What’s your’s?
My personal favorite is “Recuerdo” by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It captures the spirit of my early courtship with Mrs. Vitus, such as it was. I like most of her other poems, too.
What’s your’s?
My personal favorite is “Recuerdo” by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It captures the spirit of my early courtship with Mrs. Vitus, such as it was. I like most of her other poems, too.
The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
“Recuerdo” by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It captures the spirit of my early courtship with Mrs. Vitus, such as it was.
Come on, you big tease. Post a copy or a link - I want to know if it was anything like the tearful begging I did…
-
<u>Edna St.Vincent Millay (1892-1951)</u> * -
**Recuerdo** *WE were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. -
-
Millay was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923.*
Thanks. That poems has a good feel to it. Nice to have some insight into Vitusworld 
It’s actually some writing on a toilet wall which is shown on a Rolling Stones record cover , just don’t remember the name of the album, but here it goes:
Here I sit,
broken hearted,
came to shit
but only farted!
I know it’s really old, but I still like it and one of the few i can always remember!
“Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”…Epic poem that spawned one of the greatest series of fantasy novels in my lifetime. IMO of course
Jenny Kissed Me
by Leigh Hunt
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I’m growing old, but add-
Jenny kissed me!
(Or the oft overquoted “Invictus” by William Earnest Henley.)
For me, this Langston Hughes poem captures both the peace and joy of life. For years, I’ve had a copy of it taped to my computer at work.
Dream Variations
To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!
To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening…
A tall, slim tree…
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.
From Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass:
Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the
wounded person,
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
I am the mash’d fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my
comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear’d the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.
I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my
sake,
Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared
of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.
Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock
myself.
from THE UPANISHADS (central texts of hinduism, written almost 3000 YEARS AGO!!! The human condition is eternal!! This poem touches me to my very core.)
The Golden God, the Self, the immortal Swan
leaves the small nest of the body, goes where He wants.
He moves through the realm of dreams; makes numberless forms;
delights in sex; eats, drinks, laughs with His friends;
frightens Himself with scenes of heart-chilling terror.
But He is not attached to anything that He sees;
and after He has wandered in the realms of dream and awakeness,
has tasted pleasures and experienced good and evil,
He returns to the blissful state from which He began.
As a fish swims forward to one riverbank then the other,
Self alternates between awakeness and dreaming.
As an eagle, weary from long flight, folds its wings,
gliding down to its nest, Self hurries to the realm
of dreamless sleep, free of desires, fear, pain.
As a man in sexual union with his beloved
is unaware of anything outside or inside,
so a man in union with Self knows nothing, wants nothing,
has found his heart’s fulfillment and is free of sorrow.
Father disappears, mother disappears, gods
and scriptures disappear, thief disappears, murderer,
rich man, beggar disappear, world disappears,
good and evil disappear; he has passed beyond sorrow.
nevermind, cant get the format right… :^(
Wow, tough question for an ex-English major (that and $1.50 gets me a cup of coffee these days). I’d have to say:
-Seamus Heaney
-T.S. Eliot (“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”: http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html)
-Langston Hughes (“A Dream Deferred” : http://www.cswnet.com/~menamc/langston.htm).
But this is likely my favourite…by one of my favourite poets, Dylan Thomas:
“Do not go gentle into that good night”
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Tie:
-
The aforementioned “Prufrock” - TS Eliot
-
“Annabell Lee” - Poe
-
“Green Eggs and Ham” - Seuss
-
“Gashlycrumb Tinies” - Gorey
.
ee cummings “anyone lived in a pretty how town”
http://www.poets.org/poems/poems.cfm?prmID=1185
matt
.
the ballad of kublai khan is pretty good.
pablo neruda, love sonnet 11, 17, 20
lawerence ferlinghetti, ezra pound-in a station of the metro, william carlos williams-red wheelbarrow, night on chien te, gary snyder, kenneth rexroth, louise gluck
.
“Fit the Third: THE BAKER’S TALE”
They roused him with muffins – they roused him with ice –
They roused him with mustard and cress –
They roused him with jam and judicious advice –
They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried “Silence! Not even a shriek!”
And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called “Ho!” told his story of woe
In an antediluvian tone.
"My father and mother were honest, though poor – "
“Skip all that!” cried the Bellman in haste.
“If it once becomes dark, there’s no chance of a Snark –
We have hardly a minute to waste!”
Seriously though, Theodore Roethke is probably my all-time favorite
Love song of J alfred Prufrock for me as well:
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; * 25* There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; * 30* Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Favorite poet: Art Vandalay. He is a little known writer from the village.
Favorite poem: Anything that starts off with, “There was a young man from Nantucket…”