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Hi all,
So some co-workers and I today got on the topic of Remembrance Day, and more specifically In Flanders’s Fields, and other war poetry.
John McCrae - In Flander's Fields
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In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Then we moved on to talking about our favourite poems and poets. Personally, two of my favourites are William Hodgson, and William Butler Yeats. I love the imagery and feeling that they can put into their work. Here's a few of my favorites.
William Hodgson - Before Action
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By all the glories of the day
And the cool evening's benison
By that last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done,
By beauty lavishly outpoured
And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived
Make me a soldier, Lord.
By all of all man's hopes and fears
And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing;
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavour that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes
Make me a man, O Lord.
I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this; -
By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.
William Butler Yeats - The Lake Isle of Innisfree
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I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
William Butler Yeats - When you are old
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When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
I'm interested, what are some of TL's favorites?
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My favorite poem is "Ozymandias," by Percy Shelley- he's my favorite poet. It's just breathtaking his ability. Yeats is a cool guy too ^^
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I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away
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I've most enjoyed reading France Prešeren, a Slovenian poet from the romantic era. It's fair to say that he was our greatest poet and the 7th verse from the poem "Zdravljica"("A Toast") is the Slovenian national anthem. Right after him I'd have to say I like Milan Jesih who's a postmmodernist.
I've read some english poetry as well, my mom likes Robert Burns a lot and I've read some of his work, but my personal favourite english poem is:
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
by Robert Frost
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On November 23 2010 03:53 Banteng wrote:My favorite poem is "Ozymandias," by Percy Shelley- he's my favorite poet. It's just breathtaking his ability. Yeats is a cool guy too ^^ + Show Spoiler +
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away
Cool, I like.
Aah Frost, always a classic.
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Dusk has fallen, and already
All that's near grows faint and far;
But the first to rise has risen,
High it shines, the evening star!
All is in uncertain motion,
Creeping mists enshroud the sky;
Gulfs of night as deep as ocean
Mirrored on the dark lake lie.
Now I sense the gleam and glowing
Of the moonlight's eastering day;
Slender willow-tresses flowing
With the nearby waters play.
Through the flickering shadows lunar
Magic dances, coolness seems
To have touched my eyes and soothes me,
Steals into my inmost dreams.
-Goethe
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If you like Yeats' poetry, do yourself a favour and never learn about him as a person. He is a complete moron.
I'm a really huge fan of Edgar Allen Poe. Which seems like a horrible choice because most people are taught "The Raven," but I was fortunate enough never to be forced to learn about him, so I really like him.
T.S. Eliot is a poet I really enjoy, both for his writing, and as a person. He had some really excellent modernist philosophies that I very much agree with (ironically, judge the text, not the author).
Archibald Lampman is probably the only Canadian poet I admire. City at the End of Things is really something else.
I am trying to fill the void that I see in Canadian literature myself, so I guess I would say I am one of my own favourite poets (though I haven't posted anything good on TL) 
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Procrastination is All of the Time
Torpor and sloth, torpor and sloth,
These are the cooks that unseason the broth.
Sloth and torp, slothor and torp
THe directest of bee-line ambitions can warp.
He who is slothic, he who is troporal,
Will not be promoted to sergeant or corporal.
No torporer drowsy, no comatose slother
Will make a good banker, not even an author.
Torpor I deprecate, sloth I deplore,
Torpor is tedious, sloth a bore.
Sloth is a bore, torpor is tedious,
Fifty parts comatose, fifty tragedious.
How drear, on a planet redundant with woes,
That sloth is not slumber, nor torpor repose.
That the innocent joy of not getting things done
Simmers sulkily down to plain not having fun.
You smile in the morn like a bride in her bridalness
At the thought of a day of nothing but idleness.
By midday you're slipping, by evening a lunatic,
A perusing-the-newspapers-all-afternoonatic,
Worn to a wraith from the half-hourly jount
After glasses of water you didn't want,
And at last when onto your pallet you creep,
You discover yourself too tired to sleep.
O torpor and sloth, torpor and sloth,
These are the cooks that unseason the broth,
Torpor is harrowing, sloth it is irksome-
Everyone ready? Let's go out and worksome.
Perhaps my favourite at the moment, but pretty much anything by Ogden Nash is good
I am trying to fill the void that I see in Canadian literature myself, so I guess I would say I am one of my own favourite poets (though I haven't posted anything good on TL)
post something!
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I was sure you'd post He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven after you mentioned Yeats.
Had I the heaven's 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.
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EPT
