Favourite Poem

I was just wondering what everyone's favourite poem is. I don't actually like very much poetry but there are a few outstanding poems which do come to mind. So post your favourite poem and maybe a verse from it?

I like "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe.

"And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!"

I like that one too. For some reason I've always had a thing for Limbo, by Seamus Heaney after studying it for AS level.

Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,

A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I'm sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly

Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.

She waded in under
The sign of her cross.
He was hauled in with the fish.
Now limbo will be

A cold glitter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christs's palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.

THE PANTHER

His gaze has grown so tired from the bars
passing, it can't hold anything anymore.
It is as if there were a thousand bars
and behind a thousand bars nothing.

The soft gait of powerful supple strides,
which turns in the smallest of all circles,
is like a dance of strength around a center
where an imperious will stands stunned.

Only at times the curtain of the pupils
silently opens-. Then an image enters,
passes through the taut stillness of the limbs-
and in the heart ceases to be.

- Rilke

I Didn't Fall Over

I was wondering what would happen
if I lay quietly in my bed
and thought about the deep rich green
which comes upon the grass
after a fall of rain
a green so fresh and brightly new
that you would live forever
if you stood there looking at it.
Wondering what would happen
if I emptied my mind of everything
and thought of nothing else but
every field and meadow and parkland
I have ever seen
self-consious
with their new abundant greeness.

I asked a friend about it.
He said - "You would fall over."

Last night
long after my neighbours' houses
were dark and quiet
I lay on my mattress
and welcomed into my mind
The Phoenix Park
Fairview Park
Bushy Park
St.Anne's Park
Hampstead Heath
Dunstable Downs
The Lady Acre
Portmarnock Golf links
All the green bits on Howth Head
Ever soccer pitch I ever have ever played
or looked upon.
I welcomed them all in and let them settle
into the widest continent of breathless green
that ever tipped a far horizon.

Then I invited in the rain.
Misting drifting drenching
up a brightness so sharp
that even underwater
it would blind you
misting drifting drenching
till the agony of greeness
could cut away your sight
running me along a sharp edge
within an instant of the answer
forcing me to open my eyes
because I could not bear to look
upon such an emerald light.

Poe owns!

Anything by Wistawa Szymborska.

Interview With A Child

The Master hasn't been among us long.
That's why he lies in wait in every corner.
Covers his eyes and peeks through the cracks.
Faces the wall, then suddenly turns around.

The Master rejects outright the ridiculous thought
that a table out of sight goes on being a table nonstop,
that a chair behind our backs stays stuck in chairlike bounds
and doesn't even try to fly the coop.

True, it's hard to catch the world being different.
The apple tree slips back under the window before you can blink.
Incandescent sparrows always grow dim just in time.
Little pitchers have big ears and pick up every sound.
The nightime closet acts as dull as its daytime twin.
The drawer does its best to assure the Master
it holds only what it's been given.
And no matter how fast you open the Brothers Grimm,
the princess always manages to take her seat again.

"They sense I'm a stranger here," the Master sighs,
"they won't let a new kid play their private games."

Since how can it be that whatever exists
can only exist in one way,
an awful situation, for there's no escaping yourself,
no pause, no transformation? In a humber from-here-to-here?
A fly caught in a fly? A mouse trapped in a mouse?
A dog never let off its latent chain?
A fire that can't come up with anything better
than burning the Master's trustful finger one more time?
Is this the definitve, actual world:
scattered wealth that can't be gathered,
useless luxury, forbidden options?

"No," the Master cries and stomps all the feet
he can muster - for such great despair
that beetle's six legs wouldn't be enough.

I gotta go with "Modern Man" by George Carlin.

In fact, I daresay it's the only poem I've understood completely and still enjoyed. In another fact, I daresay I don't really like poetry and have no business being in this thread.

there once was a man from Nantucket

'Twas the night before Christmas - by Charlie Murphy

HOWL by Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water fiats 'doating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz....

And so on... It's way to long to post. "America" is another really great one he wrote.

The Tiger~william blake


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Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

I like Afroman poetry.

Colt 45 and 2 zig-zags
Baby that's all we need
we can go to the park
after dark
and smoke that tumbleweed
and as the marijuana burn
we can take our turns
singin' them dirty rap songs
stop and hit the bong
like cheech and chong
selling tapes from here to hong-kong.

beautiful, beautiful.
But in all seriousness, I like anything by Pablo Neruda.

well in my younger days i made a poem about extasy.



Ecstasy:
A Poem by Ty Melton

Turning round I see, surprised,
a large, round, Green Turbo
I am here, part of it all,
I am part of it all.
I look at the world
and the world looks back at me.
I am not alone.
This is Ecstasy.

Standing, I feel. So Happy,
and Dancing so Eagerly.
My Happiness is like a bud I smoke in a bong,
Just me and Matt Hangin out with John.
When you Roll you Roll all the Way
Not just part of the way, I am Happy to say,
This is Ecstasy

We sing, we laugh, we share
and most of all, we dont care,
We let each other see
the Stupid inside
without shame or anxiety.
We're happy Were free.
God Dammit,

This is Ecstasy.

May All Your Rolls Be Good Rolls,

If - Rudyard Kipling

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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath 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!

pick up the packet,
peal off three skins,
stick em together,
the fun begins.

stick buds crumble.
resin fills the air,
make a hairy fat one bro,
soon I wont have a care.

thick blue smoke soon fills the air,
and slowly down your throat,
music flowing through my head,
feeling every note.

toke after toke,it taste so sweet,
one spliff just aint enough,
repeat the process once again,
youre stoned,its gona be tough.

backy goin everywhere,
pot burns all over your gear,
dont let this stop me though,
more pleasurable than the beer.

no hangovers in the morning,
nite cost less than a score,
didnt make me wana kill the wife,
no police at my front door.

by digweed.

Has anyone read any of Jim Morrison's poetry? One word- WOW! I'm totally in love with him, his music, his poetry... EvErYtHiNg!! :)

I'm in love with your...you....
I'm in love with you.