This week is Read Across America Week and the focus this year is poetry. I think it would be fun for us to gather some favorite poems or favorite quotes from really long poems.
I won't pressure anyone by calling for your one, most favorite bit of poetry. I can never choose just one of any kind of favorite thing. So relax and just share one or some of a favorite poem of yours.
I have so many beloveds, but this is one of them from William Butler Yeats, called "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven":
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Enjoy some poetry this week...share a bit here!
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Rita Bourland
Roy Jimenez
Dan Schreiber
SuznMaree
Alleerob
Heather Ryan
Salon.com
Comments
I've just posted one of my own favorite poems.
P.S. Oh yes, Catamite -- we DO want to know what your favorite poem is, especially with that tease!
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
But, this is because of the inherent artistry of the work, not a personal affiliation with sentiment. She pulverizes her kernel in it.
I've posted one of my favoirites for anyone who's interested
http://open.salon.com/blog/mrs_michaels/2009/03/03/open_call_like_amorous_birds_of_prey
Thanks!
Adrienne Rich :)
getting an education here, Thank you for this
I love OS!
I am so enjoying all the lovely poetry!
Thanks for commenting and sharing!
Anyway, thanks for checking this out (and encouraging Cat....to share!)
HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
I hope more people check out your post here.
Thanks for reading and responding.
I'm so glad you and others are enjoying this post/prompt today! I am having a ball reading everything posted and commented.
Fantastic day of poetry sharing!
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
Here (by Grace Paley)
Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face
how did this happen
well that's who I wanted to be
at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration
that's my old man across the yard
he's talking to the meter reader
he's telling him the world's sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips
This poem makes me think of that...like a daisy blooming in a crack in the sidewalk. Thanks!
When you are sad.....I will lick away your tears.
When you are scared.....I scare off any of your fears.
When you are worried.....I will give you my loving hope.
When you mope....I will be your big old cheer up dope.
When you are confused and want to know why you can't see the light.
I shall be the big mass blocking out all the light from sight.
This is my oath, I pledge to the end of time.
If you ask Why, Because silly you are THE best friend of -- Mine!
I Wove wou!!!
Registered and published all right reserved.
Around About I go by Kim Hawley
Around about and around about I go,
Looking for Pooh Bear that I love so,
And all around the garden patch,
Pooh wouldn't leave a honey batch.
So, around about and around about I go,
Looking through the webs for Pooh's face,
Some place in time and space,
In Pooh's eyes I could see the hopes and dreams,
Or at least some new little schemes.
Again, around about and around about I go,
Looking in places I don't even know,
Pooh was here, left a foot print behind,
My little Pooh Bear is one of a kind,
It really don't matter when or how,
Just so I find Pooh now.
But still around about and around about I go,
Everyday without Pooh Bear I feel so low,
Remember bouncing on my knee,
And in your little face there was such glee,
I will find you, I will not give up,
Even if you are not still a little pup,
So, around about I go,
Today is the day I find you and never let you go.
I love you Pooh Bear.
Poem inspired by the love of Michael Wright Hawley for his missing Daughter, Tania Shandelle Hawley.
Published all right revised.