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your favorite poem
My son has a school project. What is MY favorite poem. I have no idea, other then Roses are Red..etc.
Gimme your best shot. |
There is no way this thread is real. The advent of Google destroyed this thread 16 years ago.
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LMOA....didnt want to do google. I wanted the wisdom of the CP not google.
BTW...the Man from Nantucket doesnt count. |
Tell all the truth but tell it slant
Success in circuit lies Too bright for our infirm delight The truth's superb surprise As lightning to the children eased With explanation kind The truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind. - Emily Dickinson I did it from memory, and then looked it up and messed up one line. I don't know why I remember this poem, but it wormed into my brain in college and is one of only three poems I can cite from memory. The others are "Apparently with no surprise" by Dickinson, and my favorite poem to ridicule by William Carlos Williams that has the chickens by the wheelbarrow. |
Roses are red
Violets are blue **** all you guys |
The Road Not Taken
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 marked 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. -Robert Frost |
The poem my dad taught me, that he learned in the Army from a guy he met from Brooklyn. It's called "Thoity Poiple Boids." It goes like this:
Thoity Poiple Boids, Sittin on the Coib. Oipin and a Boipin Eatin Doity Oit Woims. Along came Moit And his Goilfriend Goit. And they saw Thoity Poiple Boids Sittin' on the Coib, Oipin and a Boipin' Eatin' Doity Oit Woims. Boy we're dey petoibed! |
"If" by Rudyard Kipling
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"Dear John"
You are my everything. I see you glisten under fluorescent lights. You are crisp. Rich. Filling. I think back to when I met you. You were given to me. I gave very little in return. I almost don't want you not because you are bad for me but because I don't deserve you. Where did you come from? The ocean? The kitchen? You are of two worlds, which I cannot hope to understand. I can only hope to appreciate you for what you are: Fried fish. Fried chicken. Fried shrimp. Hushpuppies. Chips. Coleslaw. My everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. You are my everything. .jpeg - TL |
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Other's that have always stuck in my head are... Quote:
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" You can't play with my YO YO - don't try to play me out "
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Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old- This knight so bold- And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow- "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be- This land of Eldorado?" "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied- "If you seek for Eldorado!" -Edgar Allan Poe |
Dang Rainman... you are to cerebral for me. Quite a nice poem thou.
George, that was sweet. The Boston accent adds it all. Thinking that this is the one that the son will use. Thanks guys |
Half a league half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred: 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do & die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd & thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack & Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke, Shatter'd & sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse & hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! - Alfred Lord Tennyson |
I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. - Alan Seeger |
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't really fuzzy Was he? |
A yellow bird
With a yellow bill Landed on my window sill I lured him in with some crumbs of bread And then I smashed his yellow head The crap I learned from my father growing up..... |
This is one that hung on the wall of my French class if your kid REALLY wants to seem like he's "up his own ass":
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"Stopping by Woods on Snowy Evening"
By Robert Frost "He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sounds a sweep Of easy wind and downy flake." I'm Back By Eminem "Sorry Puff but I don't give a **** if this chick was my own mother, Id still **** her with no rubber and cum inside her and a son and a new brother at the same time, and just say that it aint mine" Both geniuses ahead of their time. |
I am weak
Looking to get stronger When I open my eyes all the way It's all there is for me Kindness is strength It's easier to close a door, than to keep it open Hatred is easy Frustration is life on pause These are truths that are hard for me to deal with I learned a lot this year I think I am stronger than last year Self-creation is painful Trying to take my parent's blood out of mine Trying to stand on my own two feet Without leaning on someone else Looking to myself for total strength To be One From None Henry Rollins O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10 For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20 Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Walt Whitman Ang |
"Ode to a Grecian Urn" by Keats
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Always like this one... and it might be more your son's speed...
Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face Be glad your nose is on your face, not pasted on some other place, for if it were where it is not, you might dislike your nose a lot. Imagine if your precious nose were sandwiched in between your toes, that clearly would not be a treat, for you'd be forced to smell your feet. Your nose would be a source of dread were it attached atop your head, it soon would drive you to despair, forever tickled by your hair. Within your ear, your nose would be an absolute catastrophe, for when you were obliged to sneeze, your brain would rattle from the breeze. Your nose, instead, through thick and thin, remains between your eyes and chin, not pasted on some other place-- be glad your nose is on your face! by Jack Prelutsky |
Many of my favorite current poets would probably be too...different for your son's project. So I'll recommend Auden. 'As I Walked Out One Evening' perhaps, or 'Musee des Beaux Arts'
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The woodpecker pecked on the school house door. He pecked and he pecked til his pecker was sore. |
A Story That Could Be True
- William Stafford If you were exchanged in the cradle and your real mother died without ever telling the story then no one knows your name, and somewhere in the world your father is lost and needs you but you are far away. He can never find how true you are, how ready. When the great wind comes and the robberies of the rain you stand on the corner shivering. The people who go by-- you wonder at their calm. They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, "Who are you really, wanderer?"-- and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: "Maybe I'm a king." |
I've read everything Charles Bukowski ever wrote, This is the best of them all.
That man is a legend. Let It Enfold You either peace or happiness, let it enfold you when I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated. I had bad blood, a twisted mind, a precarious upbringing. I was hard as granite, I leered at the sun. I trusted no man and especially no woman. I was living a hell in small rooms, I broke things, smashed things, walked through glass, cursed. I challenged everything, was continually being evicted, jailed,in and out of fights, in and out of my mind. women were something to screw and rail at, I had no male freinds, I changed jobs and cities, I hated holidays, babies, history, newspapers, museums, grandmothers, marriage, movies, spiders, garbagemen, english accents,spain, france,italy,walnuts and the color orange. algebra angred me, opera sickened me, charlie chaplin was a fake and flowers were for pansies. peace an happiness to me were signs of inferiority, tenants of the weak an addled mind. but as I went on with my alley fights, my suicidal years, my passage through any number of women-it gradually began to occur to me that I wasn't different from the others, I was the same, they were all fulsome with hatred, glossed over with petty greivances, the men I fought in alleys had hearts of stone. everybody was nudging, inching, cheating for some insignificant advantage, the lie was the weapon and the plot was empty, darkness was the dictator. cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. the less I needed the better I felt. maybe the other life had worn me down. I no longer found glamour in topping somebody in conversation. or in mounting the body of some poor drunken female whose life had slipped away into sorrow. I could never accept life as it was, i could never gobble down all its poisons but there were parts, tenous magic parts open for the asking. I re formulated I don't know when, date, time, all that but the change occured. something in me relaxed, smoothed out. i no longer had to prove that I was a man, I did'nt have to prove anything. I began to see things: coffee cups lined up behind a counter in a cafe. or a dog walking along a sidewalk. or the way the mouse on my dresser top stopped there with its body, its ears, its nose, it was fixed, a bit of life caught within itself and its eyes looked at me and they were beautiful. then- it was gone. I began to feel good, I began to feel good in the worst situations and there were plenty of those. like say, the boss behind his desk, he is going to have to fire me. I've missed too many days. he is dressed in a suit, necktie, glasses, he says, 'I am going to have to let you go' 'it's all right' I tell him. He must do what he must do, he has a wife, a house, children. expenses, most probably a girlfreind. I am sorry for him he is caught. I walk onto the blazing sunshine. the whole day is mine temporailiy, anyhow. (the whole world is at the throat of the world, everybody feels angry, short-changed, cheated, everybody is despondent, dissillusioned) I welcomed shots of peace, tattered shards of happiness. I embraced that stuff like the hottest number, like high heels, breasts, singing,the works. (dont get me wrong, there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism that overlooks all basic problems just for the sake of itself- this is a shield and a sickness.) The knife got near my throat again, I almost turned on the gas again but when the good moments arrived again I did'nt fight them off like an alley adversary. I let them take me, i luxuriated in them, I bade them welcome home. I even looked into the mirror once having thought myself to be ugly, I now liked what I saw,almost handsome, yes, a bit ripped and ragged, scares, lumps, odd turns, but all in all, not too bad, almost handsome, better at least than some of those movie star faces like the cheeks of a baby's butt. and finally I discovered real feelings of others, unheralded, like lately, like this morning, as I was leaving, for the track, i saw my wife in bed, just the shape of her head there (not forgetting centuries of the living and the dead and the dying, the pyramids, Mozart dead but his music still there in the room, weeds growing, the earth turning, the toteboard waiting for me) I saw the shape of my wife's head, she so still, I ached for her life, just being there under the covers. I kissed her in the, forehead, got down the stairway, got outside, got into my marvelous car, fixed the seatbelt, backed out the drive. feeling warm to the fingertips, down to my foot on the gas pedal, I entered the world once more, drove down the hill past the houses full and empty of people, I saw the mailman, honked, he waved back at me. |
I sent this little gem to a woman via text when asked for a poem.
Roses area red Violets are blue Poems are hard. So am I. |
Yeats' "The Second Coming" is the most referenced poem of the 20th century; "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" might be the most beautiful;
Pound's "Hugh Selwyn Mauberly" is dense enough to stand up to dozens of readings but accessible enough not to require poring over to get a drip of info out of. Ted Hughes' "Daffodils" is wonderful Others: Wallace Stevens: The Snowman Stanley Kunitz: The Wellfleet Whale Randall Jarrell: The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner Frost: Nothing Gold can Stay Wilfred Owen: Dulce et Decorum est |
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me—he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. |
This Be the Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN They **** you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were ****ed up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another’s throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself. |
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O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave,until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened Earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? -Percy Bysshe Shelley |
Not much for poems but I always liked the one that inspired Stephen King to write the Dark Tower
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Pablo Neruda's poem about his discovery of poetry
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What's he building in there?
Tom Waits <iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JaLjwSpZ6Cs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> |
I hate the idea of wasting 1.1 on a OT when we have one,
I hate that a below average QB is the only QB the Chiefs have, Draft Geno Smith. The end. |
LOL I saw daves post above & deleted mine
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Medium Pace - Adam Sandler
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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. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless falls of air... Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark, nor eer 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. |
TL;DR
Your Poem is too ****ing long. It's almost as long as a Led Zeppelin song TL;DR TL;DR |
A long time ago, when the earth was green
and there was more kinds of animals than you've ever seen, and they run around free while the world was bein' born, and the lovliest of all was the Unicorn. There was green alligators and long-neck geese. There was humpy bumpy camels and chimpanzees. There was catsandratsandelephants, but sure as you're born the lovliest of all was the Unicorn. But the Lord seen some sinnin', and it caused him pain. He says, "Stand back, I'm gonna make it rain." He says, "Hey Brother Noah, I'll tell ya whatcha do. Go and build me a floatin' zoo. And you take two alligators and a couple of geese, two humpy bumpy camels and two chimpanzees. Take two catsandratsandelephants, but sure as you're born, Noah, don't you forget my Unicorn." Now Noah was there, he answered the callin' and he finished up the ark just as the rain was fallin'. He marched in the animals two by two, and he called out as they went through, "Hey Lord, I got your two alligators and your couple of geese, your humpy bumpy camels and your chimpanzees. Got your catsandratsandelephants - but Lord, I'm so forlorn 'cause I just don't see no Unicorn." Ol' Noah looked out through the drivin' rain but the Unicorns were hidin', playin' silly games. They were kickin' and splashin' in the misty morn, oh them silly Unicorn. The the goat started goatin', and the snake started snakin', the elephant started elephantin', and the boat started shaking'. The mouse started squeakin', and the lion started roarin', and everyone's abourd but the Unicorn. I mean the green alligators and the long-neck geese, the humpy bumpy camels and the chimpanzees. Noah cried, "Close the door 'cause the rain is pourin' - and we just can't wait for them Unicorn." Then the ark started movin', and it drifted with the tide, and the Unicorns looked up from the rock and cried. And the water come up and sort of floated them away - that's why you've never seen a Unicorn to this day. You'll see a lot of alligators and a whole mess of geese. You'll see humpy bumpy camels and lots of chimpanzees. You'll see catsandratsandelephants, but sure as you're born you're never gonna see no Unicorn |
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Casey at the Bat
* by Ernest Lawrence Thayer The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play, And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that— We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped— "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore; "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand; And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew; But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!" "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out. |
When you're riding in a slay
And you hear something spray Diarrhea diarrhea When your sitting on a mountain and your butt becomes a fountain Diarrhea, Diarrhea When it’s hanging likes a chad and your butt hurts really bad Diarrhea, diarrhea When you're driving in your car, and your house is just too far Diarrhea, diarrhea When your stomach is in pain, and your making chocolate rain Diarrhea, diarrhea When you think it's chicken soup but it's really liquid poop. Diarrhea diarrhea When you have Thanksgiving turkey and your stool is a stank hot slurpee Diarrhea*Diarrhea Then your mind begins to linger, Wrongly saying "Pull my finger" Diarrhea, Diarrhea When you're walking like CP3O and your shit looks like radicchio Diarrhea, Diarrhea When you think your friends are joking but your pants are brown and soaking: Diarrhea, diarrhea. Now you think you're feeling better but you keep on getting wetter: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When your stomach starts a rollin' and you're cleaning out your colon: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you're on the seat for hours and it doesn't smell like flowers: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When the feeling's not that nice and you have to flush it twice: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you're rolling like a tire and your intestines are on fire: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you’re sitting in your Chevy and you feel something heavy: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you’re rummaging in the attic and your ass goes automatic: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you do a little dance and it's gooey in yer pants: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you’re lounging by the pool and your ass begins to drool: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When it floats down the gutter and it looks like peanut butter: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When your tummy’s feeling funny and your pants are hot n’ runny: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you’re looking at your shoes and you feel something ooze: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When you really want to shout and it keeps on gushing out: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When it sounds just like a horn and your butt pops out like corn: Diarrhea, diarrhea. When*you know that certain smell and were eating Taco Bell. Diarrhea, diarrhea. |
Doesn't look like a poem, but is listed as one, so I think it is.
Our Deepest Fear by Marianne Williamson “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” |
My favorite "serious" poem is about as cliché as they come. "The Raven," by E.A.P. Admittedly, I haven't really gotten around to reading much poetry at this phase in my life. It just hasn't struck my interest, YET.
With that said, my favorite poem is a hilarious one by a random humor blogger I encountered on a blogging message board. The blog is titled, "The Problem with Young People Today is..." and the author goes by the name of Don Mills. He writes as if he is a cynical, grouchy old man with hilarious observations of the world as he sees it, especially what pisses him off about it. I suspect that he is actually younger than he claims to be and this old man, Don Mills, is a character he created. If not, he is seriously the funniest old man on the planet. I discovered him for I have been off and on in the humor blogosphere myself. It's pretty well-known to people from my area, but that's not saying much, considering I am from a low populated region in Iowa. At it's peak, it was getting a pretty decent amount of daily traffic, primarily by social means (facebook, twitter, stumbleupon, digg, etc.) The theme of my blog, was basically crude, goofy, quirky and cringe-worthy true stories and observations pertaining to my personal experiences. What makes mine unique from others is that I have something that I call a "blog mascot" that I attempt to tie in at the end of every story. This "mascot" is an absurd cut-off t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts-wearing mullet man who makes a living by beating up neighborhood kids for their lunch money and generally represents everything that is idiotic. The epitome of idiocy. Hate to brag, but out of the thousands of humor blogs I have read, I am the only one I know of who has a mascot/trademark. It's been fun. At one point (right before I created my CP account), I was averaging roughly 2000 views per day and was ranked in the top 10 in the humor category of blogtoplist and blogrankings. I kind of let it go for a while and CP is a huge reason for this. If you were to view my site, you would notice that the frequency of my posts decreased substantially for a long period of time after September of 2011, when I created my CP account. Here is why. When I created my account and began posting, I discovered that not only was my Chiefs football knowledge not as vast as I originally thought (to the rural Iowans I normally discussed Chiefs football with, my knowledge WAS vast compared to them, but not you guys), but some of the people who post on here are such good writers, that it prompted me to take a break from the blog and observe and learn what you guys were writing, not only in terms of Chiefs football, but how you wrote in general. In terms of writing, I learned a lot from you guys during that break. No joke. I just recently began posting semi-regularly again, but am taking the SEO/HTML route opposed to commenting on a bunch of other blogs that I have no interest in. So now, I am trying to build my HTML/SEO skills to promote it because I refuse to comment on shit blogs, regardless of how many daily readers they have who would discover my blog through my comments. And my traffic has totally dwindled since creating my CP account, taking a break and focusing on SEO. I'm only averaging 200 or so hits per day now. Shitty. So I discovered this guy by means of browsing other humor blogs and commenting on their blogs...this is an excellent method of increasing traffic to your own blog. Now that I am posting again, I refuse to utilize this strategy, for the majority of other "humor" blogs I stumble on are complete shit or carbon copies of another more popular blog. However, every once in a while, you'll run into another blog that is straight up hilarious. That is the case for this guy. His URL is http://crabbyoldfart.wordpress.com. If you like to laugh, check his site out, you won't be disappointed. The poem he wrote, which I consider my favorite poem of all time, is titled, "The Alphabet Poem of Damned Young People who Annoyed Me Today." Here is is: "The Alphabet Poem of Damned Young People who Annoyed Me Today," by Don Mills aka "Crabby Old Fart" A is for the Assclown who was standing on my grass, B is for the Bonehead with a tattoo on her ass. C is for the Crackhead who was passed out on the street, D is for the Dimwit with his pants around his feet. E is for the Emo with his ever-present pout, F is for the Fatso who at 14 has the gout. G is for the Goof-off who approached me for some cash, H is for the Homeys and the gang signs that they flashed. I is for the Ingrate, who gave his mother guff, J is for the Junkie and the reefer that he puffed. K is for the Kiddies riding skateboards after dark, L is for the Losers trading hickeys in the park. M is for Moron with the backwards baseball cap, N is for the Numbskull in his car and blaring rap. O is for the Oddball with the pins stuck through his lip, P is for the Punkers who think mohawks make them hip. Q is for the Question – Is that a girl or boy? R is for the Reprobates who no one will employ. S is for the Simpleton who kicked over my trash, T is for the Tramp who sports a most suspicious rash. U is for the Unemployed who gather in the malls, V is for the Vandal spraying paint upon the walls. W is the Wailing Goth who is all angst and gloom, X is for the X-box kid who’s never left his room. Y is for Young People, I see them all day long; and Z is for the Zoo in which they damn well all belong. * Funny shit if you ask me. On a sidenote, just tonight I googled what comes before ".com" on my site, which is my nickname, "ricoswaff." I clicked on "images," and you wouldn't believe what showed up down a few rows. I SHIT YOU NOT, it was this pic: http://i.imgur.com/Bnck9.jpg I have NO IDEA why the HELL that pic would show up in the images section after googling, "ricoswaff." This pic of Sam Cassell also shows up: http://img.tapatalk.com/c6e4d1be-76ea-51c4.jpg Again, not sure why....maybe I responded to those photos when my username was "ricoswaff" on here and google made some sort of connection to it. I have no clue, but thought it was funny. |
If called by a panther,
Don't anther. |
This poem's for my wife,
In her pretty red shoes, She smokes all my cigs, And she drinks all my booze, She doesn't have her cherry, But that's no sin, Since she still has the box, That the cherry came in. |
Roses are red
violets are blue this thread is lame so are you |
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They **** you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were ****ed up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself. |
When things go wrong,
As they usually will, And your daily road seems all uphill. When funds are low, And debts are high, You try to smile but can only cry. When you really feel You’d like to quit, Don’t run to me I don’t give a shit. |
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roses are red violet are blue your sister is hot and a good screw.
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I'd look up some stuff by Shel Silverstein or Edgar Allan Poe. Two completely different styles, but you'd probably find something you like between the two.
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Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard To fetch her old dog a bone When she bent over Rover took over And gave her a bone of his own |
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet, Eating her curds and whey; Along came a spider, Who sat down beside her, And said "Hey! What's in the bowl bitch?!" |
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Also, 'nother submission: anyone lived in a pretty how town by E. E. Cummings anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain |
A lot of my favorites already in the thread. Here is another by Pablo Neruda I always liked:
I can write the saddest lines tonight. Write for example: ‘The night is fractured and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’ The night wind turns in the sky and sings. I can write the saddest lines tonight. I loved her, sometimes she loved me too. On nights like these I held her in my arms. I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes. I can write the saddest lines tonight. To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her. Hear the vast night, vaster without her. Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass. What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her. The night is fractured and she is not with me. That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off, my soul is not content to have lost her. As though to reach her, my sight looks for her. My heart looks for her: she is not with me The same night whitens, in the same branches. We, from that time, we are not the same. I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her. Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses. Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes. I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her. Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long. Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms, my soul is not content to have lost her. Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer, and these are the last lines I will write for her. |
Little Miss Muffet sat on tuffet eating her curd and weys(? Lol no idea) along came a spider and sat down beside her and said hey b**** what's in the bowl.
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dice man... |
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He needed the money. OH! /Dice Man |
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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: a waste of desert sand; 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 Wind 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? W.B. Yeats |
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The Haunted Palace
(1839) by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace- Radiant palace-reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion- It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This-all this-was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well-befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!-for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh-but smile no more. THE END |
Paradise Lost
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I admire people who have a favorite poem, along with people who have memorized poems.
I had to memorize a poem in middle school. I chose The Spires of Oxford (found in a book from my mom's college days) and it's always stuck with me. It's from WWI: 44. The Spires of Oxford By Winifred M. Letts I SAW the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The gray spires of Oxford Against the pearl-gray sky. My heart was with the Oxford men 5 Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The hoary Colleges look down On careless boys at play. 10 But when the bugles sounded war They put their games away. They left the peaceful river, The cricket-field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford, 15 To seek a bloody sod— They gave their merry youth away For country and for God. God rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, 20 Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town. |
I"ve written most of my favorites here.
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Pablo Neruda
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For your kid, the following poem my history teacher in high school told us:
Fleas Adam Had'em Otherwise, lots of good ones in here, but would like to add The Lovesong of Alfred J. Prufrock by TS Eliot to the list. |
Some great poems in this thread.
I will add W.H. Auden's "The Unknown Citizen" He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was Popular with his mates and liked to drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a Paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured And his Health-card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured, Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace he was for peace when there was war he went. He was married and and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation, And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he Happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard. --- Also, I don't think Dylan Thomas has been mentioned yet. (sorry if it has) 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 Listen to him read it here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377 |
That's the way she goes
Sometimes she does Sometimes she doesn't That's the ****in way she goes |
This is the last stanza of The Prisoner of Chillon: Written about a man wrongfully imprisoned.
Written by Lord Byron It might be months, or years, or days— I kept no count, I took no note— I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free; I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where; It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair. And thus when they appear'd at last, And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage—and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home: With spiders I had friendship made And watch'd them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell; My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are:—even I Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. Second favorite Invictus William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) 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'm also very fond of Locksley Hall by Tennyson.
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