Favourite Poems.

GDPR

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It is that time of year when a lot of us find ourselves spontaneously turning to the Poetry books upon our shelves, so I think it would be interesting to discover some of the favourite Poems of the posters here. These our some of mine;

Assisi by Paul Celan translated by Michael Hamburger.

Umbrian night.
Umbrian night with the silver of churchbell and olive leaf.
Umbrian night with the stone that you carried here.
Umbrian night with the stone.

Dumb, that which rose into life, dumb.
Refills the jugs, come.

Earthenware jug.
Earthenware jug to which the potter’s hand grew affixed.
Earthenware jug which a shade’s hand closed for ever.
Earthenware jug with a shade’s seal.

Stone, wherever you look, stone.
Let the grey animal in.

Trotting animal.
Trotting animal in the snow the nakedest hand scatters.
Trotting animal before the word that clicked shut.
Trotting animal that takes sleep from the feeding hand.

Brightness that will not comfort, brightness you shed.
Still they are begging, Francis – the dead.


The Black Tower by W.B. Yeats.

Say that the men of the old black tower,
Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
That all are oath-bound men:
Those banners come not in.

There in the tomb stand the dead upright,
But winds come up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
Or whisper that a man's a fool
Who, when his own right king's forgotten,
Cares what king sets up his rule.
If he died long ago
Why do you dread us so?

There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

The tower's old cook that must climb and clamber
Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
Swears that he hears the king's great horn.
But he's a lying hound:
Stand we on guard oath-bound!

There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.
 


GDPR

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Requiem By Gottfried Benn translated by the supervert website.

Two on each slab. Men and women
crosswise. Crowded, naked,
but without pain.
The head up. The torso split open.
The bodies
give birth for the last time.
Each fills three basins: from brain
to balls.
And God's temple and the devil's
lair,
now side by side in a bucket of slop,
sneer at Golgotha and man's fall.
The remainder in coffins. Real
newborns:
man's legs, child's torso, woman's hair.
I saw, from two who used to whore,
something lying there,
as from one womb.


Before a Cornfield by Gottfried Benn translated by the supervert website.

Before a cornfield he said:
The fabled fidelity of cornflowers
is a fine motif for women painters,
but I prefer the profound opera
of the poppy.
It makes you think of blood clots
and menstruation.
Of suffering, spitting up, going
hungry, kicking the bucket—
in short: of the murky path of man.

They are very dark but the others here are well worth reading as well.

Gottfried Benn Electronic Library
 

Clanrickard

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Is there a Zoo big enough for your posts?
 

GDPR

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Is there a Zoo big enough for your posts?
Clanrickard does not like Poetry obviously, now there is a massive shock.....

Anyway this is one of my all time favourites...

La Figlia Che Piange by T.S. Elliot.

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.
 

Erudite Caveman

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Honey came in and she caught me red-handed
Creeping with the girl next door
Picture this we were both butt naked
Banging on the bathroom floor
How could I forget that I had
Given her an extra key
All this time she was standing there
She never took her eyes off me

How you can grant the woman access to your villa
Trespasser and a witness while you cling to your pillow
You better watch your back before she turn into a killer
Best for you and the situation not to call the beaner
To be a true player you have to know how to play
If she say a night, convince her say a day
Never admit to a word when she say and if she claims
And you tell her baby no way

But she caught me on the counter (It wasn't me)
Saw me bangin' on the sofa (It wasn't me)]
I even had her in the shower (It wasn't me)
She even caught me on camera (It wasn't me)

She saw the marks on my shoulder (It wasn't me)
Heard the words that I told her (It wasn't me)
Heard the scream get louder (It wasn't me)
She stayed until it was over

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qv5fqunQ_4I
 

GDPR

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The Burning Babe by Robert Southwell.

As I in hoary winter's night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye
To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright
Did in the air appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat,
Such floods of tears did shed,
As though His floods should quench His flames,
Which with His tears were bred:
'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly born
In fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire but I!
'My faultless breast the furnace is;
The fuel, wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;
The ashes, shames and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men's defiled souls:
For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
To wash them in my blood.'
With this He vanish'd out of sight
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto mind
That it was Christmas Day.
 

Collegebhoy

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[h=1]Na Blátha Craige le Liam Ó Flaithearta[/h]A dúirt mé leis na blátha:
"Nach suarach an áit a fuair sibh
le bheith ag déanamh aeir
Teannta suas anseo le bruach na haille,
Gan fúibh ach an chloch ghlas
Agus salachar na n-éan,
áit bhradach, lán le ceo
Agus farraige cháite,
Ní scairteann grian anseo
Ó Luan go Satharn
Le gliondar a chur oraibh"
A dúirt na blatha craige:
"Is cuma linn, a stór,
Táimid faoi dhraíocht
ag ceol na farraige."
 

Nebuchadnezzar

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Ode to Erdogan by The Right Honourable Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

There was a young fellow from Ankara
Who was a terrible w@nkera
Till he sowed his wild oats
With the help of a goat
But he didn’t even stop to thankera.
 

HereWeGoAgain

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i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Source: I Carry Your Heart With Me By e.e. cummings, Famous Love Poem
 

LovelyIslander

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i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Source: I Carry Your Heart With Me By e.e. cummings, Famous Love Poem
The Blacksmith by H G Longfellow
 

HereWeGoAgain

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Renowned poet John Montague was presented with the well-deserved, Bob Hughes Lifetime Achievement Award last night at the Bord Gais Book Awards Ceremony. Below is one of my favourites.

Profile:

The son of Irish Catholics, poet John Montague was actually born in Brooklyn, shortly after his parents, who had been involved in Ireland’s post-1916 national strife, immigrated to the U.S. In New York the family struggled through the Depression, and in 1933 Montague and his two brothers were sent back to Ireland. Montague was raised by two aunts on the family farm and educated at the seminary of Saint Patrick’s College in Armagh. He attended the University College of Dublin, where he published his first poems.

Montague’s poems often find their shape in extended sequences that engage themes of travel and exile, national identity and personal loss. As Edna Longey noted in the Times Literary Supplement: “more than any poet of his generation he opened up channels between the Irish and English tradition, between regional and cosmopolitan allegiances, between Ulster and Irish perspectives.”

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

the Locket - John Montague


Sing a last song
for the lady who has gone,
fertile source of guilt and pain.
The worst birth in the annals of Brooklyn,
that was my cue to come on,
my first claim to fame.

Naturally, she longed for a girl,
and all my infant curls of brown
couldn't excuse my double blunder
coming out the wrong sex,
and the wrong way around.
Not readily forgiven,

So you never nursed me
and when all my father's songs
couldn't sweeten the lack of money,
'when poverty comes throught the door
love flies up your chimney',
your favourite saying,

Then you gave me away,
might never have known me,
if I had not cycled down
to court you like a young man,
teasingly untying your apron,
drinking by the fire, yarning

Of your wild, young days
which didn't last long, for you,
lovely Molly, the belle of your small town,
landed up mournful and chill
as the constant rain that lashes it
wound into your cocoon of pain.

Standing in that same hallway,
'Don't come again.' you say, roughly,
'I start to get fond of you, John,
and then you are up and gone
';
the harsh logic of a forlorn woman
resigned to being alone.

And still, mysterious blessing,
I never knew, until you were gone,
that, always around your neck
you wore an oval locket
with an old picture in it,
of a child in Brooklyn.


link
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/john-montague
 

Accidental sock

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Roses are grey
Violets are grey
Everything is grey
I'm a dog
 

HereWeGoAgain

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The Blacksmith by H G Longfellow
and here it is ....

The Village Blacksmith




Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.


Link:
Longfellow: The Village Blacksmith, Ballads and Other Poems
 

HereWeGoAgain

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He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
by William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
 

GDPR

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Afra by Georg Trakl (translated by Jim Doss and Werner Schmitt).

A child with brown hair. Prayer and amen
Darken silently the coolness of evening
And Afra's smile, red in yellow frame
Of sunflowers, fear and grey sultriness.

Wrapped in blue coat, the monk saw her
In former times devoutly painted in church windows;
This should still be friendly escort through pain
When her stars haunt through his blood.

Autumn decline; and the elder-trees' silence.
The water's blue moving stirs the forehead,
A hairy cloth is laid upon a bier.

Rotten fruits fall from the branches;
Unspeakable is the flight of birds, encounter
With the dying; after this dark years follow.
 

Accidental sock

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He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
by William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Yeah, probably my favourite too....with a few Robert Frost poems also in contention...
 

Rural

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Roses are grey
Violets are grey
Everything is grey
I'm a dog
Ode to Arse Misplacement!
Pedigreed and Otherwise
The dogs once had a meeting,
They came from near and far,
Some came in automobiles,
And others came by car.
Before they were allowed inside
The hall to have a look,
They had to take their arseholes off,
And hang them on a hook.
Now, hardly were they seated,
Each mother's son and sire,
Before some dirty yellow cur
Commenced to holler "Fire!"
So out they rushed, all in a bunch,
They had no time to look.
Each dog at random grabbed an ass
From off the arsehole hook.


They got their arseholes all mixed up,
It made them awful sore,
To have to wear an arsehole home
They had never worn before.
So that's the reason why you see
As you go down the street,
Each dog will stop to swap a sniff
With every dog it meets.
And that's the reason why a dog
Will leave a nice fat bone,
And go to sniff some other dog's ass
In hopes he'll find his own.




 

HereWeGoAgain

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getting sidetracked, so many to choose from .... this one brings me back ...






Going Home to Mayo, Winter, 1949
by Paul Durcan

Leaving behind us the alien, foreign city of Dublin
My father drove through the night in an old Ford Anglia,
His five-year-old son in the seat beside him,
The rexine seat of red leatherette,
And a yellow moon peered in through the windscreen.
'Daddy, Daddy,' I cried, 'Pass out the moon,'
But no matter how hard he drove he could not pass out the moon.
Each town we passed through was another milestone
And their names were magic passwords into eternity:
Kilcock, Kinnegad, Strokestown, Elphin,
Tarmonbarry, Tulsk, Ballaghaderreen, Ballavarry;
Now we were in Mayo and the next stop was Turlough,
The village of Turlough in the heartland of Mayo,
And my father's mother's house, all oil-lamps and women,
And my bedroom over the public bar below,
And in the morning cattle-cries and ****-crows:
Life's seemingly seamless garment and gorgeously rent
By their screeches and bellowings. And in the evenings
I walked with my father in the high grass down by the river
Talking with him - an unheard of thing in the city

But home was not home and the moon could be no more outflanked
Than the daylight nightmare of Dublin city:
Back down along the canal we chugged into the city
And each lock-gate tolled our mutual doom;
And railings and palings and asphalt and traffic-lights,
And blocks after blocks of so-called 'new' tenements -
Thousands of crosses of lonelinesses planted
In the narrowing grave of the life of the father;
In the wide, wide cemetery of the boy's childhood.
 

Accidental sock

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This Is Just To Say
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

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
 


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