your fav. poem

[brandy]

what is your fav. poem.. what has most meaning to you and touches you the most?
my all time poem would be Richard Lovelace T O Althea.
From Prison.
while the whole poem is beautiful .. the last verse is what touched the most..
Stone Walls do not a Prison make,
Nor Iron bars a Cage ;
Mindes innocent and quiet take
That for an Hermitage ;
If I have freedome in my Love,
And in my soule am free ;
Angels alone that sore above,
Injoy such Liberty.
what has most meaning to you personally.. share with the class *G*

[cherokee]

House Of Hospitalities - Thomas Hardy.

I love the whole poem, it has such meaning about times gone by, but my favourite verse is the last one: -

Yet at midnight if here walking,
When the moon sheets wall and tree.
I see forms of old time talking,
Who smile on me.

[donnick]

mine is a barevment poem by Mary E. Fry




Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

[orkneycadian]

Mary had a little lamb
She tied it to a pylon
10,000 volts shot up its a**e
And turned it into nylon!

[Kevin Milkins]

By William Henry Davies.

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.

[David Banks]

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfullness . . . "

Even more so than in Caithness, Canada is 'blessed' with having four clearly distinct seasons, and fall for me starts in September stretching well into December - wonderful ! (from personal experience, true in Alberta, Ontario and Nova Scotia).

[crayola]

Between the Stars

Between the stars and the River Clyde
A path appears when the moon is bright,
And rising from their sleep, awake the Glasgow souls
And descend onto the path of silver and gold.
And Glasgow’s daughter walks on the riverbed,
With an emerald crown upon her head,
From beneath the water she waves goodbye,
As the stars disappear from the midnight sky.

Daniel McDonagh

[poppett]

"If tomorrow starts without me"

Author unknown.

[scorrie]

Watching the news in the Backer one evening, we learned that Freddie Mercury had died. One of his fans read out a short poem dedicated to the deceased. I didn't catch what it was, so a guy in the club quickly created his own tribute:-

"Freddie, Freddie..... you're deadie, deadie"

I don't think Andrew Motion will be having sleepless nights.

[Beat Bug]

I love poetry. Hated it at school though! And Tennyson is my favourite poet

[octane]

Creepy crawly custard, green snot pie
All mashed up with a dead dogs eye
Slugs and bogies spread on thick
All washed down with a cup of cold sick

[John Little]

'Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow,
The small raine down can raine.
Cryst, if my love were in my armes
And I in my bedde again!'

[The Drunken Duck]

High Flight by Pilot Officer Gillespie MacGee is my favourite. He was a Canadian Spitfire pilot killed on December 11th 1941 shortly after writing it. It sums up the joy of flying, and I dont mean going from A to B on Airbus, if you have ever done aerobatics or ripped through the sky at speed it describes the feeling perfectly. It is a mantra for not only pilots but all of us who feel detatched when on the ground ..


"Oh !!, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter silvered wings,
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of, wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence, Hovering there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air,


Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew,
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God"

[trix]

i only ken 2 poems....'e wiccan rede - harm ye none, do as ye will, author unknown....

and Dulce et Decorum Est (pro patria mori) - it is sweet and right til die for yer country, by

wilfred owen.

i used til read 'e charge o' 'e light brigade til 'e auld wifie ronaldson when she wis alive, i really lek 'at aine too. i sometimes read it oot at ma work as 'e auder fowkies lek'ed an'al.

[yorkshire lassie]

Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning ... I studied it for my 'O' level English and it has always stuck with me

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

[John Little]

Trix - I would have taken you for a Caithness poet.

When I was in school I had to learn a poem, most of which I have forgotten. We went in a bus to Wick and I had to stand on a stage in a green corrugated hall and speak it. I had a sore throat and was aged 8 - they gave me a certificate anyway which I still have, though it is a bit ragged.

It went something like this;

E lamb seil day hed come at last
And at Geordag Sitherland's croft
E Great commoshun coud be heerd
As he prepared for off.

He ca'ud e dowgs e lazy cyards
A dode was Meery Ann.
Twa stoopid eeshans were e loons
As roond e lambs they ran....

That's it - I'd be glad to see the rest if anyone knows it for I cannot find it on the net.

[orkneycadian]

Upon a hill, there stood a doocot,
Its no there noo, cos some (sorry, profanity filter) took it!

[Beat Bug]

Mary had a little lamb
It's foot was black as soot,
And into Mary's pot of jam
His sooty foot he put

[susan.leith]

I love this poem....

Risks

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool,

To weep is to risk being called sentimental.

To reach out to another is to risk involvement.

To expose feelings is to risk showing your true self.

To place your ideas and your dreams before the crowd is to risk being called naive.

To love is to risk not being loved in return.

To live is to risk dying.

To hope is to risk despair, To try is to risk failure.

But risks must be taken, because the greatest risk in life is to risk nothing.

The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing, and becomes nothing.

He may avoid suffering and sorrow, but he simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow or love.

Chained by his servitude, he is a slave; he has forfeited his freedom.

Only the person who risks is truly free."


The poem is often attributed to the poet and thinker, Leo Buscaglia, but the real author of this inspirational verse is Janet Rand.

[The Music Monster]

Oh no! There are just too many!!!! I guess if push came to shove (and assuming song lyrics don't count!) I would have to say this one:

SHERWOOD
by Alfred Noyes


Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?
Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake,
Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,
Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.
Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves
Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,
Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:
All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon,
Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist
Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.

Merry, merry England is waking as of old,
With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:
For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Love is in the greenwood building him a house
Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs:
Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies,
And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.

Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep!
Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?
Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,
Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,
Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,
And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.

Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together
With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather.
The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled away
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows.
All the heart of England his in every rose
Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,
Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old
And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold
Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,
Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen
All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men--
Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day--

Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash
Rings the Follow! Follow! and the boughs begin to crash,
The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly,
And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.

Robin! Robin! Robin! All his merry thieves
Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves,
Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

[squidge]

I have so many poems I love but Robert brownings 'porphyria's lover is one I regularly read.

I learnt it off by heart when I was about 9 from a book of Tennyson and browning poems my dad had. It had been a Sunday school prize and it still sits by my bed today. I love the start

The rain set early in tonight.
The sullen wind was soon awake
It tore the elm tops down for spite and
Did it's best to vex the lake.

I still remember my junior 3 teachers face when having proudly learnt it for a class recital I, with my 10 tear old naivety and earnestness stood and said

I found a thing to do
And all her hair in one long yellow strand I wound
Three times her little throat around
And strangled her.

Funny.