984506]

Truth


He was in the fields, when I set out.
He was in the fields, when I came back.
In between, what long hours,
What centuries might have elapsed.
Did he look up? His arm half
Lifted was more to ward off
My foolishness. You will return,
He intimated; the heart's roots
Are here under this black soil
I labour at. A change of wind
Can bring the smooth town to a stop;
The grass whispers beneath the flags;
Every right word on your tongue
Has a green taste. It is the mind
Calling you, eager to paint
Its distances; but the truth's here,
Closer than the world will confess,
In this bare bone of life that I pick.

by pic related

[Anonymous No.3984509]

Coleridge - The Dungeon

And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us -
Most innocent, perhaps -and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks -
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon,
By the lamp's dismal twilgiht! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.