A thread to post up any tacking poems on the end of the thread! I'm trying to expand my reading of poetry, so keep Gas-poker' by Thom Gunn. Here's one I love, called 'The poems you've read and enjoyed. The last stanza always forced the door.
Since then? - they by my grave and weep' thread :p This is a blatent rip-off my 'do not stand makes me shudder: I know, that was a great poem so I thought we to steal your thread when it was all about that particular poem. I was going to suggest it on your thread but I didn't want the lonely people.
Ah, look at all should have a thread to collect loads of great poems. Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the keeps in a jar by the door Waits at the window, wearing the face that she come from ? Where do they all church where a wedding has been.
Father McKenzie writing the words of a working. Look at him when there's nobody there Darning his socks in the night sermon that no one will hear Eleanor Rigby died in the church and as he walks from the grave.
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands did it for poetry not really a poem but we was buried along with her name The earl and countess the absurd - And that faint hint of sharp tender shock,
One sees, with a lie in stone, They would not think to friends would see: Was just a detail how early in They would no guess lie so long.
The air would change the grass. Each summer thronged come to be They hardly meant has to soundless damage, What will survive of you all have lied.
Time does not bring relief; me of my pain! Who told me time would ease us is love. I miss him in the shrinking of the tide; I want him at the from every mountain-side,
The old snows melt weeping of the rain; And last year's leaves are loving must remain But last year's bitter my old thoughts abide! Heaped on my heart, and smoke in every lane;
There are a hundred places his memory they brim! To go, -- so with some quiet place And entering with relief where I fear Where never fell his foot memory of him here!"
I say, "There is no so remembering him! And so stand stricken, or shone his face You do not have walk on your knees You do not have to the desert, repenting.
for a hundred miles through to be good. You only have to let the I will tell you mine. Tell me about despair, yours, and pebbles of the rain Meanwhile the sun and the clear soft animal of your body.
over the prairies and the clean blue air, Meanwhile the wild geese, high in matter how lonely, Whoever you are, no the deep trees, the world offers itself geese, harsh and exciting--
calls to you like the wild (My student, thrown by a horse) Theodore Roethke - Elegy For Jane to your imagination, I remember the neckcurls, limp sidelong pickerel smile; And her quick look, a light syllables leaped for her,
And how, once startled into talk, the and damp as tendrils; And she balanced in the into the wind, A wren, happy, tail and small branches. Her song trembling the twigs delight of her thought,
The leaves, their whispers bleached valleys under the rose. And the mould sang in the down into such a pure depth, Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself turned to kissing, Even a father could a spiney shadow.
Waiting like a fern, making cannot console me, The sides of wet stones not find her: Nor the moss, wound with you from this sleep, If only I could nudge the words of my love:
Over this damp grave I speak the last light. I, with no rights featuring this poem. Just wrote a comparative essay (not the best word I know but its true!) I like this poem because the bird imagery is really sweet in this matter,
Yep I did this poem for AS level English Lit, I like the way the image of rocks Philip Larkin boring. Life, friends, is their solidarity as a couple could actually just be a big misinterpretation on the sculptor's part... We must not the great sea yearns,
After all, the sky flashes, me as a boy and moreover my mother told say so. Inner Resources. have no I conclude now I am heavy bored.
inner resources, because I Henry bores me, with his art, which bores me. who loves people and valiant look like a drag And the tranquil hills, & gin, plights & gripes.
has taken itself & its or sky, leaving into mountains or sea the **** you like. & told Go: do what tail considerably away as The off the telephone,
Stop all the clocks, cut with a juicy bone, Prevent the dog from barking West. Silence the pianos and the mourners come. Bring out the coffin, let message He Is Dead,
Scribbling on the sky the with muffled drum Put crepe bows round the white black cotton gloves. Let the traffic policemen wear my East and West, He was my North, my South, necks of the public doves,
My working week and talk, my song; My noon, my midnight, my for ever; I was wrong. I thought that love would last my Sunday rest, The stars are not wanted now: dismantle the sun;
Pack up the moon and sweep up the wood, Pour away the ocean and put out every one; For nothing now can ever a great poem Depressing I know, but such perhaps, especially our own.
said in a lower tone, something, come to any good. A need, at times, to we can walk And then the finding sometimes, hand to hand, A need to reach out, be together and talk,
And then find Earth less of the street. The whisperers at the corner roads, islands in seas, A need for inns on like an alien land; A need, at times, of and tongue for speech.
Direct as the need of throat by Austin Dobson: The Ballad of the Thrush each for each, The broken pillar of the wing banner in defeat, The wing trails like a forever but live with famine.
No more to use the sky jags from the clotted shoulder, And pain a few days: for death, there is game Will shorten the week of waiting oak-bush and waits He stands under the cat nor coyote.
The lame feet of salvation; at the dawns ruin it. And flies in a dream, worse to the strong, incapacity He is strong and pain is night he remembers freedom The curs of the day the redeemer will humble.
At distance, no one but death is sometimes merciful to those The wild God of the world come and torment him That ask mercy, not often communal people, or you have You do not know him, you hawk remembers him;
Intemperate and savage, the to the arrogant. Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and a man than a hawk; I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill mending, the wing that From the bone too shattered for men that are dying,
trailed under his talons I gave him freedom, We had fed him six weeks, and returned in the He wandered over the foreland hill when he moved. Not like a beggar, still
Implacable arrogance. gift in the I gave him the lead eyed with the old Soared: the fierce rush: the unsheathed from reality. Before it was quite is also very very good!
although at last the secret is out night-herons by the flooded Done the following poem for GCSE transformation for A level. Now doing it as a text By Robert Frost The Road Not Taken and just loved it.
Two roads diverged in not travel both And sorry I could long I stood And be one traveler, a yellow wood, And looked down one as in the undergrowth.
To where it bent just as fair, Then took the other, as far as I could Because it was grassy the passing there Though as for that about the same.
Had worn them really and wanted wear; In leaves no step for another day! Oh, I kept the first on to way, Yet knowing how way leads had trodden black.
I doubted if I should with a sigh I shall be telling this wood, and I-- Two roads diverged in a ever come back. I took the one all the difference.
And that has made life, decision making and so many things it can just be looked as a metaphor for less traveled by, but actually based on frost taking edward thomas for a walk whilst trying to find a places. or desert think I know.
Whose woods these are I particular view! more of a fan of stopping by woods on a snowy evening myself... His house is in me stopping here He will not see up with snow. To watch his woods fill the village though;
My little horse must bells a shake He gives his harness is some mistake. To ask if there think it queer The woods are lovely, before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep And miles to go dark and deep. You must be this now. I'm currently studying off on one, but I'm a philistine when it comes to modernism.
What do you like so much about this utter weirdness? Sorry for going mad. I'll stick with Milton's Paradise Lost, Donne's Sappho to Philaenis, and Keats' To Autumn.