Favourite Poem

Mates won't ask Wolfgirl. They're the strong silent types. This is mainly because they find it difficult to string more than two words together. In fact the only two words they can string together in any kind of meaningful phrase are 'Wolverhampton' and 'Wanderers'. Oh, and at a push 'pint' and 'lager.' The Sex Pistols hey. Weren't they some girlie, poof band from the seventies? This is a joke by the way before anyone accuses me of being chauvinistic, mysoginist, homophobic and having bad music-taste all in one go. You know - a joke - one of those things you're not meant to take seriously. Wouldn't normally converse with someone who calls themselves after a fruit but in your case Oranj I'll make an exception. I was trying to paraphrase Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons as in Big Girls Don't Cry. Didn't realise that 10cc had hijacked it. Thanks for the info which will undoubtedly come in handy in some future pub quiz. By the way, while we're on the subject of pub trivia did you know that 10cc got their name from the average amount of semen ejaculated by your average male? Now you see if me and me mates had ever formed a band we'd have had to have called it 'One and a Half Litres' and that just ain't got the same ring to it, has it. The truth is, John L is just an alter-ego pen-name. In actual fact, I'm Mandy - Fly Me. Just in case anyone is in the slightest doubt, this also is a joke. PS.What does 'effete' mean?

I thought it was Franki Valli too - must be showing our ages, eh? Many thanks for the invaluable info about (The Average) male ejaculation, John - I'm sure we all really wanted to know that... For those of you who don't have either the inclination or the time to follow up Fish's suggestion of trying to guess Top Ten fruit pickers, here's a mind-boggler of amazing proportions: What's Axl Rose an anagram of? (Whilst we're on the subject of bands and their handles)... Not too sure the answer will be terribly useful in pub quizzes, tho'

Oral Sex. This is not just a gratuitously offensive posting if anyone reads it in isolation. It's a good, honest answer to Andrea's anagram question. It's a bit of a cheat though because he had to miss the 'e' out of 'axle' to make it work. Now if he'd have only come from Bradford he could have said 'e, oral sex.' We have actually had this question in a pub quiz, right after the question about which 'muscle' is attached to the body at only one end.' The answer of course is the tongue. come on Andrea - THAT ain't even a muscle. No problems about the info Andrea. Any time you want to know anythigna bout the average man just ask. they don't come any more average than me. And you can read into that whatever you want.

I didn't even know he wore a kilt! (have to put me specs on next time) I think he's got a sexy voice though, never mind his undies (or lack of them)...HELP!!! *grabs phone to make appointment with nearest shrink*

Excuse me. What does effete mean? This was a serious question.

'ere, are you trying to chat up our Liana? 'Won't you come home Bill Baily, won't you come home? Bin gone the whole night loo-oong' Or something like that.

Its exactly like that Andrea. Could almost hear you singing. It's all Liana's fault for deliberately seducing me with her unbelievable knowledge of pop-music lyrics. How's a bloke to resist? I have at least one thing in common with Oscar Wilde - we can both resist everything except temptation. Plus, there's a photo of me up in the attic - haven't dared look at it since 1964 but if it looks worse than the real thing it's in big, big trouble.

You don't want to hear me singing, believe me...

Oh yes I do, believe me. And before you ask 'am I chatting you up?' Of course I am. It's your own fault for knowing so much about Greek blokes who steal fire and what eagles do to 'em.

Oh yes I do, believe me. And before you ask 'am I chatting you up?' Of course I am. It's your own fault for knowing so much about Greek blokes who steal fire and what eagles do to 'em.

Thought I'd say it twice just so there'd be no misunderstanding.

Oh, there wasn't, believe me...

Have only just found this site so am probably too late to add my voice. What about Jenny Joseph Morning Walkers or In memory of God. April Rise Laurie Lee If ever I saw blessing in the air I see it now in this still early day Where lemin green the vaporous morning drips Wet sunlight on the powder of my eye or Stork in Jerez How does one choose a favourite? It's the one in your mind at the moment

I've got three, Martin if that is allowed. Anyway, I've got three even if it isn't allowed. They are, in no particular order An Irish Airman Foresees His Death by William Butler Yeats. You know, the one that starts; I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the stars above. A parody of Rudyard Kiplings 'If' by Benjamin Zephaniah. Brilliant, but then again everything Ben does is brilliant And a poem I don't know either the title or the author of. It's another parody (based on the game of cricket) of a poem called Brahma by Ralph Waldo Emerson. The 'real' poem starts something like 'If the red slayer think he slays, Or the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways, I keep and pass and turn again and so on. The parody has some lines in it that go something like If the bowler thinks he bowls Or the batsman thinks he is bowled Or words to that effect. I 've come across this poem once or twice but never had the brains to note it down. So now I've only gone and mislaid it. Any help would be much appreciated. I also love The Waste Land but since I had to buy all the GCSE study note booklets on this before I understood it, that's a bit of a cheat.

In answer to my own question. I've only gone and found it and some more besides. Isn't technology a wonderful thing? Answers on a postcard, please. Anyway the poem, which is also called 'Brahma' is by a bloke called Andrew Lang. It goes like this; If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled They know not, poor misguided souls, They too shall perished unconsoled. I am the batsman and the bat, I am the bowler and the ball, The umpire, the pavilion cat, The roller, pitch and stumps and all. Brilliant, don't you think. To be honest I think this was probably written by Steve Waugh while he was fielding on the boundary in the tihrd test at Trent Bridge. Let's face it, he wasn't going to get disturbed, was he. Whilst looking for this I found some Brahma-like references in other poems, notably a verse from 'Woman to Man' by Joyce Wright-McKinney which goes, This is the maker and the made, This is the question and reply, The blind head butting at the dark, The blaze of light along the blade. If I could make a pact with God (or more likely the Devil, like that Faust bloke) wherein he let me write one verse like that but then I had to drop dead on the spot I'd do it. Wouldn't you, even for a few seconds, just love to be 'the blaze of light along the blade'? Or is that just me? And a brilliant poem called 'BRAHM' by a bloke called Joseph Furphy which is far too long to quote here but is also far too brilliant not to mention. Read it and weep. I'm adding this to my list of favourites Martin so now that makes four. Plus I forgot 'Abou Ben Adhem' by Leigh Hunt. Now I'm up to five. Think I'll leave it at that for now.

one of my favourites [maybe more to come later] is this one by Rilke, which was emailed to me a few months ago by a good friend. You Who Never Arrived... You who never arrived in my arms, Beloved, who were lost from the start, I don't even know what songs would please you. I have given up trying to recognize you in the surging wave of the next moment. All the immense images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected turns in the path, and those powerful lands that were once pulsing with the life of the gods-- all rise within me to mean you, who forever elude me. You, Beloved, who are all the gardens I have ever gazed at, longing. An open window in a country house-- , and you almost stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,-- you had just walked down them and vanished. And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, separate, in the evening...

Ummmm....Martin, I'm with you on Poe. However, I also love John Donne's The Flea. Clever stuff. He was quite a lad that Donne, sensualists among you could do worse than check out his poetry. 'On His Mistress Going To Bed' is also fine, fine wordage.

Great choices Wolfgirl. I love Donne too, the Sunne Rising and The Canonisation in partic. faves for me are: Ted Hughes, Stealing Trout on a May Morning The Relic Evening Thrush Simon Armitage, Anything from 'The Whole of the Sky' TS Eliot, Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock Coleridge, This Lime Tree Bower My Prison & Frost at Midnight. here are my two all time favourite lines of poetry: 'I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas Eliot, Prufrock Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles Quietly shining to the quiet moon Coleridge I'm quite overcome

One of my favourite poems is by the Roman, Catullus. It begins 'Odi et Amo'. I can not remember exactly how it reads but the general gist is, I hate and I love. Why, I do not know. And I am tormented. The real thing is a bit more elegant methinks! Catullus had an affair with a rich lady called Clodia and wrote this after she dumped him.

I found this from your reference Lindy. What he actually said was not particularly more elegant but maybe just a little more painful and intense. It was: Odi et ami. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris. Nescio sed fiero sentio et excrucior. which translates as: I hate and I love. Why I do this perhaps you ask. I do not know, but that it happens I feel and I am crucified. So, at least as far as love is concerned, nothing much has changed in the last 2000 + years.

prufruck is my favourite too ...

Yeah, I like Hughes' Stealing Trout on a May Morning. But , I love one of his children's poems entitled Work and Play. It contrasts the beauty of a swallow hard at work feeding her young with the crudity of human beings at play (in this instance, humans at the beach). Here's a snatch: The swallow of summer, she toils all summer, A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage, A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air. But the holiday people Are laid out like wounded Flat as in ovens Roasting and basting With faces of torment as space burns them blue ...While the evening swallow The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson, Touches the honey-slow river and turning Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves- A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.

Noah and the Rabbit by Hugh Chesterman is my favourite poem. I won a talent competition during the Queens's Silver Jubilee Celebrations in 1977 reciting it in front of all my neighbours. My elder sister was really upset. She thought her guitar playing was much better! I was 8 at the time!

Robert, a friend of mine gave me Work and Play the other day so it is very special. Have you read the Warm and the Cold by Hughes. The Pike is in its pond like a key in a purse ... ahhhh

mmmmmm ... one of my favourite lines is from a.a. milne's "four friends" ... "james gave the huffle of a snail in danger and nobody heard him at all ..."

One of my favourites is a poem I heard in my central european boyhood. It started along the lines like ''to dream anything your heart desires to dream ... In English Michael J OReilly's basket cases of joy like many of David Taub's digests will stay ageless with me: The title: 'Feelings That Don't Go Away.' ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is in love that brings the glow of life. It is the heart mended and strong that flood this world with safety and good homes. It is the binding joy of love that is not biological. It is spiritual. It is people here who would not want to be with anyone else but those they are with. It is an extraordinary process that the universe places us with those exactly whom we need. It is destiny and gives definition to how we live. It is what I see in my father's eyes. His mended heart can love me in joy and devotion. People are brought to each other in baskets and handed over to each other to be a basket of joy. It is joy in its raw form. Then the world civilizes it and takes the joyous light away. I found the light in you, my friend who would read this poem and know its meaning. It is the journey back to pure undiluted joy that we mask with our busy concrete lives. Feelings intervene. Spirits get lost in the world. Find your way back by holding my heart in your hands. 'by Michael J OReilly'

Just by way of an antidote to all this girlie love poetry how about: Razors pain you Rivers are damp Acids stain you And drugs cause cramp Guns aren't lawful Nooses give Gas smells awful You might as well live Written by that well-known girlie Dorothy Parker who attempted suicide four times but never quite succeeded. Unlike Sylvia Plath - all you lovers of Ted Hughes take note.

ooooooooooooh yes ... dottie parker being a prime example of the type of love poem which contains pain disaster and all that marvellous business ...

I cannot believe Dylan Thomas hasn't got a mention yet - And death shall have no dominion is amazing, as are Fern Hill and Do not go gentle into that good night. Always thought TS Eliot was a bit of a snob to be honest, although Preludes is very good.

stevo, i've just checked out those 2, but i was put off ted hughes at school... if anyone's interested, a lot of the poems mentioned here are on nth-dimension.co.uk [very useful if you are as badly-read as me!]

WH Auden, 'Musee des Beaux Arts', about how tragedy happens to individuals while other people are just going about their business. For me, it helped put into perspective the feeling of utter alienation you get when you are caught up in your own grief and it seems impossible that the rest of the world can just be going on. Its nominal subject is Breughel's painting of Icarus falling out of the sky, which I believe was at least part of the inspiration for 'The Man Who Fell To Earth'. Also very fond of one I remember from my childhood, about the Battle of Hastings, with a refrain about Harold sitting on his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and...

Hi Stevo. Yeah, I have read the Warm and the Cold. It is an excellent poem. I like the line,"the trout is in his hole/Like a chuckle in a sleeper". I first became aware of Work and Play and the Warm and the Cold from a channel four children's programme present by Simon Armitage. In the programme Ted Hughes recites the two poems over film footage. It is very effective indeed!

Poe is a great choice. I am rather a fan of Ruper Brooke, Shelley and even Liz Browning. Henry Howard is excellent as well Yeats and T.S Elliott have their merits. Below is my all time favourite poem. 'Silence' by Edgar Allen Poe There are some qualities - some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold silence - sea and shore - Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'egrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore Render him terrorless: his name's 'No More'. He is the corporate silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself; Bust should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow ( nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God!

WHAT'S THE BEST THING? What's the best thing about a blow job? Ten minutes of silence. JOHN BETJERMAIN GREER

Yeah, JA. Exactly how did we miss Dyland Thomas? That 'Do not go gentle into that goodnight' is in apoetic form called a 'villanelle.' This is a really difficult form full of rules which are. 1. Six verses, the first five of three lines, the sixth of four lines. Thus nineteen lines in all. 2. Lines one, three and four of verse six must rhyme. 3. Lines one and three of verses one to five must all rhyme. 4. Line two of all six verses must all rhyme with each other. If all this wasn't bad enough (and here comes the clever bit) 5. Lines three of verse six must be repeated, word for word, at line one of verse one and line three of verses two and four. 6. Line four of verse six must be repeated, word for word, at line three of verses one, three and five. And if all that sounds just a bit difficult, just try writing one. Maybe someone could post one on ABC. Dylan Thomas's is about the best example of a villanelle in the whole goddam history of poetry although Sylvia Plath did a pretty neat one called 'Mad Girl's Love Song.' But Sylvia cheated a bit by using some 'nearly' rhymes in it. I'm off now to dash out a quick villanelle myself. Should only take about three years so I'll see you all in 2004.

'Donal Og' - it's on a poetry tape I've got, under Anonymous, and I think it's wonderful: It is late - last night, the dog was speaking of you. The snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh. It is you are the lonely bird through the woods, And that you may be without a mate until you find me. You promised me, and you said a lie to me That you would be before me with a sheep, a flock. I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you And I found nothing there but a bleating lamb. You promised me a thing that was hard for you. A ship of gold under a silver mast. Twelve towns with a market in all of them, And a fine white court by the side of the sea. You promised me a thing that is not possible. That you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish. That you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird And a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland. When I go by myself to the well of loneliness I sit down and I go through my trouble. When I see the world, and do not see my boy, He that has an amber shade in his hair. It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you. The Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday. And myself on my knees, reading The Passion And my two eyes giving love to you forever. My mother said to me not to be talking with you today, or tomorrow, or on the Sunday. It was a bad time she took, to be telling me that. It was shutting the door after the house was robbed. My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe Or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge Or as the soul of a shoe left in white halls. It was you put that darkness over my life. You have taken the east from me. You have taken the west from me. You have taken what is bfore me and what is behind me. You have taken the moon; you have taken the sun from me. And my fear is great that you have taken God from me. I think it is beautiful as a poem - it's technically "a translation of a song from the Arran Islands off the West coast of Ireland, made by Lady Gregory, friend of W.B.Yeats".

John - thanks for the translation. I am back from holiday now and have looked up the poem myself aswell. I also like Allan Ahlberg. He writes poetry for children, most of which I found an affinity for when I was at primary school. He wrote the book Please Mrs Bulter. My favorite one in that book starts: Last night my Mum got really mad And threw a jam tart at my Dad.

Donne is fantastic (the one with 'Go and catch a falling star, Catch a child with mandrake root' is a particular favourite - if only I could remember its name) as is Dorthy Parker but my favourite poems have to be: 1 To His Coy Mistress by Marvell (the best 'get your kit off' line I've ever heard. If I'd been the coy mistress, I'd have succumbed) 2 Tich Miller by Wendy Cope. I challenge you to read it without welling up. 3 The Virus by Neil Gaiman (a story in poem form and deeply brilliant)

It's a song Emily, that's actually entitled 'Go and catch a falling star'......it is wonderful. Ah, what sturdy, sparkling eyed young goats those poets must have been........

Although sadly a lot of them seemed rather mysoginist too. Donne reckoning in 'Song' (thanks, Wolfie) that there isn't a woman who's true and fair. He just wasn't looking hard enough... And Marvell spouting a load of romantic tosh that I'm sure he was only coming up with to get a one night stand (or maybe that's just my interpretation) I'd probably have fallen for them when I was a teenager though - all that mad, bad and dangerous to know stuff appealed far too much to the romantic in me (who am I kidding, I'd probably still fall for it :-) )

Personally, Emily, I reckon Donne looked plenty hard enough. In fact, if Donne had have spent any more time looking for this mythical 'true and fair' woman he wouldn't have ever got round to writing anything, anyway. From the litlle I know about Donne, not only did he look a lot he quite often 'found' too, if you catch my drift. You've kind of given the game away in your last para, ain't ya. If a bloke is mad, bad and dangerous to know, he's a lying, cheating, dirty, rotten bastard but most women are gonna love him to bits anyway. Then spend all their free time crying to their mates. If he's not he's a boring old sod who women never go near in the first place. What's a bloke to do, Emily? Of course, in the interests of balance I ought to say there ain't any true and fair blokes either, just so you don't label me as an un-reconstituted male chauvinist oinker.

Yep, think you're right there John - all men are b%$£%^&* and all women are b*&^%$£! And I don't think you're an oinker for saying it! The only solution I can think of for men is being a nice bloke with a 'glint in the eye' (possibly a reformed rake) Most women I know grow out of the mad, bad man thing at some stage and want a nice one to settle down with... ...but at the same time, if someone's *too* nice it does (sadly) give the impression that they wouldn't be much good at 'finding' :-)

I reckon you've just about hit the nail on the head there, Emily. So that's my target from here on in 'A reformed rake with a glint in me eye.' Trouble is, when I was doing a bit of gardening on the weekend I stood on the rake and now I've only got one eye to have a glint in. Couldn't be doing with being too nice and not much good at 'finding.' Thank God for good old Johnny Dunn and his ilk. we wouldn't want the species to die out, now would we? By the way, pretty obviously the gardening thing was a joke - I think grass is something you either i) hit golf balls from of off or ii) smoke with your mates over the field.

What are we to do? I expect to pass through this world but once. Imagine a life without an ability to feel the power of a potty or an unpotty poet. If it was not for the moments of 10 minutes silence (see above) or most of our lifetime peppered with mountains of obstacles, we would know very little about the conspiracy of Love - poetry. Poetry is easy, especially when you lie on your deathbed and reflect on life ... It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bitter heartache At the setting of the sun; The tender word unspoken, The letter you did not write, The flower you might have sent, dear, Are your haunting ghosts at night. The stone you might have lifted Out of your brother's way, The bit of heartsome counsel You were hurried too much to say; The loving touch of the hand, dear, The gentle and winsome tone, That you had no time or thought for, With troubles enough of your own. These little acts of kindness, So easily out of mind, These chances to be angels, Which even mortals find They come in night and silence, Each chill reproachful wraith, When hope is faint and flagging, And a blight has dropped on faith. For life is all too short, dear. And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries until too late. And it's not the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bitter heartache, At the setting of the sun. --Adelaide Proctor

'To you' from Birds of Passage by Walt Whitman, 'That I did always love' by Emily Dickenson and anything by me (or John Ashbery & Lyn Hejnian [sp])

i notice that there doesn't seem to be much interest in french poets or anything between donne and eliot, so to satisfy my own knavish desires i'd like to nominate rimbaud's le mal, or "the evil". i could have just as much recreated something by mallarme or verlaine, but this poem is most haunting of those i can remember. "the evil" Whilst the red spittle of the grape-shot sings all day across the endless sky, and whilst entire battalions, green or scarlet, rallied by their kings, disintegrate in crumpled masses under fire Whilst an abominable madness seeks to pound a hundred thousand men into a smoking mess - pitiful dead in summer grass, on the rich ground out of which Nature wrought these men in holiness; He is a God who sees it all, and laughs aloud at damask altar-cloths, incense and chalices, Who falls asleep lulled by adoring liturgies and wakens when some mother, in her anguish bowed and weeping till her old black bonnet shakes with grief offers him a a big sou wrapped in her handkerchief

I've got to be boring, and add my name to the lengthening list of those who love the Metaphysical Poets. (I even named my first book "World enough, and Time.) Like many others above, I also love Yeats. Arnold, too, though he's been totally ignored. "Dover Beach" has always been a favourite. But my real favourite, bar none, is "High Flight" by John Gillespie Magee. A young American volunteer serving with the RAF, I believe that he sketched this out on the back of a cigarette packet. Six months later, he was killed in a flying accident, adding enormous poignancy to the poem. It was also used as the funeral oration after the "Challenger" disaster. Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings: Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along and flung My eager craft through footless falls of air. Up, up the long delirious burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace, Where never lark, or even eagle flew; And while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. (Pause to find tissues.) I'd gladly swop everything I've ever scribbled to be able to write something even half as moving as that.

That is, indeed, truly poignant, Roy. Haven't you (or someone) mentioned this guy before? (maybe I'll become a poetry convert)

Thanks, Andrea - and yes, I did recommend it on some previous thread that tumbled off the edge into the great black void within a couple of days: I reckoned that no-one else had seen it. I just thought it was worth a second go, as no-one else had mentioned the poem on the site since (and, as far as I know, the author published nothing else.) Generally speaking, I prefer prose writing, but work such as this can't be ignored. Sorry if that sounds pompous..

Doesn't sound pompous at all...at least not to me. Great idea to give it a 'second go'. That poor guy was in the wrong job.