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The Night Abraham Called to the Stars
Robert Bly

Do you remember the night Abraham first saw
The stars? He cried to Saturn: "You are my Lord!"
How happy he was! When he saw the Dawn Star,

He cried, "You are my Lord!" How destroyed he was
When he watched them set. Friends, he is like us:
We take as our Lord the stars that go down.

We are faithful companions to the unfaithful stars.
We are diggers, like badgers; we love to feel
The dirt flying out from behind our back claws.

And no one can convince us that mud is not
Beautiful. It is our badger soul that thinks so.
We are ready to spend the rest of our life

Walking with muddy shoes in the wed fields.
We resemble exiles in the kingdom of the serpent.
We stand in the onion fields looking up at the night.

My heart is a calm potato by day, and a weeping
Abandoned woman by night. Friend, tell me what to do,
Since I am a man in love with the setting stars.
 

The End and the Beginning​

By Wisława Szymborska
Translated By Joanna Trzeciak

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.


The 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to the Polish poet Wisława Szymborska
 
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PS. This poem inspired me to write the following, after watching a M*A*S*H episode:

Fair Trade​

In wars
we trade with the enemy:
left arm for a right eye,
burnt face for a kidney,
orphans for orphans,…
it’s not always a fair trade
but the one who was counting
is already dead.

It’s all so practical,
supply lines for our tools:
shells, bullets,
gas for our trucks, tanks,
and our flame throwers too...
paper clips, pencils, official forms
that need to be filled in
with the names of the dead.

Surgeons operate
on conveyor belt
of young people,
covered in blood…
and they don’t always have
the right kind
to fill them up,
help them to kill
more boys,
on the wrong side,
heroic dead.

Our pilots drop bombs
on your village,
in exchange for the same...
our wives will weep for us,
answered by the sobbing
of your loved ones,
back where you have been
dragged from, or duped,
to come here,
to be crippled or dead.

When it’s all over
with nothing accomplished,
our leaders will make
noble speeches
while wreaths will be hung
over crosses in neat rows
in white forests,
flags draped over caskets,
and the heroic wool
over stupid, stupid, gullible minds,
lamenting the fate
of the glorious dead.
 
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WHAT I EXPECTED
By Stephen Spender

What I expected was
Thunder, fighting,
Long struggles with men
And climbing.
After continual straining
I should grow strong;
Then the rocks would shake,
And I rest long.

What I had not foreseen
Was the gradual day
Weakening the will
Leaking the brightness away,
The lack of good to touch,
The fading of body and soul,
-- Smoke, before wind,
Corrupt, unsubstantial.

The wearing of Time,
And the watching of cripples pass
With limbs shaped like questions
In their odd twist,
The pulverous grief
Melting the bones with pity,
The sick falling from earth --
These, I could not foresee.

Expecting always
Some brightness to hold in trust,
Some final innocence
Exempt from dust,
That, hanging solid,
Would dangle through all,
Like the created poem
Or faceted crystal.

[I really wanted to post only the last verse, the last four lines that have always resonated with me. But I realized their impact would not work without the rest of the poem. Interestingly, this is the first time I have written out the whole poem, and it was a powerful experience to touch on every word. And every comma. The man liked commas. I saw him read one time when I was in college, where he read this, and another of my favorites, "One More New Botched Beginning," with a similar theme. As the reading wrapped up, for some reason I had a couple red blushes on my face. My good friend asked me about them, and without much thought, I responded, "I guess it's one new blotched beginning." That last bit is totally irrelevant, but that memory always makes me smile.]
 
"I have lately learned to swim
And now feel more at home
In the ebb and flow of your slim rhythmic tide
Than in the fully dressed, couldn’t-care-less, restless world outside."

-Roger McGough
from "Summer with Monica"
if you want to hear the whole thing, which I recommend.
 
THE RED HORSE
By Jacques Prevert (translated by Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

In merrygorounds of lies
The red horse of your smile
Goes round
And I stand rooted there
With the sad whip of reality
And I have nothing to say
Your smile is as true
As my home truths

[For whatever reason this popped into my head tonight, when I rose restless during the midnight hour. I bought the book new (paperback, $1) in a hippie-dippie bookstore in 1970 or so, and have carried it around since. Just tonight the back cover finally came off. Hope that's not an omen.]
 
The Road Not Taken
(Robert Frost)

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.
 
The Road Not Taken
(Robert Frost)



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.
Frost himself told readers not to put a value judgment on the narrater's decision. They could have easily taken the wrong road, and regretted it. But the poem is really about the narrator standing at the fork in the road, and in life, trying to evaluate the situation...a situation that we have all probably been in at some time or other.

I myself reflect on two "diversions" in my life. The first was my unfortunate choice of college (I got thrown out of one for bad grades) and only got a degree at another one that I could work with.

The second was my decision to give up what could have been a steady civil service job and go for a chancy, low-wage career in the hang-gliding business, for which my college degree was worthless.

I had a lot to gain and a lot to lose in both situations. I can't say I have lived with no regrets.
 
Another old favorite came to mind, also by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

Heaven-Haven
A nun takes the veil

I have desired to go
Where springs not fail,
To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail,
And a few lilies blow.

And I have asked to be
Where no storms come,
Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,
And out of the swing of the sea.
 
Talk of Poe in a thread in our new Poetry Discussion forum sent me reading this poem again. You can hear the drum beating as you read.

The Raven​

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 name 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 mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon 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 my sad fancy 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, ghastly, 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath 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 name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign in 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 lamplight 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!
 
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Ah, "The Raven."

I still recall the classic Simpsons episode where they had the great James Earl Jones reading that poem, with Bart playing the role of the raven and Homer as the narrator. Just the thought of it brings a smile to my face.
 
Ravens are intelligent and going for the shiny objects? :D If it's true that only a sith is dealing in absolutes, I suggest a "mostly but not always nevermore".
 
Ah, "The Raven."

I still recall the classic Simpsons episode where they had the great James Earl Jones reading that poem, with Bart playing the role of the raven and Homer as the narrator. Just the thought of it brings a smile to my face.

Yes, I remember that too. I especially remember that, at the line "unseen censer", Homer is hit on the head by it and remarks: "Ow! Stupid censer". (But he could also easily be saying "Stupid censor" - early Simpsons was often censored). ;)

Speaking of "The Raven", I wrote two parodies of it in younger years - one about pizza delivery (I was a student then, and food was constantly on my mind), and one about being unable to pay one's bar tab. ("Once upon a midnight beery...") ;)
 
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