Favorite Poems

[Star]

Like the post-your-favorite book, movie, band, and song threads, but for poems or song lyrics. I did a search and couldn't find one.. if it exists and I missed it, sorry. :blush:




-----------------------------------------------------

Silent friend of many distances, feel
how your breath enlarges all of space.
Let your presence ring out like a bell
into the night. What feeds upon your face

grows mighty from the nourishment thus offered.
Move through transformation, out and in.
What is the deepest loss that you have suffered?
If drinking is bitter, change yourself to wine.

In this immeasurable darkness, be the power
that rounds your senses in their magic ring,
the sense of their mysterious encounter.

And if the earthly no longer knows your name,
whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing.
To the flashing water say: I am.

--R. M. Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell

[mgb]

Nice thread.

From Robert Creeley

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold



And from William Carlos Williams

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

[christine]

its too long to post, but the love song of j alfred prufrock - t.s. eliot

http://www.cs.amherst.edu/~ccm/prufrock.html

[Eileen]

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

[Eileen]

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Wallace Stevens

[Eileen]

Nice thread.

From Robert Creeley

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold



And from William Carlos Williams

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


Both of those were WCW! Who is this Robert Creeley you speak of?

And here's a funny parody of "This is Just to Say" by Kenneth Koch





Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams

1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the
next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

[Sackanaka]

When you understand, you belong to the family;
When you do not understand, you are a stranger.
Those who do not understand belong to the family,
And when they understand they are strangers.
-MuMonKan, MuMon

[waxwing]

On Turning Ten

by Billy Collins


The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light --
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I would shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

[Star]

I'm an Emotional Idiot
so get away from me.
I mean,
COME HERE.

Wait, no,
that's too close,
give me some space
it's a big country,
there's plenty of room,
don't sit so close to me.

Hey, where are you?
I haven't seen you in days.
Whadya, having an affair?
Who is she?
Come on,
aren't I enough for you?

God,
You're so cold.
I never know what you're thinking.
You're not very affectionate.

I mean,
you're clinging to me,
DON'T TOUCH ME,
what am I, your fucking cat?
Don't rub me like that.

Don't you have anything better to do
than sit there fawning over me?

Don't you have any interests?
Hobbies?
Sailing Fly fishing
Archeology?

There's an archeology expedition leaving tomorrow
why don't you go?
I'll loan you the money,
my money is your money.
my life is your life
my soul is yours
without you I'm nothing.

Move in with me
we'll get a studio apartment together, save on rent,
well, wait, I mean, a one bedroom,
so we don't get in each other's hair or anything
or, well,
maybe a two bedroom
I'll have my own bedroom,
it's nothing personal
I just need to be alone sometimes,
you do understand,
don't you?

Hey, why are you acting distant?

Where you goin',
was it something I said?
What
What did I do?

I'm an emotional idiot
so get away from me
I mean,
MARRY ME.

--Maggie Estep

[mgb]

Both of those were WCW! Who is this Robert Creeley you speak of?



Hey, maybe you are right. I guess I got it mixed up on my source.

Robert Creeley was one of the Beat Poets.

Also also enjoyed Howl by Ginsberg, but it's too long to post here.

[tragula]

She walked out of her house
And looked around
At all the gardens that looked
Back at her house
(Like all the faces
That quiz when you smile...)

And he was standing
At the corner
Where the road turned dark
A part of shiny wet
Like blood the rain fell
Black down on the street

And kissed his feet she fell
Her head an inch away from heaven
And her face pressed tight
And all around the night sang out
Like cockatoos

"There are a thousand things" he said
"I'll never say those things to you again"
And turning on his heel
He left a trace of bubbles
Bleeding in his stead

And in her head
A picture of a boy who left her
Lonely in the rain
(And all around the night sang out
like cockatoos)

--Robert Smith (The Cure)

[Eileen]

Hey, maybe you are right. I guess I got it mixed up on my source.

Robert Creeley was one of the Beat Poets.

Also also enjoyed Howl by Ginsberg, but it's too long to post here.


Ahh yes. Other than the most recognizable, I'm not really up on my beat poets. I don't know if I glossed over them in my Modern Poetry class or if my teacher glossed over them. Actually, I bet we didn't cover them; I think they came just after the Modernists.

I do enjoy Ginsberg, though. :) You should post some Beat poems.

[indie]

"The Red Wheelbarrow" is a great poem.

I'm going to go with the song-lyrics aspect and favor the miguided but complexly genius lyrics of Billy Corgan:

Thirty-Three

Speak to me in a language I can hear
Humour me before I have to go
Deep in thought I forgive everyone
As the cluttered streets greet me once again
I know I can’t be late, supper’s waiting on the table
Tomorrow’s just an excuse away
So I pull my collar up and face the cold, on my own . . .

[Eileen]

Is/Not

Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise

sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities

you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,

nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/traveller.

Give up this medical concern,
buttoned, attentive,

permit yourself anger
and permit me mine

which needs neither
your approval nor your surprise

which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease

but against you
which does not need to be understood

or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead

to be said and said.
Permit me the present tense.

ii.

I am not a saint or a cripple,
I am not a wound; now I will see
whether I am a coward.

I dispose of my good manners,
you don't have to kiss my wrists.

This is a journey, not a war,
there is no outcome,
I renounce predictions

and aspirins, I resign the future
as I would resign an expired passport:
picture and signature are gone
along with holidays and safe returns.

We're stuck here
on this side of the border
in this country of thumbed streets and stale buildings

where there is nothing spectacular
to see and the weather is ordinary

where love occurs in its pure form only
on the cheaper of the souvenirs

where we must walk slowly,
where we may not get anywhere

or anything, where we keep going,
fighting our ways, our way
not out but through.

-Margaret Atwood

[Eileen]

On the long side for here: The Hollow Men (http://www.cs.umbc.edu/~evans/hollow.html) by TS Eliot.

That was the poem, I think, that I studied in 12th grade that made me realize I really wanted to study English, not music.

[Claverhouse]

It's too difficult to decide any favourite, but here are three I'm fond of:

The Twa Corbies [ The Two Crows ]

As I gaed doun by yon house-en',
Twa corbies there were sittand their lane;
The tane unto the tother did say,
"O where shall we gae dine to-day ?"

"O doun beside yon new-faun birk,
There there lies a new-slain knicht;
Nae livin kens that he lies there,
But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair.

His horse is to the huntin gane,
His hounds to bring the wild deer hame;
His lady's taen another mate;
Sae we may mak our dinner sweet.

O we'll sit on his bonnie breist-bane,
And we'll pyke out his bonnie grey een;
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,
We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare.


Slightly similar to 'I Would I Were Where Helen Lies', oddly an English song rather than Scots, as the above clearly is.

***

Robert Browning How It Strikes a Contemporary

I ONLY knew one poet in my life:
And this, or something like it, was his way. You saw go up and down Valladolid,
A man of mark, to know next time you saw.
His very serviceable suit of black
Was courtly once and conscientious still,
And many might have worn it, though none did:
The cloak that somewhat shone and shewed the threads
Had purpose, and the ruff, significance.
He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane,
Scenting the world, looking it full in face,
An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels.
They turned up, now, the alley by the church,
That leads no whither; now, they breathed themselves
On the main promenade just at the wrong time.
You'd come upon his scrutinising hat,
Making a peaked shade blacker than itself
Against the single window spared some house
Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work, ---
Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick
Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,
The man who slices lemons into drink,
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys
That volunteer to help him turn its winch.
He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye,
And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string,
And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall.
He took such cognisance of men and things,
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw;
If any cursed a woman, he took note;
Yet stared at nobody, --- they stared at him,
And found, less to their pleasure than surprise,
He seemed to know them and expect as much.
So, next time that a neighbour's tongue was loose
It marked the shameful and notorious fact,
We had among us, not so much a spy,
As a recording chief-inquisitor,
The town's true master if the town but knew!
We merely kept a Governor for form,
While this man walked about and took account
Of all thought, said, and acted, then went home,
And wrote it fully to our Lord the King
Who has an itch to know things, He knows why,
And reads them in His bed-room of a night.
Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch,
A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease
As back into your mind the man's look came ---
Stricken in years a little, --- such a brow
His eyes had to live under! --- clear as flint
On either side the formidable nose
Curved, cut, and coloured, like an eagle's claw.
Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate?
When altogether old B. disappeared
And young C. got his mistress, --- was't our friend,
His letter to the King, that did it all?
What paid the bloodless man for so much pains?
Our Lord the King has favourites manifold,
And shifts his ministry some once a month;
Our city gets new Governors at whiles, ---
But never word or sign, that I could hear,
Notified to this man about the streets
The King's approval of those letters conned
The last thing duly at the dead of night.
Did the man love his office? frowned our Lord,
Exhorting when none heard --- "Beseech me not !
Too far above my people, --- beneath Me!
I set the watch, --- how should the people know?
Forget them, keep Me all the more in mind!"
Was some such understanding 'twixt the Two?

I found no truth in one report at least—
That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes
Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace,
You found he ate his supper in a room
Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall,
And twenty naked girls to change his plate!
Poor man, he lived another kind of life
In that new, stuccoed, third house by the bridge,
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise!
The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat,
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back,
Playing a decent cribbage with his maid
(Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese
And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears,
Or treat of radishes in April! nine ---
Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he.

My father, like the man of sense he was,
Would point him out to me a dozen times;
"St ---St," he'd whisper, "the Corregidor!"
I had been used to think that personage
Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt,
And feathers like a forest in his hat,
Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news,
Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn,
And memorized the miracle in vogue!
He had a great observance from us boy ---
I was in error; that was not the man.

I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid,
To have just looked, when this man came to die,
And seen who lined the clean gay garret's sides
And stood about the neat low truckle-bed,
With the heavenly manner of relieving guard.
Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief,
Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death,
Doing the King's work all the dim day long,
In his old coat, and up to his knees in mud,
Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,
And now the day was won, relieved at once!
No further show or need for that old coat,
You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while
How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I!
A second, and the angels alter that.
Well, I could never write a verse, --- could you?
Let's to the Prado and make the most of time.


The loyal dedicated life rather than the transitory love of fame.

***

In Britain, before one leaves junior school it is necessary to learn and recite a piece of poetry, in Scotland they choose Burns' 'A Man's A Man For A' That'; in Wales, Dylan Thomas's 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight'; but in England we have to learn Cory's translation of the Ode by Callimachus, to teach us the value of cadence, so I've added that.

They told me, Heraclitus,
they told me you were dead;
They brought me bitter news to hear
and bitter tears to shed;
I wept, as I remembered,
how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking,
and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying,
my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes,
long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices,
thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away,
but them he cannot take.

Claverhouse :ph34r:

[Eileen]

Robert Browning How It Strikes a Contemporary



I have fond memories of studying Robert Browning in college. While dreadfully bored in my 9 AM survey Brit Romantic to Modern course (which could have been great, but wasn't), I wrote a monologue poem in the style of Robert Browning. The character was Keanu Reeves. I amused my buddy Cat and myself greatly that day.

[Star]

Is/Not

[...]

-Margaret Atwood

Oh, that one's interesting. I'm a really big fan of her novels, but had never seen her poetry. I never really liked the idea of a novelist who writes poems, or a poet who writes novels--they seem like completely separate callings to me and I've thought that anyone trying to do both is faking one or the other. But I was never no English major (I was a sunflower!) (http://boppin.com/sunflower.html) so what do I know. ;P

"The Twa Corbies" I've heard put to music, which made it much easier to read. Haunting.

[Bugeater]

On the long side for here: The Hollow Men (http://www.cs.umbc.edu/~evans/hollow.html) by TS Eliot.
Definitely one of my favorites. I liked Is/Not as well. I've never heard of her before.

[Eileen]

Oh, that one's interesting. I'm a really big fan of her novels, but had never seen her poetry. I never really liked the idea of a novelist who writes poems, or a poet who writes novels--they seem like completely separate callings to me and I've thought that anyone trying to do both is faking one or the other.


I love her novels and her poetry. I can see what you mean re: poet novelists, but some people are just gifted in multiple ways.

[misutii]

A Dream within a Dream
by Edgar Allen Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet, if Hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it, therefore, the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

[misutii]

Kubla Khan
Or, a vision in a dream, a fragment
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

[misutii]

my last one i promise, this thread has given me a temporary poetic renaissance, thank-you deepsky

She Walks In Beauty
By Lord George Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

[Eileen]

No apologies for poem-posting! This is an excellent thread.

Here's my favorite Holy Sonnet. I love it; it's totally about kinky S&M with the Lord!

Holy Sonnet XIV.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne

[Star]

A poem with a story.

This my first-ever favorite poem. I found it in the school library in elementary school, around age ten or twelve, in an oversized, purple cloth-bound edition of Tulips and Chimneys which I then carried around with me for most of that school year.

I doubt it was written for little girls, but it was exactly what I needed to hear at the time: the first humanistic voice in my entire life and a reason to throw away all that bullshit Catholic guilt my parents had been paying to have me indoctrinated with.

here is little Effie's head -- ee cummings

here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i'm called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb, i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don't punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God, my name
is must and with the others i've
been Effie who isn't alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie's little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs;
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering damned)
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread

[Claverhouse]

"The Twa Corbies" I've heard put to music, which made it much easier to read. Haunting.
Impressive. I've never heard of anyone who knew it. I found it it a small copy of 'The Scottish Ballads' collected by the once-famous Robert Chambers ( started a publishing house with his brother ) dated 1829. What's poignant is that someone at some time pasted in hand-written pages with some of the music... ( not to that one ). Wasted on me since I can't read music.


Claverhouse :ph34r:



The proper title of I Would I Were Where Helen Lies is [ Fair or Burd ] Helen of Kirkconnell. Sorry for the confusion if anyone googled, which only gives one --- useless --- link. An excellent revenge ballad. I like revenge provided it's pure and non-sadistic, like here.

From Sacred Texts (http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/boeb/boeb15.htm) ( !? )

I WAD I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt and spak nae mair!
I laid her down wi' meikle care,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

As I went down the water side,
Nane but my foe to be my guide,
Nane but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackéd him in pieces sma',
I hackéd him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!

O that I were where Helen lies
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wad my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wad I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies,
Since my Love died for me.


But there's another version here, with a MIDI

The Contemplator (http://www.contemplator.com/scotland/fairhel.html)

A year or so since I visited her site...

[Star]

Impressive. I've never heard of anyone who knew it. I found it it a small copy of 'The Scottish Ballads' collected by the once-famous Robert Chambers ( started a publishing house with his brother ) dated 1829. What's poignant is that someone at some time pasted in hand-written pages with some of the music... ( not to that one ). Wasted on me since I can't read music.

Oh that's a much better story than the one about how I heard it. It appeared on a live album by folk-rock band Sol Invictus (http://www.everything2.com/index.pl?node=Sol%20Invictus) in the early 90s. I don't think they ever released a studio version of it. They did do what I think was originally a Scottish ballad, but in modern English, that gives me the creeps to this day, though I haven't heard it in years. I think I remember hearing that it's a true story.

Sawney Bean

A family inbred like serpents entwined
Had no heart and little mind
A clan of madness, a terrible scene
They cursed the earth—the Sawney Bean

Lurking in the fog a fearsome brood
Poor traveling folk they caught and slew
No graves have the victims of these ghouls and fiends
Those taken and eaten by—the Sawney Bean

From their flesh they made a meal
Their skin the floor for their bairns to kneel
Their skulls a table from which to feed
Alas the victims of—the Sawney Bean

They lived by the sword, were felled by the axe
And I say "nothing wrong with that"
But in their hellish caves worse than any dream
Cursed with the stench of—the Sawney Bean

Some are haunted by the tolling bell
Some by the fiery pits of hell
But what haunts me is what we did see
When we entered the larder of—the Sawney Bean

[Star]

I was going to post this in the 'song on your mind' thread but it's so great I think it belongs in poetry, and besides this thread has been pretty damned white so far. :devil:

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

You will not be able to stay home, brother. You will not be able to plug in, turn on and drop out. You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip, Skip out for beer during commercials, Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox In 4 parts without commercial interruption. The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat Hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie Wood and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia. The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal. The revolution will not get rid of the nubs. The revolution will not make you look five pounds Thinner, because

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays Pushing that cart down the block on the dead run, Or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance. NBC will not predict the winner at 8:32 or the count from 29 districts.

The revolution will not be televised. There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down Brothers in the instant replay. There will be no pictures of young being Run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process. There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy Wilkens strolling through Watts in a red, black and Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving For just the right occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and Women will not care if Dick finally gets down with Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people will be in the street looking for a brighter day.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock News and no pictures of hairy armed women Liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose. The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb, Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message About a white tornado, white lightning, or white people. You will not have to worry about a germ on your Bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.

The revolution will not go better with Coke.

The revolution will not fight the germs that cause bad breath.

The revolution WILL put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, WILL not be televised,

WILL NOT BE TELEVISED.

The revolution will be no re-run brothers;

The revolution will be LIVE.

Gill Scott-Heron 1975

[Storm]

well , I'm not totally sure if what I'm going to post can be really called poetry (in part due to its shortness) , but here :

Three rings for the Elven Kings in the sky
Seven for the Dwarf Lords in their halls of stone
Nine for the mortal Men doomed to die
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie

One ring to rule them all , One ring to find them ,
One ring to bring them all , And in the darkness bind them
In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie ...

J.R.R. Tolkien

[redliner]

Tommy - Rudyard Kipling (http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poetry/Rudyard_Kipling/kipling_tommy.htm)

The Raven - Edgar Allen Poe (http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html)

[Star]

The stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
stands so close to me
I can feel his breath
on my neck
and smell
the way he would smell
if we slept together
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and that is his primary function in life
to be a stupid jerk I can obsess over
and to talk to that dingy bimbette blonde
as if he really wanted to hear about her
manicures and
pedicures and
New Age ritualistic enema cures and
truth be known, he probably does wanna hear about it
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's obsessed with doing anything he can
to lend fuel to my fire
he makes a point of standing
looking over my shoulder
when I'm talking to the guy who adores me
and would bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
if I asked him to bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
but I can't ask him to bark like a dog
or impersonate any kind of animal at all
cause I'm too busy
looking at the way the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
has pants on that perfectly define his well-shaped ass
to the point where I'm thoroughly frantic
I'm just gonna go home
and stick my head in the oven
overdose on nutmeg and aspirin
and sit in the bathtub reading The Executioner's Song
and being completely confounded by the fact
that I can see
the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with's face
defining itself in the peeling plaster of the wall
grinning and winking
and I start to yell,
Get the hell out of there
You're just a figment of my imagination
Just get a life and get out of my plaster
and pass me the next painful situation please
but he just keeps on
grinning and winking
he's the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's mine
in my plaster
And frankly, I couldn't be happier.

© Maggie Estep

[songbird36]

"Pied Beauty" - Gerard Manly Hopkins
"Kublai Khan" - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[Serotonin]

Sounds like a Dresden Dolls song Deepsky...

[cjs55]

Pick anything from Whitman, the only poet I've ever loved (because he loved me back as well)

Bukowski is good and recent.

Ginsberg is good as well.

I don't usually like older poetry because I am either immature or quite mature.

Or something inbetween.

[songbird36]

Ah the Beat generation poets..love 'em

[cjs55]

The beats are just a more negative, modern, angsty, cranky, vicious version of Whitman.

I want a new Whitman...someone to spread joy into this world of concrete and disillusion...

Don't know if it can be done though.