Favourite Poetry

[Kookamoor]

One of the most useful poetry books I own is an anthology edited by John Marsden. It is called For Weddings and a Funeral and has some really uplifting poems by a variety of authors. I've suggested the following poem on two separate occasions for a funeral of a person who died very young:

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
Mary Frye (1932)

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!)

 

[Ice]

Is there a particular reason you're aware of that keeps you from liking most poetry? I have a hard time with certain types of poems and poets. I don't like the kind that makes me feel dense and stupid..I get that enough from everyday living, I don't want it in my reading material.

Poetry as a whole just does not appeal to me. I find it mostly dull and uninteresting It probably stems from having to analyse poems for English when I just didn't enjoy it.

 

[Mari]

If anybody can tell me it's name and poet then will be very grateful!

"First Fig" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

And for those who think poetry has to be dense and stuffy, try this one, also by Millay:

"Recuerdo"

We were very tired, we were very merry--
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry--
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

 

[Maya]

There was a time when various poems would be displayed on public transport here in the UK. They would put poems on the busses and the tubes ( metro ).

We have this thing going on here too. They are written by "school-kids". Some are really great, and kind of "different", which I like.

 

[Wabbit]

Great, that's a cool twist to have them written by kids.

MariThanks for the title and author of that poem! I might have to seek out more of her work!

 

[direstraits]

I found another poem that I like, and it's Visits to St. Elizabeth's by Elizabeth Bishop. The poem is layered so nicely that it's easy to appreciate the sort of work that went into writing it.

Visits to St. Elizabeth's

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

The is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newsapaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the starting sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round of flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

-- Elizabeth Bishop

ds

 

[mehastings]

I don't really care for poetry (have actually used the "hate" word before), but I do have one poet that I like. His name is Russell Edson and I was supposed to read The Tunnel for a creative writing class I took. I never actually read it until a year or so later. I don't really have a favorite, but after flipping through the book again earlier I came across this one and decided to post it here because its fun:

Father Father, What Have You Done?
A man straddling the apex of his roof cries giddyup. The house rears up on its back porch and all its bricks fall apart and the house crashes to the ground.
His wife cries from the rubble, father father, what have you done?

 

[novella]

I found another poem that I like, and it's Visits to St. Elizabeth's by Elizabeth Bishop. The poem is layered so nicely that it's easy to appreciate the sort of work that went into writing it.

Visits to St. Elizabeth's

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

The is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newsapaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the starting sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round of flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

-- Elizabeth Bishop

ds

Do you know of the poem The House that Jack Built?

 

[direstraits]

I do now.

But Bishop changes the preceeding lines in each succeeding stanza to mean different things, giving the impression that every new line brings a new perspective to the lines before it.

Okay, I have a headache now typing that.

ds

 

[novella]

I do now.

But Bishop changes the preceeding lines in each succeeding stanza to mean different things, giving the impression that every new line brings a new perspective to the lines before it.

Okay, I have a headache now typing that.

ds

I can tell. You turned blue and look a little peaky.

 

[direstraits]

novella, in Blake's Tyger, how do you pronounce symmetry? I pronounce it in conversation as 'see-mett-tree', which I had believed is the correct pronounciation. However a poetry reader pronounced it as 'see-mett-try (as in 'Try to do that again and I'll smack you)'.

If one were to pronounce it as see-mett-try, it would rhyme with the rest of the poem. However see-mett-try sounds weird. Do did I pronounce it wrong in the first place?

ds

 

[novella]

As with all things English, I think the poet breaks the rule and pulls the leg, as they are wont to do.

In reading anything written by an Englishman, I think of the Englishman first and the literal meaning second. That's how they work. ( Married to it.)

But I'm no expert.