Poems/Poetry

[zeldafitzgerald]

One of the most recent Vox question of the day was "What is your favorite poem?" I looked though a lot of poems that I've saved, and couldn't really pick a very favorite, just many that are collectively my favorites. I thought it would be fun to have a thread where you can post poems that you love, and new wonderful ones as you come across them.

Here is one that I really enjoy. It's composed beautifully, and as someone who is mostly tone-deaf, I can completely relate to the feeling.

T i n E a r
b y P e t e r S c h mi t t
f r o m C o u n t r y A i r p o r t


We stood at attention as she moved
with a kind of Groucho shuffle
down our line, her trained music
teacher's ear passing by
our ten- and eleven-year-old mouths
open to some song now forgotten.
And as she held her momentary
pause in front of me, I peered
from the corner of my eye
to hers, and knew the truth
I had suspected.
In the following days,
as certain of our peers
disappeared at appointed hours
for the Chorus, something in me
was already closing shop.
Indeed, to this day
I still clam up
for the national anthem
in crowded stadiums, draw
disapproving alumni stares
as I smile the length of school songs,
and even hum and clap
through "Happy Birthday," creating
a diversion all lest I send
the collective pitch
careening headlong into dissonance.

It's only in the choice acoustics
of shower and sealed car
that I can finally give voice
to that heart deep within me
that is pure, tonally perfect, music.
But when the water stops running
and the radio's off, I can remember
that day in class,
when I knew for the first time
that mine would be a world of words
without melody, where refrain
means do not join,
where I'm ready to sing
in a key no one has ever heard.

[zeldafitzgerald]

Also, if anyone is interested, I find most of the poems that I love through Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac. It's updated daily, and contains a poem and literary history for the day. His poetry selections are always stunning and gorgeous, and the historical information is fascinating. You can subscribe to the podcast through iTunes (or listen to it live on the site). I recommend listening to it, because Garrison's voice is always incredible and he reads the poetry so lovingly. It's beautiful to listen to. But if you don't want to or can't listen to it, you can read the poem and the history on the site - or get it delivered to your inbox in a daily email. I listen to the podcasts and get the emails, so I can hear him read it but also save the especially good days (which are many).

Here's the link to the Writer's Almanac site, where you can find out how to listen, read the archives, and sign up for the newsletter:
writersalmanac.publicradio.org/

[Dominique]

that is a great poem, and the site looks really good. I bookmarked it.
One of my most favourite poems is very well known, but I'll post it anyway:

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

— Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

[Hanna]

I think one of my favorite poems is La Niña de Guatemala from the collection Versos Sencillos by Jose Marti. I didn't post it though, since it is in Spanish...

[gilmoreren]

When I'm in an angry woe is me mood I love this one:

Turns

I thought it made me look more 'working class'
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.
My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair:
You're every bit as good as that lot are!)

All the pension queue came out to stare.
Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR) ,
his cap turned inside up beside his head,
smudged H A H in purple Indian ink
and Brylcreem slicks displayed so folks might think
he wanted charity for dropping dead.

He never begged. For nowt! Death's reticence
crowns his life, and me, I'm opening my trap
to busk the class that broke him for the pence
that splash like brackish tears into our cap.

Tony Harrison

[Kristie]

I read The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes in junior high and have loved it since. It's quite lengthy, so here's a link to look at it so I don't waste the space here:
www.commonplacebook.com/culture_and_the_arts/poems/the_highwayman.shtm

[arastarred]

Marina by T.S. Eliot

Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death

Are become insubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place

What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger—
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.

Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.

What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.

[zeldafitzgerald]

A t L e a s t
B y R a y m o n d C a r v e r
I want to get up early one more morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world-
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the water as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy-I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what's going to happen.

[Isa]

I saw this poem on a tombstone in Montreal (I took a picture of it), let me know if you get it ;D

Free your body and soul
Unfold your powerful wings
Climb up the highest mountains
Kick your feet up in the air
You may now live forever
Or return to this earth
Unless your feel good where you are