Poems you like to read - if any?

thorbiorn

The Living Force
FOTCM Member
A forum search for "poems" in the title, revealed a list of threads, but that is mostly for poems forum readers have made themselves. A search for "Poetry" gives this list including some that deal with works of poetry, but perhaps we could have a general thread with more sharings of the kind of poems we like to read. In terms of forum category, a single poem can be a book. Often it isn't, but it is still a text that can be read.

What I find interesting about poems that have rhythm and rhymes is that they are texts that are halfway to music. Another observation is that in some poems, there seems to be meaning by added or indicated silence. This is different from a prose text, where more meaning is often added by using more words, or by rephrasing or elaborating what has been written. Perhaps it is not so much the silence that adds meaning, as it is the time it gives to reflect and create associations.

The Wiki about poetry has:
Poetry (from the Greek word poiesis, "making") is a form of literary art that uses aesthetic and often rhythmic[1][2][3] qualities of language to evoke meanings in addition to, or in place of, literal or surface-level meanings. Any particular instance of poetry is called a poem and is written by a poet. Poets use a variety of techniques called poetic devices, such as assonance, alliteration, euphony and cacophony, onomatopoeia, rhythm (via metre), and sound symbolism, to produce musical or incantatory effects. Most poems are formatted in verse: a series or stack of lines on a page, which follow a rhythmic or other deliberate pattern. For this reason, verse has also become a synonym (a metonym) for poetry.[note 1]
To distinguish, there is this about lyrics:
Lyrics are words that make up a song, usually consisting of verses and choruses. The writer of lyrics is a lyricist. The words to an extended musical composition such as an opera are, however, usually known as a "libretto" and their writer, as a "librettist".
Few read lyrics, they listen to the song, and for sharing that there is the What are you listening to? thread. Still, if there are lyrics you enjoy for their own sake, not for the melody, or the singer, then they could fit the topic of this thread.

While poems are often short, there are also long poems, many of them very old. Here are some links from the Wiki:
Modern translations of poems not originally in English are often translated as prose. This probably helps to make the meaning more accessible, as a translator is freer to choose the words that will give a translation closer to the original intention without being constrained by the need to make the words fit to a particular meter.

Below are a couple of poems, I recently encountered in a discussion relating to the human condition. I highlighted the lines for which the poems might be more known. It was the search for the origin that led to the context in which they originally appeared.

The first is quoted from a site called Poem Analysis, which presents poems along with comments on the structure and meaning.
Leisure By William H. Davies
‘Leisure’ is one of the best-known poems written by the Welsh poet W. H. Davies. In this poem, Davies highlights how modernity alienated us from simplicity.

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?-


No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
William H. Davies lived 1871-1940, and during his lifetime the means of transportation picked up speed, cars were introduced and became common, ships became motorized rather than powered by steam or wind, planes were invented and made transatlantic travel a matter of hours.

The next, Auguries of Innocence by William Blake is from Poets.org. The format of the site allows copy-past more easily, except that the "&" is written as "&" so I corrected that. As you will see, this poem is much longer and more complex and difficult than the previous. It can help a lot to read an analysis, like this from Poem Analysis. At the same time, there can be a challenge trying to understand the lines oneself before looking up what others think.

Auguries of Innocence

William Blake 1757 –1827

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour

A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thr' all its regions
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State
A Horse misusd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear
A Skylark wounded in the wing
A Cherubim does cease to sing
The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright
Every Wolfs & Lions howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul
The wild deer, wandring here & there
Keeps the Human Soul from Care
The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife
And yet forgives the Butchers knife
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that wont Believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbelievers fright
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belovd by Men
He who the Ox to wrath has movd
Shall never be by Woman lovd
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spiders enmity
He who torments the Chafers Sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night
The Catterpiller on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar
The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat
The Gnat that sings his Summers Song
Poison gets from Slanders tongue
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envys Foot
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artists Jealousy
The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags
A Truth thats told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent
It is right it should be so
Man was made for Joy & Woe
And when this we rightly know
Thro the World we safely go
Joy & Woe are woven fine
A Clothing for the soul divine
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
The Babe is more than swadling Bands
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made & Born were hands
Every Farmer Understands
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity
This is caught by Females bright
And returnd to its own delight
The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of Death
The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear
The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun
Palsied strikes the Summers Sun
The poor Mans Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Africs Shore
One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands
Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole Nation sell & buy
He who mocks the Infants Faith
Shall be mockd in Age & Death
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall neer get out
He who respects the Infants faith
Triumphs over Hell & Death
The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons
The Questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to Reply
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesars Laurel Crown
Nought can Deform the Human Race
Like to the Armours iron brace
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow
A Riddle or the Crickets Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply
The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will neer Believe do what you Please
If the Sun & Moon should Doubt
Theyd immediately Go out
To be in a Passion you Good may Do
But no Good if a Passion is in you
The Whore & Gambler by the State
Licencd build that Nations Fate
The Harlots cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet
The Winners Shout the Losers Curse
Dance before dead Englands Hearse
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to Endless Night
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day
On YouTube, one can find readings of the above poems. Some are set to moving or still images, with the text appearing on the screen, in others there is added background music. It can also be an exercise to try to read a poem aloud oneself. To do it well can require practice. There is more to reading a poem than the correct pronunciation of the words.
 
My all-time favorite poem is "If" by Rudyard Kipling:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies;
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise.

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

Joni Mitchell’s alternate ending in the version she
recorded on her “Shine” album:


If you can fill the journey of a minute
With sixty seconds worth of wonder and delight,
Then the Earth is yours and everything that's in it;
But more than that I know
You'll be alright, you'll be alright;
Cause you've got the fight, you've got the insight
 
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I’m not often one for love poems, but e.e. cummings’ I carry your heart with me (I carry it in) is a personal favorite, particularly the last verse:

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 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)
 
My favorite poet is the Uruguayan writer Mario Benedetti. This is my favorite poem. (That some woman once dedicated to me)

Tactics and strategy​


My tactic is
To look at you
To learn as you are
To love you as you are

My tactic is
To talk to you
And to listen to you
To build with words
An indestructible bridge

My tactic is
To stay in your memory
I don't know how and I don't know
On what pretext
But to stay in you

My tactic is
To be frank
And to know that you are frank
And that we don't sell ourselves
Simulacra
So that between the two
There is no curtain
Nor abysses

My strategy is
Instead
Deeper and more
Simple

My strategy is
That one day
I don't know how and I don't know
With what pretext
You finally need me
 
My mother once got an inkling to read W. H. Auden. So I bought his book of poetry for her, but she never got a chance to read it. I opened the book once, at random, to a particular poem which consumed me for a while. It rather brilliantly displays the paradoxes of our existence in the world of shadows in which we live our dreams ........It's somewhat Zen, but less than a koan, for the riddle can be reasoned out.

Recitation
If the muscle can feel repugnance, there is still a false move to be made;
If the mind can imagine tomorrow, there is still a defeat to remember;
As long as the self can say "I," it is impossible not to rebel;
As long as there is an accidental virtue, there is a necessary vice:
And the garden cannot exist, the miracle cannot occur.

For the garden is the only place there is, but you will not find it
Until you have looked for it everywhere and found nowhere that is not a desert;
The miracle is the only thing that happens, but to you it will not be apparent,
Until all events have been studied and nothing happens that you cannot explain;
And life is the destiny you are bound to refuse until you have consented to die.

Therefore, see without looking, hear without listening, breathe without asking:
The Inevitable is what will seem to happen to you purely by chance;
The Real is what will strike you as really absurd;
Unless you are certain you are dreaming, it is certainly a dream of your own;
Unless you exclaim -- "There must be some mistake" -- you must be mistaken.
W.H. Auden
____________________________________
One the lighter side (though not less profound), Carl Sandburg reads his own poems on an album called "Poems for Children." The album seems to prove that only he knows how his poems should be spoken. When I recite his poems in my mind I speak them just as he does on the album....the same inflection, same emphasis, the same speed. His enunciations are a form of music. The album is available on line. Here is one of the poems.

Little girl, be careful what you say
when you make talk with words, words—
for words are made of syllables
and syllables, child, are made of air—
and air is so thin—air is the breath of God—
air is finer than fire or mist,
finer than water or moonlight,
finer than spider-webs in the moon,
finer than water-flowers in the morning:
and words are strong, too,
stronger than rocks or steel
stronger than potatoes, corn, fish, cattle,
and soft, too, soft as little pigeon eggs,
soft as the music of hummingbird wings.
So, little girl, when you speak greetings,
when you tell jokes, make wishes or prayers,
be careful, be careless, be careful,
be what you wish to be.
—Carl Sandburg, Wind Song
 
One of my all-time favorites:

Cranes - Razul Gamzatov

This is an English translation of the famous Russian poem written in Avar language when the poet visited the memorial at Hiroshima post World War II. White cranes came from the Japanese custom of hanging paper cranes at memorials. The original is in Avar, translated into Russian by Naum Grebnyov and this English translation is by Boris Anisimov

Sometimes it seems to me each fallen soldier
That never came back home from fields of gore
In fact did never perish, as they told you,
But turned into a crane as white as snow

And ever since those days in their due season
We’ve seen them soaring high across the sky
With distant voices giving us a reason
To stand in tears and watch them flying by

A wedge of cranes is fading in the distance
So far away I can no longer see
When I run out of days of my existence
I hope those cranes will find a gap for me

That I may soar above my pain and anguish
And join their ranks as many years ago
Recalling all their names in my new language
And names of those whom I have left below

(Sometimes it seems to me each fallen soldier
That never came back home from fields of gore
In fact did never perish, as they told you,
But turned into a crane as white as snow)


For our Russian friends - the original Russian version:

Журавли

Мне кажется порою, что солдаты
С кровавых не пришедшие полей,
Не в землю нашу полегли когда-то,
А превратились в белых журавлей.

Они до сей поры с времен тех дальних
Летят и подают нам голоса.
Не потому ль так часто и печально
Мы замолкаем глядя в небеса?

Летит, летит по небу клин усталый,
Летит в тумане на исходе дня.
И в том строю есть промежуток малый -
Быть может это место для меня.

Настанет день и журавлиной стаей
Я поплыву в такой же сизой мгле.
Из-под небес по-птичьи окликая
Всех вас, кого оставил на земле.

Мне кажется порою, что солдаты
С кровавых не пришедшие полей,
Не в землю нашу полегли когда-то,
А превратились в белых журавлей.
 
I love “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley:

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
 
I know very little about poetry but I know one good poet, Antonio Machado and another one, Federico Garcia Lorca. This poem, by Machado, is about the tragic death of Federico that was killed without merci for the best poet of Spain, during the Civil War.

THE CRIME

He was seen walking among rifles,
along a long street,
going out into the cold countryside,
still with stars, of dawn.
They killed Federico
when the light was breaking.
The squad of executioners did not dare look at his face.
They all closed their eyes;
they prayed: not even God will save you!
Federico fell dead
— blood on his forehead and lead in his entrails-.
...You know that the crime was in Granada -poor Granada-, in his Granada...

II

THE POET AND DEATH

He was seen walking alone with Her,
without fear of her scythe.
— Now the sun in tower and tower; the hammers
in anvil and anvil of the forges.
Federico spoke,
complaining to death. She listened.
“Because yesterday in my verse, companion,
the beat of your dry palms resounded,
and you gave the ice to my song, and the edge to my tragedy of your silver sickle,
I will sing to you of the flesh that you do not have,
the eyes that you lack,
your hair that the wind shook,
the red lips where they kissed you...
Today as yesterday, gypsy, my death,
how good it is with you alone,
through these airs of Granada, my Granada!”

III

He was seen walking...
Build friends,
of stone and dream, in the Alhambra,
a tomb for the poet,
over a fountain where the water cries,
and eternally says:
the crime was in Granada, in his Granada!
 
What a beautiful idea to share! One poem that has always resonated with me is "Meeresstrand / Seashore" written by Theodor Storm. If you speak German, the original is just beautiful.

Original:
Meeresstrand

Ans Haff nun fliegt die Möwe,
Und Dämmerung bricht herein;
Über die feuchten Watten
Spiegelt der Abendschein.

Graues Geflügel huschet
Neben dem Wasser her;
Wie Träume liegen die Inseln
Im Nebel auf dem Meer.

Ich höre des gärenden Schlammes
Geheimnisvollen Ton,
Einsames Vogelrufen -
So war es immer schon.

Noch einmal schauert leise
Und schweiget dann der Wind;
Vernehmlich werden die Stimmen,
Die über der Tiefe sind.

English version:
Seashore

Toward ponds now fly the seagulls
and twilight sets the sight;
above the muddy shallows
abides the evening light.

The hoary water-fowl scurry
along the water's seam;
the islands on the ocean
lie misty in a dream.

I hear mysterious sonance
of slowly fermenting morass,
a lonely bird is calling -
forever it was thus.

A final, quiet quiver,
then goes the wind to sleep,
and clear become the voices
that hover o'er the deep.
 
This one by Yeats & apropos of the crazy times we live in:

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

~William Butler Yeats
 
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What a beautiful idea to share! One poem that has always resonated with me is "Meeresstrand / Seashore" written by Theodor Storm. If you speak German, the original is just beautiful.

Original:
Meeresstrand

Ans Haff nun fliegt die Möwe,
Und Dämmerung bricht herein;
Über die feuchten Watten
Spiegelt der Abendschein.

Graues Geflügel huschet
Neben dem Wasser her;
Wie Träume liegen die Inseln
Im Nebel auf dem Meer.

Ich höre des gärenden Schlammes
Geheimnisvollen Ton,
Einsames Vogelrufen -
So war es immer schon.

Noch einmal schauert leise
Und schweiget dann der Wind;
Vernehmlich werden die Stimmen,
Die über der Tiefe sind.

English version:
Seashore

Toward ponds now fly the seagulls
and twilight sets the sight;
above the muddy shallows
abides the evening light.

The hoary water-fowl scurry
along the water's seam;
the islands on the ocean
lie misty in a dream.

I hear mysterious sonance
of slowly fermenting morass,
a lonely bird is calling -
forever it was thus.

A final, quiet quiver,
then goes the wind to sleep,
and clear become the voices
that hover o'er the deep.
I like the poems of Storm, too !!! A good idea this thread! Thank you!
 
This is a little bit long, I know! I came to it while searching for "The Lady of Shalott" and "The mirror cracked from side to side" (an Agatha Christie-Story). I really find this is an interesting story. Since it is really a long one I enclose it as a pdf so that those who are interesting in reading it after the first 2 verses can do that.

And the link to the poem on wikipedia is here.

Part I.
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
 

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