NationStates Jolt Archive

My nomination for the greatest poem ever written is Edgar Allan Poe's The Conqueror Worm. I post it here and I suggest others post their favorites here as well:

LO! 't is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe.

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And over each quivering form
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

Short and meaningful, I believe it superior to The Raven.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
And so are you

Too long for a C&P so a link must suffice...... (http://www.online-literature.com/yeats/779/)

That conquerer worm one was really good.

I don't have a favorite, but here is one that has always stuck out in my mind.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Ode to a Nightingale (http://www.bartleby.com/101/624.html) by John Keats

or...

Invictus (http://www.bartleby.com/103/7.html) by William Henley

or...

Holy Sonnet X (Death be not Proud) (http://cs1.mcm.edu/~rayb/hs10.htm) by John Donne

Poetry = <3

Love Is A Dark And Sullen Country
by Vienna Hagen

Love is a dark and sullen country
deep shrouded in moss and mist.
Love lurks in forests primeval
skittering through damp undergrowth and calling in the dank night
hiding, a fearing thing.
Love is the branches of trees
cracking like bones in the storm.
It is the heavy scent of leaves fallen and returning to soil.
Love is a torrent of melt water
pulling everything in its path down to hidden underground nests of mud
and tangle.
It is the forest floor into which everything sinks.
It is chill and it is silent.
Love is dried, twisted, crisp brambles that catch and tear.
It is saw grass, it is fireweed.
Love is the wild apple tree in winter, fruitless, black and gnarled,
reaching but never reached.
It is the sagging pine, the fallen oak,
it is the sapling crushed under the press of sodden deadwood.
Love is the night hunter, softly, silently striking.
It is deadly and it is fixed.
Love is the whisper of wind meandering alone through shattered limbs
of wasted trees,
love is the marsh sound of sediment, sinking in the bayou.
It wrings and it pulls.
Love is the cold space between the underside of leaves and the rough,
ripped bark.
It is shadow and it is void.
Love wallows in pond slime and swamp mud,
it winds sinuously around lichenous stones, calved and broken,
flung in humid silt.
Love cries with the voice of the wounded prey.
It shrieks, it moans.
Love is musky and dim, slinking through shadows, fleeing the glimmering
of faint,
reflected light.
Love is a dark and sullen country.

Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare, by Dante.

Tanto gentil e tanto onesta pare
la donna mia quand'ella altrui saluta,
ch'ogne lingua deven tremando muta,
e li occhi no l'ardiscon di guardare.

Ella si va, sentendosi laudare,
benignamente d'umilta' vestuta;
e par che sia una cosa venuta
da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare.

Mostrasi si' piacente a chi la mira,
che da' per li occhi una dolcezza al core,
che 'ntender non la puo' chi no la prova;

e par che de la sua labbia si mova
uno spirito soave pien d'amore,
che va dicendo a l'anima: Sospira.

I fear I cannot translate this... I would only spoil it.

I am; yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am, and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smiled or wept;
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.


'I am' by John Clare

Mine is not in English and thus futile to quote to your lot.

I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.



London by William Blake has always stuck in my mind.

SHE sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!

You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you ’ve littered all the East
With duds of emerald!

And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars—
And then I come away.

"She sweeps with many colored brooms" - Emily Dickinson

And pretty much anything by Robert Frost, particularly:

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Almost forgot Puck!

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

Langston Hughes' "Let America Be America Again."

FERN HILL, by Dylan Thomas


Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heyday of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it, was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare, by Dante.

Tanto gentil e tanto onesta pare
la donna mia quand'ella altrui saluta,
ch'ogne lingua deven tremando muta,
e li occhi no l'ardiscon di guardare.

Ella si va, sentendosi laudare,
benignamente d'umilta' vestuta;
e par che sia una cosa venuta
da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare.

Mostrasi si' piacente a chi la mira,
che da' per li occhi una dolcezza al core,
che 'ntender non la puo' chi no la prova;

e par che de la sua labbia si mova
uno spirito soave pien d'amore,
che va dicendo a l'anima: Sospira.

I fear I cannot translate this... I would only spoil it.
I fear because you did not translate it, that I had to run it through Babel fish to spoil it anyway. "Trembling wetsuit," indeed.

Anything by Antonio Machado. <3<3<3<3

Especially Los campos de Soria:

Campos de Soria

I
Es la tierra de Soria, árida y fría.
Por las colinas y las sierras calvas,
verdes pradillos, cerros cenicientos,
la primavera pasa
dejando entre las hierbes olorosas
sus diminutas margaritas blancas.
La tierra no revive, el campo sueña.
Al empezar abril está nevada
la espalda del Moncayo;
el caminante lleva en su bufanda
envueltos cuello y boca, y los pastores
pasan cubiertos con sus luengas capas.

II
Las tierras labrantías,
como retazos de estameñas pardas,
el huertecillo, el abejar, los trozos
de verde oscuro en que el merino pasta,
entre plomizos peñascales, siembran
el sueño alegra de infantil Arcadia.
En los chopos lejanos del camino,
parecen humear las yertas ramas
como un glauco vapor -las nuevas hojas-
y en las quiebras de valles y barrancas
blanquean los zarzales florecidos,
y brotan las violetas perfumadas.

III
Es el campo ondulado, y los caminos
ya ocultan los viajeros que cabalgan
en pardos borriquillos,
ya al fondo de la tarde arrebolada
elevan las plebeyas figurillas,
que el lienzo de oro del ocaso manchan.
Mas si trepáis a un cerro y veis el campo
desde los picos donde habita el águila,
son tornasoles de carmín y acero,
llanos plomizos, lomas plateadas,
circuídos por montes de violeta,
con las cumbre de nieve sonrosada.

IV
¡Las figuras del campo sobre el cielo!
Dos lentos bueyes aran
en un alcor, cuando el otoño empieza,
y entre las negras testas doblegadas
bajo el pesado yugo,
pende un cesto de juncos y retama,
que es la cuna de un niño;
y tras la yunta marcha
un hombre que se inclina hacia la tierra,
y una mujer que en las abiertas zanjas
arroja la semilla.
Bajo una nube de carmín y llama,
en el oro fluido y verdinoso
del poniente, las sombras se agigantan.

V
La nieve. En el mesón al campo abierto
se ve el hogar donde la leña humea
y la olla al hervir borbollonea.
El cierzo corre por el campo yerto,
alborotando en blancos torbellinos
la nieve silenciosa.
La nieve sobre el campo y los caminos
cayendo está como sobre una fosa.
Un viejo acurrucado tiembla y tose
cerca del fuego; su mechón de lana
la vieja hila, y una niña cose
verde ribete a su estameña grana.
Padres los viejos son de un arriero
que caminó sobre la blanca tierra
y una noche perdió ruta y sendero,
y se enterró en las nieves de la sierra.
En torno al fuego hay un lugar vacío,
y en la frente del viejo, de hosco ceño,
como un tachón sombrío
-tal el golpe de un hacha sobre un leño-.
La vieja mira al campo, cual si oyera
pasos sobre la nieve. Nadie pasa.
Desierta la vecina carretera,
desierto el campo en torno de la casa.
La niña piensa que en los verdes prados
ha de correr con otras doncellitas
en los días azules y dorados,
cuando crecen las blancas margaritas.


VI
¡Soria fría, Soria pura,
cabeza de Extremadura,
con su castillo guerrero
arruinado, sobre el Duero;
con sus murallas roídas
y sus casas denegridas!

¡Muerta ciudad de señores,
soldados o cazadores;
de portales con escudos
con cien linajes hidalgos,
de glagos flacos y agudos,
y de famélicos galgos,
que pululan
por las sórdidas callejas,
y a la medianoche ululan,
cuando graznan las cornejas!

¡Soria fría! La campana
de la Audiencia da la una.
Soria, ciudad castellana
¡tan bella! bajo la luna.

VII
¡Colinas plateadas,
grises alcores, cárdenas roquedas
por donde traza el Duero
su curva de ballesta
en torno a Soria, oscuros encinares,
ariscos pedregales, calvas sierras,
caminos blancos y álamos del río,
tardes de Soria, mística y guerrera,
hoy siento por vosotros, en el fondo
del corazón, tristeza,
tristeza que es amor! ¡Campos de Soria
donde parece que las rocas sueñan,
conmigo vais! ¡Colinas plateadas,
grises alcores, cárdenas roquedas!...


VIII
He vuelto a ver los álamos dorados,
álamos del camino en la ribera
del Duero, entre San Polo y San Saturio,
tras las murallas viejas
de Soria -barbacana
hacia Aragón, en castellana tierra-.
Estos chopos del río, que acompañan
con el sonido de sus hojas secas
el son del agua cuando el viento sopla,
tienen en sus cortezas
grabadas iniciales que son nombres
de enamorados, cifras que son fechas.
¡Álamos del amor que ayer tuvisteis
de ruiseñores vuestras ramas llenas;
álamos que seréis mañana liras
del viento perfumado en primavera;
álamos del amor cerca del agua
que corre y pasa y sueña,
álamos de las márgenes del Duero,
conmigo vais, mi corazón os lleva!


IX
¡Oh, sí! Conmigo vais, campos de Soria,
tardes tranquilas, montes de violeta,
alamedas del río, verde sueño
del suelo gris y de la parda tierra,
agria melancolía
de la ciudad decrépita,
me habéis llegado al alma,
¿o acaso estabais en el fondo de ella?
¡Gente del alto llano numantino
que a Dios guardáis como cristianas viejas,
que el sol de España os llene
de alegría, de luz y de riqueza!

I like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Colerige. Since it's so long, I'll only post an excerpt.

This was also made into a song by Iron Maiden. A 14 minute long epic found on the album Powerslave.

The Sun came up upon the right,
Out of the Sea came he;
And broad as a weft upon the left
Went down into the Sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet Bird did follow
Ne any day for food or play
Came to the Marinere's hollo!

And I had done an hellish thing
And it would work 'em woe;
For all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird
That made the Breeze to blow.

Ne dim ne red, like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird
That brought the fog and mist.
T'was right, said they, such birds to slay
That bring the fog and mist.

The breezes blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow follow'd free:
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent Sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the Sea.

All in a hot and copper sky
The bloody sun at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, ne breath ne motion,
As idle as a painted Ship
Upon a painted Ocean.

Water, water every where
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water every where,
Ne any drop to drink.

The Raven, I just like it better then any other poem. I believe is is one of Poe's best works.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

As long as we're gonna get into Poe, how about some Annabel Lee?

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And so, all the night-tide, I lay down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

He'd start poems and then he'd abort 'em.
"What's this? They don't rhyme?"
He was asked all the time.
Said the poet from Chartham, "Can't start em."

The Next War (1915)

Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death, —
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland, —
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath, —
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.
He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.
No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.
We laughed, — knowing that better men would come,
And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags
He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.

-Wilfred Owen

Anything by William McGonagall is a good laugh.

Beowulf

Silentium by Fyodor Tyutchev (Translated by Vladimir Nabokov)


Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.

How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.

Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.

Here's another poem that can't be translated that well.

APRÈS LA PLUIE
Lozeau, Albert (1878-1924)

LE vent essuie, une à une,
Les feuilles aux branches brunes.
Un rayon
Obliquement s'y faufile
Et l'arbre au sol se profile
Comme au crayon.


La fleur d'eau vive trop pleine
Penche et se vide à l'haleine
Du vent frais,
Et le papillon qui n'ose
S'y poser déjà, s'y pose
Lent et secret.

La délicieuse pluie
Du ciel bas, couleur de suie,
A glissé
Comme un bienfait sur la terre;
De sa bonté le parterre
Est traversé.

Et le parfum qui s'élève .
Caresse comme un beau rêve
D'amour pur,
Et monte en emportant l'âme
Légère comme une flamme,
Jusqu'à l'azur !

"Me? We."

Muhammad Ali

Or maybe the poem that Matisyahu did last summer on Def Poetry. I forget the name but I'm sure it's out there somewhere. Powerful stuff and beautiful sounding as well.

The Fungi From Yuggoth.

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter–bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
- Stephen Crane

As long as we're gonna get into Poe, how about some Annabel Lee?

~Poem~



:)
Also my favorite.

I once knew an elephant who tried to use the telephant
no, no, I mean an elephone who tried to use the telephone
dear me! I am not certain quite if even now I've got it right
how e're it was he got his trunk entangeled in the telephunk
the more he tried to set it free the louder buzzed the telephee
I fear I'd better drop this song of elehop and telephong.

^first poem I ever memorized, could recite at 2 years.....still love it.

But there's no sense crying
Over every mistake
You just keep on trying
Til you run out of cake
And the science gets done
And you make a neat gun
For the people who are
Still alive

Only a tidbit because I don't want to spoil anything. :D

i don't much like poems really but i've always been rather intrigued by The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner. probably since reading Douglas Adams' references to it in the Dirk Gently detective novels.

The Raven as someone else pointed out.

(Damn, beaten to it...)

but before that...

these two gems I could (and thanks to the trailer for the movie... still can) recite by memory...

The Dark is Rising
by Susan Cooper

When the Dark comes rising, six shall turn it back;
Three from the circle, three from the track;
Wood, bronze, iron; water, fire, stone;
Five will return, and one go alone.

Iron for the birthday, bronze carried long;
Wood from the burning, stone out of song;
Fire in the candle-ring, water from the thaw;
Six Signs the circle, and the grail gone before.

Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of gold
Played to wake the Sleepers, oldest of the old;
Power from the green witch, lost beneath the sea;
All shall find the light at last, silver on the tree.

***

On the day of the dead, when the year too dies,
Must the youngest open the oldest hills
Through the door of the birds, where the breeze breaks.
There fire shall fly from the raven boy,
And the silver eyes that see the wind,
And the light shall have the harp of gold.

By the pleasant lake the Sleepers lie,
On Cadfan’s Way where the kestrels call;
Though grim from the Grey King shadows fall,
Yet singing the golden harp shall guide
To break their sleep and bid them ride.

When light from the lost land shall return,
Six Sleepers shall ride, six Signs shall burn,
And where the midsummer tree grows tall
By Pendragon’s sword the Dark shall fall.

Y maent yr mynyddoedd yn canu,
ac y mae’r arglwyddes yn dod.



(tho those last two lines always messed me up...)

i don't much like poems really but i've always been rather intrigued by The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner. probably since reading Douglas Adams' references to it in the Dirk Gently detective novels.

Psst... a song is a poem put to music.

at a speech event, someone recited Purple Rain by Prince. :p

I have several, but this is one of them:

you being in love
will tell who softly asks in love,

am i separated from your body smile brain hands merely
to become the jumping puppets of a dream? oh i mean:
entirely having in my careful how
careful arms created this at length
inexcusable, this inexplicable pleasure-you go from several
persons: believe me that strangers arrive
when i have kissed you into a memory
slowly, oh seriously
-that since and if you disappear

solemnly
myselves
ask "life, the question how do i drink dream smile

and how do i prefer this face to another and
why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend"
they wonder. oh and they cry "to be, being, that i am alive
this absurd fraction in its lowest terms
with everything cancelled
but shadows
-what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like,for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love,love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love."

"you being in love" by E.E. Cummings.

(Yes, capitalised. There is no evidence that he intended his own name to be writing in lower case; it's only been attributed to him. If you look at how he signs his manuscripts and books, they're clearly capital e's. Google it. You shall see.)

--

Anyway. I'm also a huge fan of "To Brooklyn Bridge" by Hart Crane, various E.E. Cummings' works, "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" by Wordsworth, Beowulf, "Ode to a Nightingale" by Keats, "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman... the list does on. And on. And on a little more, for good measure. :p

But there's no sense crying
Over every mistake
You just keep on trying
Til you run out of cake
And the science gets done
And you make a neat gun
For the people who are
Still alive

Only a tidbit because I don't want to spoil anything. :D

For great truth. :D

Mine is not in English and thus futile to quote to your lot.
peez?


London by William Blake has always stuck in my mind.
I LOVE that poem.


And pretty much anything by Robert Frost, particularly:

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I love that poem because people treat it as if it is some poem that states "I went on the road less traveled", as if the rest of the poem doesn't matter

This is one of my favorites, and I hope the author isn't upset that I post it

It might have been the way you yelped
at the paddle-splash of water
on the back of your neck, snowmelt crisp,
an April afternoon just warm enough

for us to steer away from cliff shadows,
from wind-rustled pines. Or the way
you shed shoes and hat to clamber
the sandstone face of Jim's Bluff,

wet footprints diminishing, step over step,
maybe even the romantic sweep of dragonfly
skimming the river surface to light
on flotsam. But in the end I think it was

the way you bent into each stroke, pulled
river behind you, pulled us deeper into it.

oh, and

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Gwendolyn Brooks

From earlier periods, Coleridge's "Rhime of the Ancient Mariner." From the modern period, This one, by Gottfried Benn:

Cycle

The lone molar of a whore
who died unknown
had a gold filling.
As if by silent agreement
the others had all fallen out
But this one the morgue attendant knocked out
and pawned to go dancing.
For, he said,
only earth should return to earth

I fear because you did not translate it, that I had to run it through Babel fish to spoil it anyway. "Trembling wetsuit," indeed.

Trembling wetsuite? Aaaaargg! :eek:

Ok, I’ll try to translate it, then. If someone of you knows modern Italian, you will see that some translated words do not match the meaning – it is because medieval words had different meaning.

Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare:

So much my Lady’s nobility and gentleness result evident in her, when she greets (incorrect term, since there also is a salvific meaning in “salutare”) someone else, that any tongue trembles and grows dumb, and eyes do not dare to look at her.
Hearing herself praised, she benignly covers herself with benevolence, as with a dress; and she results to be an active force (cosa<causa) come from heaven on earth, to show God’s own magnificence.
So beautiful she results to be, to those who look at her, that she gives their hearts, through their eyes, such a sweetness that it cannot be understood, if not by those who have known it by experience;
And, from her shape, results to move a suave spirit bringing love, which is telling the soul: «Sigh». (I don’t like “sigh”. Its sound is too short. I prefer “breathe”, but I'm not English, and I don't know if it means the same).

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland)

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.


The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"


"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."


The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."


"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"


"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"


"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.


"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

I rather like Poem (http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-4/) by Donald Justice.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East, my West
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought love would last forever; I was wrong
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden

and on a lighter note

By the time you swear you're his
Shivering, sighing
And he swears his love for you is
Infinite, undying
Lady, make a note of this
One of you is lying

Dorothy Parker

I am a peaceful working man,
I am not wise or strong,
But I can follow Nature's plan,
In labour, rest, and song.

One day the men that rule us all
Decided we must die,
Else pride and freedom surely fall
In the dim bye and bye!

They told me I must write my name
Upon a scroll of death;
That some day I should rise to fame
By giving up my breath.

I do not know what I have done
That I should thus be bound
To wait for tortures one by one
And then an unmark'd mound.

I hate no man, and yet they say
That I must fight and kill;
That I must suffer day by day
To please a master's will.

I used to have a conscience free,
But now they bid it rest;
They've made a number out of me,
And I must ne'er protest.

They tell of trenches, long and deep,
Fill'd with the mangled slain.
They talk till I can scarcely sleep,
So reeling is my brain.

They tell of filth, and blood, and woe;
Of things beyond belief;
Of things that make me tremble so
With mingled fright and grief.

I do not know what I shall do -
Is not the law unjust?
I can't do what they want me to,
And yet they say I must!

Each day my doom doth nearer bring;
Each day the State prepares;
Sometimes I feel a watching thing
That stares, and stares, and stares.

I never seem to sleep - my head
Whirls in the queerest way.
Why am I chosen to be dead
Upon some fateful day?

Yet hark - some fibre is o'erwrought
A giddying wine I quaff -
Things seem so odd, I can do naught
But laugh, and laugh, and laugh!


The Conscript by H.P. Lovecraft

Recessional by Rudyard Kipling.
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Recessional

Mine is not in English and thus futile to quote to your lot.

That's my favorite, too.

My second favorite is "Is my team ploughing (http://www.bartleby.com/123/27.html)" by A.E. Housman.