What Is Your Favourite Poem & Poet?

What your favourite Poem & Poet? And have you got a poem of your own you would wish to share with us?
My favourite Poet are a few, Yeats, Rimbaud, Dante, Blake, Shelley, Dylan Thomas, Burns, Baudelaire.
My favourite poems are two plentiful to name, but I will post two of them, one from Rimbaud, and one form Dylan Thomas.


This is Rimbaud's

As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.

I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.

Into the furious lashing of the tides
More heedless than children's brains the other winter
I ran! And loosened Peninsulas
Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub

The storm blessed my sea vigils
Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves
That are called eternal rollers of victims,
Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!

Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children
The green water penetrated my hull of fir
And washed me of spots of blue wine
And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook

And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments!

I know the skies bursting with lightning, and the waterspouts
And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,
And dawn as exalted as a flock of doves
And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!

I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,
Lighting up, with long violet clots,
Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,
The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!

I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows
A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,
The circulation of unknown saps,
And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!

I followed during pregnant months the swell,
Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,
Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could constrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!

I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas
Mingling with flowers panthers' eyes and human
Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins
Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!

I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps
Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!
Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,
And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!

Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!
Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs
Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs
Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent!

I should have liked to show children those sunfish
Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.
—Foam of flowers rocked my drifting
And ineffable winds winged me at times.

At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,
Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers
And I remained, like a woman on her knees...

Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels
And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes
And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes
Drowned men sank backward to sleep!

Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,
Thrown by the storm into the birdless air
I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued
By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;

Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,
I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall,
Bearing, delicious jam for good poets
Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure,

Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,
A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,
When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels
The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;

I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off
The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,
Eternal spinner of the blue immobility
I miss Europe with its ancient parapets!

I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:
—Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,
Million golden birds, o future Vigor? –

But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!

If I want a water of Europe, it is the black
Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight
A squatting child full of sadness releases
A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.

No longer can I, bathed in your languor, o waves,
Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,
Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,
Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.



This is Dylan Thomas's






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.


And my own poem is about a ballerina who I fell in love with, when I first lay my eyes upon her. the poem is called Enchantment & Devotion, and goes,as follows.
I am enchanted by her
Mesmerised in memory
Her soft toes, upon those lily pads
Her soul, as soft as snow
She glistens like snowflakes
Her body moulded from fine marble
Her eyes pierce my heart
Her seductive nature, my mind
For I am enchanted
Enchanted by her toes
As they pirouette
Upon those lily pads
When will the enchantment end
To hold her and defend
She has cursed me with her beauty
A curse I wish not to break
For I am enchanted
By her snowflake toes
As they pirouette
Upon those lily pads
Her name is Isabella
And to her, my mind is devoted.
Yet, my heart I find it breaks
As her beauty
‘Tit but, blasphemous
And what be blasphemous more?
That from the heavens
Would be sent
This divine like creature
Who, with her beauty, has me enchanted
And my mind, so devoted.

I'm not very sophisticated in my knowledge of poetry, but there are some poems that I connect with. My favorite is The Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot. Every time I read it it reveals something new. The ending especially resonates for me:

"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one."

a reply to: elkabong57

That's the first time I've heard of it and I rally like it, beyond liked, it is masterful in construction, I can see why it as you enchanted.
The first stanza, obviously alludes to man's unquenchable curiosity, especially that of the poet and artist, the concept about arriving where he started, is this almost delusion dream like naive wander of the poet, in a state of curious enchantment only to arrive where he started, before the dream took hold. It then continues in the second stanza, almost as if the soul in the afterlife, where his mind echoes with the innocence and laughter of childhood amidst the apple trees. And of the tongue of flamed, Man, the poets maturity, the destruction of his immaturity, his brash and arrogant nature, a nature, tamed, by the wisdom of the naive dreaming wander.

a reply to: CyberMoses1001
Yes to everything you have said. Like I said, I'm not that sophisticated in poetry--the poems I like seem to circumvent my head and go right to my heart. It is amazing to me that a poet can say in a few lines something that a novelist can take hundreds of pages to say.

S+F for you. I hope others join the discussion.

Buddy Wakefield
Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars

If we really were created in God’s image
then when God was a child
He smushed fire ants with His fingertips
and avoided tough questions.
There are ways around being the go-to person
even for ourselves
even when the answer is clear
like the holy water Gentiles drank
before they realized
Forgiveness
is the release of all hope for a better past.

I thought those were chime shells in your pocket
so I chucked a quarter at it
hoping
to hear some part of you
respond on a high note.
You acted like I was hurling crowbirds at mockingbars
and abandoned me for not making sense.
Evidently, I don’t experience things as rationally as you do.

For example, I know mercy
when I have enough money to change the jukebox at a gay bar
(somebody’s gotta change that #).
You understand the power of God’s mercy
whenever someone shoves a stick of morphine
straight up into your heart.
G-- D---
It felt amazing
the days you were happy to see me

so I smashed a beehive against the ocean
to try and make our splash last longer.
Remember all the honey?
had me lookin’ like a jellyfish ape
but you walked off the water in a porcupine of light
strands of gold
drizzling out to the tips of your wasps.
This is an apology letter to the both of us
for how long it took me to let things go.

It was not my intention to make such a
production of the emptiness between us
playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano
to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive.
It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there
and that you meant it
but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open

so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat
hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots
that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving
so I wouldn’t have to listen to my heart keep saying
all my eggs were in a basket of red flags
all my eyes to a bucket of blindfolds
in the cupboard with the muzzles and the gauze
ya know I didn’t mean to speed so far out and off
trying to drive all your nickels to the well
when you were happy to let them wishes drop

but I still show up for gentleman practice
in the company of lead dancers
hoping their grace will get stuck in my shoes.
Is that a handsome shadow on my breath, sweet woman
or is it a cattle call
in a school of fish? Still dance with me
less like a waltz for panic
more for the way we’d hoped to swing
the night we took off everything
and we were swingin’ for the fences

don’t hold it against
my love
you know I wanna breath deeper than this
you know I didn’t mean to look so serious
didn’t mean to act like a filthy floor
didn’t mean to turn us both into a cutting board
but there were knives s-stuck
in the words where I came from
too much time in the back of my words.
I pulled knives from my back and my words.
I cut trombones from the moment you slipped away

and I know it left me lookin’ like a knife fight, lady
yeah you know it left me feelin’ like a shotgun shell
you know I know I mighta gone and lost my breath
but I wanna show ya how I found my breath
to death
it was buried under all the wind instruments
hidden in your castanets
goddamn
if ya ever wanna know how it felt when ya left
yeah if you ever wanna come inside

just knock on the spot

where I finally pressed STOP

playing musical chairs with exit signs.

I’m gonna cause you a miracle
when you see the way I kept God’s image alive.

Forgiveness
is for anybody
who needs a safe passage through my mind.

If I was really created in God’s image
then when God was a boy
he wanted to grow up to be a man
a good man
and when God was a man
a good man
He started telling the truth in order to get honest responses.
He’d say,
“I know.
I really shoulda wore my cross
again
but I don’t wanna scare the gentiles off.”

a reply to: Excallibacca

I've never heard of him?

a reply to: CyberMoses1001

He's a modern slam poet. Has published 5 books, I think. Still tours to this day. What did you think of it?

a reply to: Excallibacca

When he alludes to God, does he mean god in the bible ,or is it an allusion to freemasonry or a greater knowledge of theology?
I found it mediocre, no real structure, no interesting rhythm, no greater universal message, nor spiritual truth.
It reminds me of a modern poet lost in a superficial understanding and idea of poetry and what a poet is, some kind of social label that can robe him in some kind of aura of fame and sophistication.

I don’t have a favorite author. But I’ve always liked this one to me it means you are what you make of yourself .

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.

William Ernest Henley,

a reply to: CyberMoses1001

Alfred Lord Tennyson " The Charge Of The Light Brigade "

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

a reply to: Fallingdown

Indeed, similar to Homer's Odyssey, the greater story of his navigation, so to speak of his soul.

a reply to: alldaylong

As stated to FallingDown, this also reminds me of the symbolism of true poetry, and especially Homer's Odyssey, the navigation of the soul, the war of enlightenment against the darkness of ignorance.

a reply to: CyberMoses1001
I don't see how anyone who likes poetry at all can limit themselves to one supreme example of either.
My appreciation extends from Paradise Lost to The Dong with a Luminous Nose.
Which is better;

"Of man's first disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree
Whose mortal taste brought death into the world..."

"When awful darkness and silence reigns
Over the great Gromboolian plains,
Through the long, long wintry nights;
When angry breakers roar
As they beat on the rocky shore,
When storm-clouds brood o'er the towering heights
Of the hills of the Chankly Bore..."

I also have affection for the poetry of Catullus, including one which I translated myself in schooldays;
"Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior."

("I hate and love;
Perhaps you ask
How this can be?

I know not, but
I feel it and
It tortures me.")

All poetry quoted from memory.

a reply to: DISRAELI

Thank you Benjamin.
The first line suggest a lack of full enlightenment on behalf of the poet, by referencing the forbidden fruit, it suggest his work was influenced by the military, churches, and Egypt, for I find it impossible to know what it means.

The second poem, or stanza of a poem, is ok, it is from a poet I am unaware of, is he an ancient Roman or Greek poet?

a reply to: CyberMoses1001
The first two poems quoted were by Milton and Edward Lear, who also wrote "The Pobble who has no toes".
"The Pobble who has no toes had once as many as we.
When they said 'One day you may lose them all',
He repiled 'Fish fiddle dee-dee'.
And his aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink.
For she said 'The world in general knows
Ther's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes'..."

a reply to: DISRAELI

Is this in Paradise Lost? It is one of those epics, which is almost impossible to remember, like Beowulf, all I remember is I loved Beowulf, found Paradise Lost, one of those epics that takes patience to read, like Dante's Comedy.

I've never heard of Lear.

I love poetry. Too many poets and too many poems.

It's harvest at over where I am. This poem always comes to mind. I find it deeply moving.

Thomas Hood

Ruth

She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripen’d;—such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veil’d a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:—

Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

a reply to: CyberMoses1001

I'm just going to go ahead and assume you've never heard of slam poetry.

I love Robert Frost's, "Mending Wall," definitely a timeless piece of art.

However, my favorite poem is from my little brother, keep in mind he's just 13:

"Trees were the old skyscrapers of the world
And rivers the highways
Now the rivers are broken creeks
And fires ate up the tall wooden streaks

The birdsong is no longer joyous but strained
Sadness they feel of the rotted forest carcass
The consumerism is littered like cadavers
Along each path, you'll find shatters

Stop ignoring it, when it is knocking on your door
The forest screams, "I will not be ignored"
Limbs break in order to settle scores
Branched in all directions, are our snores

"Do something" they say,
But only if the trashman doesn't come that day."