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Post a favorite poem!
Pareve:
Does anyone here know any poems that they find particularly inspiring? Post one in here, and if you feel like it, write a little blurb why!
Whenever people claim that poetry is girly, I use the poem "At the Quinte Hotel" by Al Purdy as an example of why that person is very, very wrong. It's one of my all-time favorites, and is kind of like a combination of Charles Bukowski and Robert Service, but kind of better.
--- Quote from: Al Purdy ---AT THE QUINTE HOTEL
I am drinking
I am drinking beer with yellow flowers
in underground sunlight
and you can see that I am a sensitive man
And I notice that the bartender is a sensitive man too
so I tell him about his beer
I tell him the beer he draws
is half fart and half yellow horse piss
and all wonderful yellow flowers
But the bartender is not quite
so sensitive as I supposed he was
the way he looks at me now
and does not appreciate my exquisite analogy
Over in one corner two guys
are quietly making love
in the brief prelude to infinity
Opposite them a peculiar fight
enables the drinkers to lay aside
their comic books and watch with interest
as I watch with interest
A wiry little man slugs another guy
then tracks him bleeding into the toilet
and slugs him to the floor again
with ugly red flowers on the tile
three minutes later he roosters over
to the table where his drunk friend sits
with another friend and slugs both
of em ass-over-electric-kettle
so I have to walk around
on my way for a piss
Now I am a sensitive man
so I say to him mildly as hell
?You shouldn?ta knocked over that good beer
with them beautiful flowers in it"
So he says to me ?Come on"
So I Come On
like a rabbit with weak kidneys I guess
like a yellow streak charging
on flower power I suppose
& knock the shit outa him & sit on him
(he is a little guy)
and say reprovingly
?Violence will get you nowhere this time chum
Now you take me
I am a sensitive man
and would you believe I write poems?"
But I could see the doubt in his upside down face
in fact in all the faces
?What kind of poems?"
?Flower poems"
?So tell us a poem"
I got off the little guy reluctantly
for he was comfortable
and told them this poem
They crowded around me with tears
in their eyes and wrung my hands feelingly
for my pockets for
it was a heart-warming moment for Literature
and moved by the demonstrable effect
of great Art and the brotherhood of people I remarked
?? the poem oughta be worth some beer"
It was a mistake of terminology
for silence came
and it was brought home to me in the tavern
that poems will not really buy beers or flowers
or a goddam thing
and I was sad
for I am a sensitive man.
--- End quote ---
Utopian:
I have a lot of favourite poems, but I think the most positive and inspirig one for me is Hug o' War by Shel Silverstein. I think it speaks for itself:
I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.
TheFuriousWombat:
Well I have lots and lots of favorite poems. I like Seamus Heaney a lot, so here's one of his
Blackberry-Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
I also really like E.E. Cummings so here's one of his:
I Have Found What You Are Like
i have found what you are like
the rain,
(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields
easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike
the air in utterable coolness
deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned
newfragile yellows
lurch and.press
-in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss
supersheep:
Blech, Heaney. Too much Heaney for me - damn Irish schools forcing him down my throat. Michael Longley is a much better Irish poet, in my opinion. This one was published in 1994, and in my opinion the final couplet is one of the best things ever written. Ever.
Ceasefire
Put in mind of his own father and moved to tears
Achilles took him by the hand and pushed the old king
Gently away, but Priam curled up at his feet and
Wept with him until their sadness filled the building.
Taking Hector's corpse into his own hands Achilles
Made sure it was washed and, for the old king's sake,
Laid out in uniform, ready for Priam to carry
Wrapped like a present home to Troy at daybreak.
When they had eaten together, it pleased them both
To stare at each other's beauty as lovers might,
Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still
And full of conversation, who earlier had sighed:
'I get down on my knees and do what must be done
And kiss Achilles' hand, the killer of my son.'
fozmo:
A nifty little ditty from a comic called Frazz, penned by one Jef Mallett:
The Midwest?s climate poignantly
describes in sweet analogy
the pace and temporality
the seasons and our lives reflect.
I like this part especially -
the chilly breath of urgency
in sync with the cacophony
the pigments in the leaves project
We?re warned against complacency
while reassured emphatically
that aging isn?t entropy:
It?s how we reach our fiery peak.
That blinding blowout brilliantly
asserts a truth we need to see.
So pity, then, the retiree
who moved where autumn doesn?t speak.
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