Favorite Poems

[ewriggs]

Pehaps there are some, like I, who enjoy reading poems and have some favorites you would like to share here?

Since today is Memorial Day, I re-read
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IN FLANDERS FIELDS
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
= = = = =

I love this poem for many reasons. My grandfather was in France during WWI - a member of the US Army infantry under BlackJack Pershing. Although he wasn't in Flanders, that I know, and didn't die during WWI, somehow I think of him when I read this.

The imagery of the poppies makes me thing of resurrection.

But they also smack of the revenge that will be taken on those who break faith and do not remember the dead, and do not behave patriotically.
"Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."

I hope many of you will also contribute comments and poems you enjoy.

Cheerio!
Elizabeth

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~*~ Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls. ~*~
~*~ Voltaire ~*~
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[ewriggs]

Here is another of my favorites - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Psalm of Life:

A PSALM OF LIFE
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

[Sammi1961]

I am an Emily Dickenson fan as well as Robert Frost, Rumi, and several others. I remember one poem from high school that I had to read that stuck with me - it is funny but truthful and is by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you
Rivers are damp
Acids stain you
And drugs cause cramps
Guns aren't lawful
Nooses give
Gas smells awful
You might as well live.

Not sure why that poem stuck with me but I am sure it had something to do with being a teenager. I will have to think of some of the other poems I like.

[ewriggs]

LOL! I always liked that one, too!

I'm developing a taste for Haiku. May even start writing my own - but I won't inflict it on FC!

We were watching a "Merrie Melodies" compilation the other night, and there was a musical setting of Joyce Kilmer's [u]Trees

Joyce Kilmer.
1886–1918
Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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Lovely! evocative. Not too much anthropomorphasizing.

Cheerio!
Elizabeth

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*
~*~ Simply Assisting God
I am a humble artist
moulding my earthy clod,
adding my labour to nature's,
simply assisting God.

Not that my effort is needed;
yet somehow, I understand,
my Maker has willed it that I too should have
unmoulded clay in my hand. ~*~
~*~ Piet Hein - Grooks ~*~
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[Sammi1961]

When I was in college, I took a poetry class where we had to read all kinds of poetry, learn to analyze them, and learn about things like iambic pentameter etc. This professor made a requirement that each student in the class had to memorize a sonnet and recite it to him. I was terrified and didn't think i would ever be able to remember 14 lines. I ended up doing it and had to recite the sonnet to him after class. I got an A. I then asked him why we had to memorize something like this and his answer was, " I think everyone should have some kind of sonnet or poem in their head." At the time I was kind of miffed about that because I had stressed so much over learning that darn thing but the funny thing is, I can still remember it to this day!

Michael Drayton (1563-1631)
From Idea

61
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of one's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life though mightst him yet recover.


It wasn't until after I had finished reciting this sonnet that I realized how weird it might have sounded as I was saying it to a professor LOL.

[ewriggs]

Many times our class requirements for "survey" courses seem to be strange. But, really, every one of those "survey" courses has stood me in good stead over my lifetime. I memorized one of Shakespeare's sonnets and several of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's sonnets over the years. It's an interesting poetic form. I'll just bet you thought it was weird reciting that one for your prof!! LOL! Our society and "generation" does not have a "lock" on passion! LOL!

Used to be that children were expected to learn poems and songs and dances and to "perform" for the family and for gatherings. This is not a bad idea! Introduces the little rugrats to ideas and ways of using words they probably would not consider otherwise.

I remember a story I read about a child (about 5 years old) having to learn "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again" for a school presentation. As a joke, his siblings taught him, "If at first you don't fricassee, fry, fry a hen!" He enjoyed it so much, he went around reciting it all the time. Then when the night of the presentation came along, the poor little thing couldn't remember the original!! Of course, the audience enjoyed it...

When I was little, my Mama bought a wonderful book Poems for the Children's Hour (now totally out of print). I attribute her reading those poems to me with stimulating my love for poetry. Of course, they were poems for *children,* but I still cherish many of them! One in particular almost haunts me:

Spider Silverlegs
Spider, Spider Silverlegs,
Weaving in the sun,
Who will buy your blanket gray
When yor weaving's done?
Will it be a coverlet
For an elfin's bed,
Soft and sheer and gossamer,
Tucked beneath his head?
Spider, Spider Silverlegs,
Weaving in the sun,
Who will buy your blanket gray,
When yor weaving's done?

Spider, Spider Silverlegs,
Spinning in the dew,
Who will wear your pretty lace,
When your spinning's through?
Will it be a petticoat
For a fairy bride,
Strewn with jewles of sunset mist,
Spangled, close and wide?
Spider, Spider Silverlegs,
Spinning in the dew,
Who will wear your pretty lace,
When your spinning's through?

Spider, Spider Silverlegs,
Spinning in the dusk, --
Stars above, and on the fields
Clover breath, and musk, --
Weave one tiny web o'dreams,
Silver, gray and deep,
Spin a ladder to the moon,
Baby's fast asleep!
Spider, Spider Silverlegs,
Creeping in the dusk, --
Stars above, and on the fields
Clover breath, and musk.
by: Carolyn Sherwin Bailey

Cheerio!
Elizabeth

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~*~ THE DOUBLE-DOOR EFFECT
Double doors are justified
because they’re comfortably wide.
Therefore you only half undo'em;
and therefore nothing can get through'em. ~*~
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[Sammi1961]

Can you explain to me what a "survey" class is? I am not familiar with the term.

I was an English major for 3 years in college before changing my major to child & family studies. I had some incredible professors who I learned so much from and wish I had continued on with that major or done a double major. I agree with you that children should be taught poems, music and dance in the schools. I have 3 dks and I am not sure any of them have ever had to memorize a poem (though they did do concerts where they had to sing etc. for parents) I am wondering if poetry is even taught in the lower level grades anymore. My middle ds did write a poem in 3rd grade and it was published in an anthology for young people but other than that I don't think any of them ever had to read or write poetry which to me is sad. I remember as a child my mother giving me A Child's Garden of Verses and I can still remember many of the poems. I bought the book later on for my own dks.

[butterfly]

What a wonderful thread. I have always enjoyed poetry, one of my favourite poems is Autumn by John Clare:

I love the fitful gust that shakes
The casement all the day,
And from the mossy elm-tree takes
The faded leaves away,
Twirling them by the window pane
With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve,
The sparrow on the cottage rig,
Whose chirp would make believe
That spring was just now flirting by
In summer's lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the trees,
The pigeons nestled round the cote
On November days like these;
The **** upon the dunghill crowing,
The mill-sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast
Falls on the stubble lea,
The acorns near the old crow's nest
Drop pattering down the tree;
The grunting pigs, that wait for all,
Scramble and hurry where they fall.

[Sammi1961]

Butterfly, what a beautiful poem. I had never read it before. I really like it.

[ewriggs]

Sammi - a "survey" class is one of those classes that is supposed to give you a general idea, an appreciation, of the subject matter, but little depth - give you a taste of it and minimal background. The more advanced classes are the ones where you really "get into" the subject. Things like "Music appreciation 101" "Art history 101" "Psychology 100" "English Poetry 101" (the one that uses the Oxford Book of English Poets V 1 as the text!).

Butterfly, I love that! Hope you will contribute some other poems you really like! Light, short poetry or long, deep poetry - all is invited! I think the more we read poetry, learn it and recite it, the better our language skills become!

Although I tend to prefer poetry from ages gone by, I do like some modern verse, too!

Here's my contribution for the day:

Thanatopsis
(William Cullen Bryant. 1794 - 1878)

TO HIM who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; --
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around --
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air --
Comes a still voice -- Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, -- with kings,
The powerful of the earth, -- the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods -- rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, --
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. -- Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings, -- yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep -- the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man --
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

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William Cullen Bryant is one of the native born American poets who greatly influenced the
political landscape of the 19th century. Thanatopsis was first published in 1817. Bryant was a lawyer, but ended up working for the New York Evening Post for most of his life. He was an abolitionist, and even introduced Lincoln before the audience at Cooper Union in New York in 1860. The Post supported the arming of abolitionist settlers in Kansas, and contributed to making John Brown a martyr to the cause of abolition. It also influenced Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation.

So we see that at least this poet of the 19th century was not like the "wimps" so stereotypically portrayed in films!

The portrait of William Cullen Bryant in his later years (attached) was taken by Matthew Brady, the famous photographer of the Civil War.

Cheerio!
Elizabeth