Your Favourite Poem

[Pat's Van]

Full Fathom Five

Old man, you surface seldom.
Then you come in with the tide's coming
When seas wash cold, foam-

Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,
A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
Crest and trough. Miles long

Extend the radial sheaves
Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins
Knotted, caught, survives

The old myth of orgins
Unimaginable. You float near
As kneeled ice-mountains

Of the north, to be steered clear
Of, not fathomed. All obscurity
Starts with a danger:

Your dangers are many. I
Cannot look much but your form suffers
Some strange injury

And seems to die: so vapors
Ravel to clearness on the dawn sea.
The muddy rumors

Of your burial move me
To half-believe: your reappearance
Proves rumors shallow,

For the archaic trenched lines
Of your grained face shed time in runnels:
Ages beat like rains

On the unbeaten channels
Of the ocean. Such sage humor and
Durance are whirlpools

To make away with the ground-
Work of the earth and the sky's ridgepole.
Waist down, you may wind

One labyrinthine tangle
To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,
Skulls. Inscrutable,

Below shoulders not once
Seen by any man who kept his head,
You defy questions;

You defy godhood.
I walk dry on your kingdom's border
Exiled to no good.

Your shelled bed I remember.
Father, this thick air is murderous.
I would breathe water.

 

[kev]

Dulce et Decorum Est
BY WILFRED OWEN

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

 

[Sapie88]

@Elong the ending of this one kills me.

I don't like jellyfish, they’re not a fish, they're just a blob.
They don’t have eyes, fins or scales like a cod.
They float about blind, stinging people in the seas,
And no one eats jellyfish with chips and mushy peas.
Get rid of 'em!

 

[summerisle]

@Elong the ending of this one kills me.

I don't like jellyfish, they’re not a fish, they're just a blob.
They don’t have eyes, fins or scales like a cod.
They float about blind, stinging people in the seas,
And no one eats jellyfish with chips and mushy peas.
Get rid of 'em!

 

[Elong]

@Elong the ending of this one kills me.

I don't like jellyfish, they’re not a fish, they're just a blob.
They don’t have eyes, fins or scales like a cod.
They float about blind, stinging people in the seas,
And no one eats jellyfish with chips and mushy peas.
Get rid of 'em!

Hahahahaha. Like it has some meaning. I love those podcasts to death.

 

[Jamo Martinez]

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes once had and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with a love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

W B Yeats

Just reading this in an advert break while watching the series 'Forever'. Series comes back on and one of the characters quoted the first lines of this.

Weird or what?

 

[TheFinnFan]

One of the best poems ever has to be one random internet poem made by some unknown genius...


Roses are red
Violets are blue
I think Im dunk
Show me yer tits

 

[Donald Twain]

Love and Death

W B Yeats


Behold the flashing waters,
A cloven, dancing jet,
That from the milk-white marble
Forever foam and fret;
Far off in drowsy valleys,
Where the meadow saffrons blow,
The feet of summer dabble
In their coiling calm and slow.
The banks are worn forever
By a people sadly gay;
A Titan, with loud laughter,
Made them of fire and clay.
Go ask the springing flowers,
And the flowing air above:
What are the twin-born waters?
And they’ll answer: Death and Love.

With wreaths of withered flowers
Two lonely spirits wait,
With wreaths of withered flowers,
’Fore paradise’s gate.
They may not pass the portal,
Poor earth-enkindled pair,
Though sad is many a spirit
To pass and leave them there
Still staring at their flowers,
That dull and faded are,
And if one should rise beside thee,
The other is not far.
Go ask the youngest angel,
She will say with bated breath:
By the door of Mary’s garden
Are the spirits Love and Death.

 

[Walken]

I've enjoyed learning about anne sexton's work recently

 

[Jamo Martinez]

Graffiti in a US Army latrine, WW II.

Soldiers who wish to be a hero
Are practically zero
But those who wish to be civilians
Jesus, they run into the millions.

 

[gaino92]

I wish I was our Sammy
Our Sammy's nearly ten.
He's got two worms and a catapult
An' he's built a underground den.
But I'm not allowed to go in there,
I have to stay near the gate,
'Cos me Mam says I'm only seven,
But I'm not, I'm nearly eight!

I sometimes hate our Sammy,
He robbed me toy car y' know,
Now the wheels are missin' an' the top's broke off,
An' the bleedin' thing won' go.
An' he said when he took it, it was just like that,
But it wasn't, it went dead straight,
But y' can't say nott'n when they think y' seven
An' y' not, y' nearly eight.

I wish I was our Sammy,
Y' wanna see him spit,
Straight in y' eye from twenty yards
An' every time a hit.
He's allowed to play with matches,
And he goes to bed dead late,
And I have to go at seven,
Even though I'm nearly eight.

Y' know our Sammy,
He draws nudey women,
Without arms, or legs, or even heads
In the baths, when he goes swimmin'.
But I'm not allowed to go to the baths,
Me Mam says I have to wait,
'Cos I might get drowned, cos I'm only seven,
But I'm not, I'm nearly eight.

Y' know our Sammy,
Y' know what he sometimes does?
He wees straight through the letter box
Of the house next door to us.
I tried to do it one night,
But I had to stand on a crate,
'Cos I couldn't reach the letter box
But I will by the time I'm eight.

Bill Kenwirght likes this

 

[Jamo Martinez]

Suicide in the Trenches - Siegfried Sassoon.

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain,
No one spoke of him again.

. . .

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

 

[BMFin]

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I told my mom how much I liked it when I first read it at about 10-11 years old. She came home the next day with it printed out and framed for me to hang on my wall. I still read it now and again.

 

[Philw]

Can I Carry You?

I guess that I can hold you
one more time before you grow.
And tell you that I love you
so that you will always know.
Please let me tie your shoe again.
One day you'll tie your own.
And when you think back to this time
I hope it's love I've shown.
Can I help you put your coat on?
Can I please cut up your meat?
Can I pull you in the wagon?
Can I pick you out a treat?
One day you might just care for me,
so let me care for you.
I want to be a part
of every little thing you do.
Tonight could I please wash your hair?
Can I put toys in the bath?
Can I help you count your small ten toes
before I teach you math?
Before you join a baseball team
can I pitch you one more ball?
And one more time can I stand near
to make sure you don't fall?
Let's take another space-ship ride
Up to the Planet Zoor.
Before our Cardboard Rocket
doesn't fit us anymore.
Please let me help you up the hill.
while you're still too small to climb.
And let me read you stories
while you're young and have the time.
I know the day will come
when you will do these things alone.
Will you recall the shoulder rides
and all the balls we've thrown?
I want you to grow stronger
than your Dad could ever be.
And when you find success
there will be no soul more proud than me.
So will you let me carry you?
One day you'll walk alone.
I cannot bear to miss one day
from now until you've grown.

That's ace. Sometimes I think it would be nice to be a father.

I really like Scroobius Pips spoken word stuff.

Scroobius Pip is prettu cool. Remember another one of his Spoek Word/Poems about suicide I think. Was pretty poignant.

MACAVITY, THE MYSTERY CAT
by
T.S. Eliot

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
'It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known,
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime.

Loved this as a kid, couldn't help reading it 'aloud' in my head! Also If and Tiger Tiger were great when I was young. And the one from Four Weddings

 

[Tubey]

I'm afraid of the dark
Especially when I'm in a park
And there's no one else around
Ooh, I get the shivers

I don't want to see a ghost
It's a sight that I fear most
I'd rather have a piece of toast
And watch the evening news