Favorite poets and their works

Share yours, here is one of mine.

E.E. Cummings

I like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
I like your body. I like what it does,
I like its hows. I like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, I like kissing this and that of you,
I like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly I like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

 

Thanks for sharing. Despite its elegant simplicity, that poem is so mathematically and philosophically complex I can only begin to fathom its depths. I may have to include it in my own collection, or come up with something similar, because the sentiment expresses a fundamental truth about what it means to be an adult child of God. I suspect, its impossible to do much better than the author already has, assuming its even possible.

I just looked him up real quick, and he was a Harvard intellectual, explaining the mathematical complexity of the poem. His work must be of particular interest to modern mathematicians who analyze such things for tid-bits of useful fuzzy logic. I'm sure they've analyzed his to death already but, if I'm right, this poem expresses a multidimensional multifractal, and the academics are not through analyzing it yet. All that might sound like just so much silly mathematical weirdness, but you can think of it as meaning that this poem contains a really elaborate story that is hidden within its depths.

 

Poetry makes me sad, mostly.

 

E.E. Cummings was a boss.

I can see that. I like writing poetry, as if I'm feeling sad, it serves as healing.

 

William Blake
The Grey Monk

‘I die , I die!’ the Mother said,
‘My children die for lack of bread.
What more has the merciless tyrant said?’
The Monk sat down on the stony bed.

The blood red ran from the Grey Monk’s side,
His hands and feet were wounded wide,
His body bent, his arms and knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.

His eye was dry; no tear could flow:
A hollow groan first spoke his woe.
He trembled and shudder’d upon the bed;
At length with a feeble cry he said:

‘When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight,
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The bane of all that on Earth I love.

‘My brother starv’d between two walls,
His children’s cry my soul appalls;
I mock’d at the wrack and griding chain,
My bent body mocks their torturing pain.

‘Thy father drew his sword in the North,
With his thousands strong he marchèd forth,
Thy brother has arm’d himself in steel,
To avenge the wrongs thy children feel.

‘But vain the sword and vain the bow,
They never can work War’s overthrow.
The hermit’s prayer and the widow’s tear
Alone can free the world from fear.

‘For a tear is an intellectual thing,
And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King,
And the bitter groan of the martyr’s woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty’s bow.

‘The hand of Vengeance found the bed
To which the purple tyrant fled;
The iron hand crush’d the tyrant’s head,
And became a tyrant in his stead.’

 

There is some dispute as to whether or not this is truly by my bae Edgar Allen, but it is one of my favorite poems either way

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

 

He’s one of my faves, too. You’ll be happy to know that although that poem wasn’t published while he was alive, it was considered to be an authentic poem of his.

 

I recently discovered Rupi Kaur.

I want to apologize to all the women i have called beautiful
before i’ve called them intelligent or brave
i am sorry i made it sound as though
something as simple as what you’re born with
is all you have to be proud of
when you have broken mountains with your wit
from now on i will say things like
you are resilient, or you are extraordinary
not because i don’t think you’re beautiful
but because i need you to know
you are more than that

I love this poem so much. <3 It's not that being called ''pretty'' or ''beautiful'' isn't a nice compliment when it's given to me, but we are more than just how we appear on the outside.

 

Snorri Sturluson, the man responsible for writing the poetry of the Norse. Without him, it most likely would have vanished into the abyss like most ancient cultures scriptures etc.
Though Snorri was a Christian, he definitely felt like, his culture needed to be recorded.

 

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by T.S Eliot is probably my absolute favorite poem. Its a long one so i'll just post a couple of stanzas rather than the whole thing

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

I wish I could write like Eliot

 

Also i really like the E.E Cummings poem in the OP. I dont think i've read his poetry since high school and didnt care for it then but i may have to reconsider

 

Massachusetts Poet Henry Beston

Civilization has fallen out of touch with night. With lights, we drive the holiness and the beauty of night back to the forests and the seas; the little villages, the crossroads even, will have none of it. Are modern folk, perhaps, afraid of the night? Do they fear the vast serenity, the mystery of infinite space, the austerity of stars?

 

Henry Beston

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creatures through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren; they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth

 

I’d say this is my favorite


It is only when we are aware of the earth and of the earth as poetry that we truly live. Ages and people which sever the earth from the poetic spirit, or do not care, or stop their ears with knowledge as with dust, find their veins grown hollow and their hearts an emptiness echoing to questioning. For the earth is ever more than the earth, more than the upper and the lower field, the tree and the hill. Here is mystery banded about the forehead with green, here are gods ascending, here is benignancy and the corn in the sun, here terror and night, here life, here death, here fire, here the wave coursing in the sea. It is this earth which is the true inheritance of man, his link with his human past, the source of his religion, ritual, and song, the kingdom without whose splendor he lapses from his mysterious estate of man to a baser world which is without the other virtue and the other integrity of the animal. True humanity is no inherent right but an achievement; and only through the earth may we be as one with all who have been and all who are yet to be, sharers and partakers of the mystery of living, reaching to the full of human peace and the full of human joy.


Henry Beston

 

I’m not familiar with his work, hot water so I googled his name. I would like to read his book “Herbs and the Earth.” That looks interesting.

 

Then you must read The Outermost House (1928) which chronicles a year he spent on the outer beaches of Cape Cod.

It’s long been recognized as an American classic

 

Was going to post Prufrock but Meliai beat me to it. I have always loved that poem, it struck a special chord with me from day 1.

 

Richard Corey
by Edwin Arlington Robinson


Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.




This one blew my mind when I read it the first time. The moral of the story, is that money, wealth, fame, and elegance, cannot buy happiness.

 

Please read

Dead Are My People

Gone are my people, but I exist yet,
Lamenting them in my solitude...
Dead are my friends, and in their Death my life is naught but great
Disaster.
The knolls of my country are submerged
By tears and blood, for my people and
My beloved are gone, and I am here
Living as I did when my people and my
Beloved were enjoying life and the
Bounty of life, and when the hills of
My country were blessed and engulfed
By the light of the sun.

My people died from hunger, and he who
Did not perish from starvation was
Butchered with the sword; and I am
Here in this distant land, roaming
Amongst a joyful people who sleep
Upon soft beds, and smile at the days
While the days smile upon them.

My people died a painful and shameful
Death, and here am I living in plenty
And in peace...This is deep tragedy
Ever-enacted upon the stage of my
Heart; few would care to witness this
Drama, for my people are as birds with
Broken wings, left behind the flock.
***
If I were hungry and living amid my
Famished people, and persecuted among
My oppressed countrymen, the burden
Of the black days would be lighter
Upon my restless dreams, and the
Obscurity of the night would be less
Dark before my hollow eyes and my
Crying heart and my wounded soul.
For he who shares with his people
Their sorrow and agony will feel a
Supreme comfort created only by
Suffering in sacrifice. And he will
Be at peace with himself when he dies
Innocent with his fellow innocents.

But I am not living with my hungry
And persecuted people who are walking
In the procession of death toward
Martyrdom...I am here beyond the
Broad seas living in the shadow of
Tranquillity, and in the sunshine of
Peace...I am afar from the pitiful
Arena and the distressed, and cannot
Be proud of ought, not even of my own
Tears.

What can an exiled son do for his
Starving people, and of what value
Unto them is the lamentation of an
Absent poet?

Were I an ear of corn grown in the earth
of my country, the hungry child would
Pluck me and remove with my kernels
The hand of Death form his soul. Were
I a ripe fruit in the gardens of my
Country, the starving women would
Gather me and sustain life. Were I
A bird flying the sky of my country,
My hungry brother would hunt me and
Remove with the flesh of my body the
Shadow of the grave from his body.
But, alas! I am not an ear of corn
Grown in the plains of Syria, nor a
Ripe fruit in the valleys of Lebanon;
This is my disaster, and this is my
Mute calamity which brings humiliation
Before my soul and before the phantoms
Of the night...This is the painful
Tragedy which tightens my tongue and
Pinions my arms and arrests me usurped
Of power and of will and of action.
This is the curse burned upon my
Forehead before God and man.

And oftentimes they say unto me,
'The disaster of your country is
But naught to calamity of the
World, and the tears and blood shed
By your people are as nothing to
The rivers of blood and tears
Pouring each day and night in the
Valleys and plains of the earth...'

Yes, but the death of my people is
A silent accusation; it is a crime
Conceived by the heads of the unseen serpents...
It is a Sceneless tragedy...And if my
People had attacked the despots
And oppressors and died rebels,
I would have said, 'Dying for
Freedom is nobler than living in
The shadow of weak submission, for
He who embraces death with the sword
Of Truth in his hand will eternalize
With the Eternity of Truth, for Life
Is weaker than Death and Death is
Weaker than Truth.

If my nation had partaken in the war
Of all nations and had died in the
Field of battle, I would say that
The raging tempest had broken with
Its might the green branches; and
Strong death under the canopy of
The tempest is nobler than slow
Perishment in the arms of senility.
But there was no rescue from the
Closing jaws...My people dropped
And wept with the crying angels.

If an earthquake had torn my
Country asunder and the earth had
Engulfed my people into its bosom,
I would have said, 'A great and
Mysterious law has been moved by
The will of divine force, and it
Would be pure madness if we frail
Mortals endeavoured to probe its
Deep secrets...'
But my people did not die as rebels;
They were not killed in the field
Of Battle; nor did the earthquake
Shatter my country and subdue them.
Death was their only rescuer, and
Starvation their only spoils.

My people died on the cross....
They died while their hands
stretched toward the East and West,
While the remnants of their eyes
Stared at the blackness of the
Firmament...They died silently,
For humanity had closed its ears
To their cry. They died because
They did not befriend their enemy.
They died because they loved their
Neighbours. They died because
They placed trust in all humanity.
They died because they did not
Oppress the oppressors. They died
Because they were the crushed
Flowers, and not the crushing feet.
They died because they were peace
Makers. They perished from hunger
In a land rich with milk and honey.
They died because monsters of
Hell arose and destroyed all that
Their fields grew, and devoured the
Last provisions in their bins....
They died because the vipers and
Sons of vipers spat out poison into
The space where the Holy Cedars and
The roses and the jasmine breathe
Their fragrance.

My people and your people, my Syrian
Brother, are dead....What can be
Done for those who are dying? Our
Lamentations will not satisfy their
Hunger, and our tears will not quench
Their thirst; what can we do to save
Them between the iron paws of
Hunger? My brother, the kindness
Which compels you to give a part of
Your life to any human who is in the
Shadow of losing his life is the only
Virtue which makes you worthy of the
Light of day and the peace of the
Night....Remember, my brother,
That the coin which you drop into
The withered hand stretching toward
You is the only golden chain that
Binds your rich heart to the
Loving heart of God.....

 

^I forgot...it's by Khalil Gibran

He, an immigrant to the US, wrote it about his people back home who died during the Great Famine of 1915-1918.