What Poetry Moved You?

[solidus019]

I WANT TO TELL YOU

 

I want to tell you about

Texas Radio & the Big Beat

 

it comes out of the Virginia Swamps

cool & slow

w/plenty of precision

& a back beat narrow

& hard to master

some call it heavenly

in its brilliance

others mean & rueful

of the Western dream

 

I love the friends I have

gathered together

On this thin raft

we have constructed pyramids

in honor of our escaping

This is the land where

The pharaoh died---

Children

The river contains specimens

The voices of singing women

call us on the far shore

 

& they are saying

"Forget the Night

live w/us in Forests

of azure" (meagre food for

souls forgot)

 

I tell you this;

no eternal reward will

forgive us now for

wasting the dawn

 

One morning you awoke

& the strange sun

& opening your door ...

 

J. Morrison

[solidus019]

Sometimes I feel like I can't even sing (say, say, the light)

I'm very scared for this world

I'm very scared for me

Eviscerate your memory

Here's a scene

You're in the back seat laying down

The windows wrap around

To sound of the travel and the engine

All you hear is time stand still in travel

and feel such peace and absolute

The stillness still that doesn't end

But slowly drifts into sleep

The stars are the greatest thing you've ever seen

And they're there for you

For you alone you are the everything

 

I think about this world a lot and I cry

And I've seen the films and the eyes

But I'm in this kitchen

Everything is beautiful

And she is so beautiful

She is so young and old

I look at her and I see the beauty

Of the light of music

The voices talking somewhere in the house

Late spring and you're drifting off to sleep

With your teeth in your mouth

You are here with me

You are here with me

You have been here and you are everything

 

Sometimes I feel like I can't even sing (say, say, the light)

I'm very scared for this world

I'm very scared for me

Eviscerate your memory

Here's a scene

You're in the back seat laying down

The windows wrap around

To sound of the travel and the engine

All you hear is time stand still in travel

and feel such peace and absolute

The stillness still that doesn't end

But slowly drifts into sleep

The stars are the greatest thing you've ever seen

And they're there for you

For you alone you are the everything

 

m. stipe

[Grimace]

Visceral response or intellectual appeal, rapturous melodiousness or artful crafting of the language; whatever it may have been, what poem moved you the most?

 

Here's a poem that struck me. I don't know if it is the best... but I go back to it again and again. I remember being thirteen years old and in a classroom (cold, badly painted, small) and feeling an almost physical shock at this poem and totally awed by his genius. I was thrilled by the words then, and I still am; the title is perfection. The villanelle form of day and night and their symbolic rhymes is the best. Mostly I liked the way it offered an interesting perspective: a good way to live and die and even more, a child offering advice to a parent. Just good stuff. I like the images: green bay, meteors and wild men. I have continued to like the author and his works... Dylan Thomas. Yeah, I like this poem!

 

“Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Metroman]

Winnie the Pooh's simple poetry is such a respite when I was young.

 

I still read it today, when the hustle and bustle of life, gets to me.

 

Us Two

Winnie the Pooh

A.A. Milne

 

Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,

There's always Pooh and Me.

Whatever I do, he wants to do,

"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:

"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.

Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.

"Let's go together," says Pooh.

 

"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.

("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)

"I think it ought to be twenty-two."

"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.

"It wasn't an easy sum to do,

But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.

"That's what it is," said Pooh.

 

"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.

"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.

We crossed the river and found a few-

"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.

"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.

That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.

 

"That's what they are," said Pooh.

 

"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.

"That's right," said Pooh to Me.

"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,

And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!

Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.

 

"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,

"I'm never afraid with you."

 

So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,

There's always Pooh and Me.

"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,

"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,

It isn't much fun for One, but Two,

Can stick together, says Pooh, says he.

"That's how it is," says Pooh.

[George Estregan Lives]

I first encountered this poem way back in college. Up to now, Neruda's words still affect me.

 

I'm Explaining a Few Things

 

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?

and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?

and the rain repeatedly spattering

its words and drilling them full

of apertures and birds?

I'll tell you all the news.

 

I lived in a suburb,

a suburb of Madrid, with bells,

and clocks, and trees.

 

From there you could look out

over Castille's dry face:

a leather ocean.

My house was called

the house of flowers, because in every cranny

geraniums burst: it was

a good-looking house

with its dogs and children.

Remember, Raul?

Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

from under the ground

my balconies on which

the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?

Brother, my brother!

Everything

loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,

pile-ups of palpitating bread,

the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue

like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

oil flowed into spoons,

a deep baying

of feet and hands swelled in the streets,

metres, litres, the sharp

measure of life,

stacked-up fish,

the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which

the weather vane falters,

the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,

wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

 

And one morning all that was burning,

one morning the bonfires

leapt out of the earth

devouring human beings --

and from then on fire,

gunpowder from then on,

and from then on blood.

Bandits with planes and Moors,

bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,

bandits with black friars spattering blessings

came through the sky to k*ll children

and the blood of children ran through the streets

without fuss, like children's blood.

 

Jackals that the jackals would despise,

stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,

vipers that the vipers would abominate!

 

Face to face with you I have seen the blood

of Spain tower like a tide

to drown you in one wave

of pride and knives!

 

Treacherous

generals:

see my dead house,

look at broken Spain :

from every house burning metal flows

instead of flowers,

from every socket of Spain

Spain emerges

and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,

and from every crime bullets are born

which will one day find

the bull's eye of your hearts.

 

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry

speak of dreams and leaves

and the great volcanoes of his native land?

 

Come and see the blood in the streets.

Come and see

The blood in the streets.

Come and see the blood

In the streets!

[strangedays]

Memento

-- Yevgeny Yevtushenko

 

Like a reminder of this life

of trams, sun, sparrows,

and the flighty uncontrolledness

of streams leaping like thermometers,

and because ducks are quacking somewhere

above the crackling of the last, paper-thin ice,

and because children are crying bitterly

(remember children's lives are so sweet!)

and because in the drunken, shimmering starlight

the new moon whoops it up,

and a stocking crackles a bit at the knee,

gold in itself and tinged by the sun,

like a reminder of life,

and because there is resin on tree trunks,

and because I was madly mistaken

in thinking that my life was over,

like a reminder of my life -

you entered into me on stockinged feet.

You entered - neither too late nor too early -

at exactly the right time, as my very own,

and with a smile, uprooted me

from memories, as from a grave.

And I, once again whirling among

the painted horses, gladly exchange,

for one reminder of life,

all its memories.

[missmanners]

shel silverstein is probably my favorite poet of all time. i credit him for upping my love for literature. well, him and roald dahl actually. as a young child, his poetry is catchy enough to have kept me interested... plus they all come in picture books with illustrations by the author himself. i found it so delicious actually when, after a few years on my head, i learned that mr. silverstein also illustrated comics for playboy.

 

i've slowly collected all his books over the years and intend to give it to my kids and then grandkids one day. because if there's anything i'm glad my parents gave me, it was love for reading.

 

here's a few of the shortest and sweetest.

 

Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda

All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas

Layin' in the sun,

Talkin' 'bout the things

They woulda coulda shoulda done...

But those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas

All ran away and hid

From one little Did.

 

 

How Many, How Much

How many slams in an old screen door?

Depends how loud you shut it.

How many slices in a bread?

Depends how thin you cut it.

How much good inside a day?

Depends how good you live 'em.

How much love inside a friend?

Depends how much you give 'em.

 

 

The Land of Happy

Have you been to the land of happy,

Where everyone's happy all day,

Where they joke and they sing

Of the happiest things,

And everything's jolly and gay?

There's no one unhappy in Happy

There's laughter and smiles galore.

I have been to The Land of Happy-

What a bore!

 

:flowers:

[Magaling]

I have this poem framed on my study table:

 

INVICTUS

by William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903

 

OUT of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

 

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

 

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

[LB]

Two of My Favorite Pablo Neruda Poems are I Like For You To Be Still and ....

 

Ode to a Beautiful Nude

Full woman, flesh-apple, hot moon,

thick smell of seaweed, mud and light in masquerade,

what secret clarity opens through your columns?

What ancient night does a man touch with his senses?

 

Oh, love is a journey with water and stars,

with drowning air and storms of flour;

love is a clash of lightnings,

two bodies subdued by one honey.

 

Kiss by kiss I travel your little infinity,

your borders, your rivers, your tiny villages;

and a genital fire--transformed, delicious--

 

slips through the narrow roadways of the blood

till it pours itself, quick, like a night carnation, till it is:

and is nothing, in shadow, and a flimmer of light.

 

***buy the ost of 'Il Postino' for the interpretation of various artists like Glenn Close and Madonna

[schizo_sublime]

My favorite is Tonight I can write the saddest lines by Pablo Neruda which has been posted previously.

[Magaling]

Here's one of my Tagalog favorites:

 

KUNG TUYO NA ANG LUHA MO AKING BAYAN

ni Ka Amado Hernandez

 

Lumuha ka ,aking bayan, buong lungkot mong iluha

Ang kawawang kapalaran ng lupain mong kawawa;

Ang bandilang sagisag mo’y lukob ng dayong bandila,

Pati wikang minana mo’y busabos ng ibang wika;

Ganito ring araw noon ng agawan ka ng laya,

Labintatlo ng Agosto ng saklutin ang Maynila.

 

Lumuha ka habang sila’y palalong nagdiriwang,

Sa libingan ng maliit, ang malaki ay may libangan;

Katulad mo ay si Huli na alipin bayad utang,

Katulad mo ay si Sisa, binaliw ng kahirapan;

Walang lakas na magtanggol,walang lakas na lumaban,

Tumataghoy kung paslangin, tumatangis kung nakawan.

 

Iluha mo ang sambuntong kasawiang nagsalakop

Na sa iyo’y pampahirap, sa banyaga’y pampalusog

Ang lahat mong kayamana’y kamal-kamal na naubos,

Ang lahat mong kalayaa’y sabay-sabay na natapos

Masdan mo ang iyong lupa, dayong hukbo’y nakatanod,

Masdan mo ang iyong dagat, dayong bapor nasa laot!

 

Lumuha ka kung sa puso ay nagmaliw na nag layon,

Kung ang araw sa langit mo’y lagi nang dapithapon,

Kung ang alon sa dagat mo ay ayaw nang magdaluyong,

Kung ang bulkan sa dibdib mo’y di man umungol,

Kung wala nang maglalamay sa gabi ng pagbangon,

Lumuha ka ng lumuha’t ang laya mo ay nakaburol.

 

May araw ding ang luha mo’y masasaid, matutuyo,

May araw ding di na luha ang sa mata mong namumugto

Ang dadaloy, kundi apoy, at apoy na kulay dugo,

Samantalang ang dugo mo’y aserong kumukulo;

Sisigaw kang buong giting sa liyag ng libong sulo

At ang lumang tanikala’y lalagutin mo ng punglo.

[hardtohandle]

William Ernest Henley's Invictus was my all-time favorite, specially the last two lines. I even named our high school band then after the poem, because this poem really rocks!!! And if Henley was alive today, he probably is the frontman of U2 or Radiohead, hehehehheeheh!!! I think "My Way" by Frank Sinatra was inspired by this poem, heheheheh! I think it was posted in the previous page na.

[scr3wdriv3r]

Jose Garcia Villa's The Bashful Lover

 

:cool: *wolves

[nataraki]

somewhere i have never travelled

E. E. Cummings

 

somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

you slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending:

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

[Zigggy]

somewhere i have never travelled

E. E. Cummings

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

E E Cummings is so way ahead of his time..he's the coolest