poetry you must read

Well, alot of people think that poetry sucks. And alot of poetry does suck. But some is good. So ITT we recommend good poetry and poets.

I suggest Wilfred Owen. My favorite poem of his is "Mental Cases".

Everyone knows "Fog" by Carl Sandburg and "The Tyger" by William Blake, but I recommend them anyway.

Oh! and "My Love in Her Attire" by none other than you, Anonymous.

My love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer.
No beauty she doth miss,
When all her robes are on;
But Beauty's self she is,
When all her robes are gone.

i like this one.  i tried to read some of e. e. cummings' other stuff but i don't get it at all - i don't even know where to start.  i don't know shit about poetry i'm just here for the recommendations




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

You by W.H. Auden

Really, must you,
Over-familiar
Dense companion,
Be there always?
The bond between us
Is chimerical surely:
Yet I cannot break it.

Must I, born for
Sacred play,
Turn base mechanic
So you may worship
Your secular bread,
With no thought
Of the value of time?

Thus far I have known your
Character only
From its pleasanter side,
But you know I know
A day will come
When you grow savage
And hurt me badly.

Totally stupid?
Would that you were:
But, no, you plague me
With tastes I was fool enough
Once to believe in.
Bah!, blockhead:
I know where you learned them.

Can I trust you even
On creaturely fact?
I suspect strongly
You hold some dogma
Or positive truth,
And feed me fictions:
I shall never prove it.

Oh, I know how you came by
A sinner's cranium,
How between two glaciers
The master-chronometer
Of an innocent primate
Altered its tempi:
That explains nothing.

Who tinkered and why?
Why am I certain,
Whatever your faults are,
The fault is mine,
Why is loneliness not
A chemical discomfort,
Nor Being a smell?

        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.

E.E. Cummings is the guy who made me see that poetry could be cool, or at least not as mind-numbing as I thought. Haha. Anyway..."To The Virgins"

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
    Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
    To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
    The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
    And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
    When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
    Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
    And while ye may go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
    You may for ever tarry.

http://www.carlsensei.com/classical/index.php/translation
http://www.bopsecrets.org/gateway/passages/basho-frog.htm

Matsuo Basho.

Dividing like clam
and shell, I leave for Futami—
Autumn is passing by

--

Sad nodes
we're all the bamboo's children
in the end

---

Kobayashi Issa.

In this world
We walk on the roof of hell
Gazing at flowers

--

Society
Just treads Hell's roof
Distracted by the Cherry Blossoms

Here's "Mental Cases".

    Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
    Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
    Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
    Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?
    Stroke on stroke of pain, - but what slow panic, (5)
    Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
    Ever from their hair and through their hands' palms
    Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
    Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?

    – These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. (10)
    Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
    Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
    Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
    Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
    Always they must see these things and hear them, (15)
    Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
    Carnage incomparable, and human squander
    Rucked too thick for these men's extrication.

    Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
    Back into their brains, because on their sense (20)
    Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black;
    Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.
    – Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
    Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
    – Thus their hands are plucking at each other; (25)
    Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
    Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
    Pawing us who dealt them war and madness

While you probably all saw this coming, Shakespearean poetry is pretty much mandatory reading, if only because of his influence on English literature, as well as the world at large.

Aside from him, my contribution: The Poison Tree, Willie Blake

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree

Poetry is for faggots, women, and psuedo interlectuals

>>10

I agree, and I am a poet.

ETHEREAL

Swift shimmering shadow steps silently; saddened, still softly severing serenities, slicing sympathy staggering sturdily; suffering sarcastic solace. Never noticing naïve naiads nor narrows nor necrotic nethers nestled nearby; naughty neutral nocturnal nexus nevertheless normally nostalgic notions; noteworthy nemesis neo neurotic neuralgia. Exceptional effervescing elemental ephemeral entity experiencing euphoria everlasting eternally eschew evermore, Ethereal

>>12

So you know enough words to trail on with repeating letters? I'm not impressed.

>>10
So then who are the real intellectuals? The ones who shun everything? And come out with humongous egos but nothing to show for it? Sounds reasonable to me.

>>14, that's the million dollar question! Wouldn't it be nice to find true intellectuals that neither accept nor deny, but instead question everything and look for the understandings as well as the practical applications, bring in the history, the poetry and the science all in to one aspect; not to mention questioning their own perception and perspectives for continuity. How indepth and involved would such a person be. Probably beyond human capacity and decency. Alas, we are still in the dark ages, still using the old ways expecting better results. A truly sad state of being.

>>13, if you don't look for the continuity within, of course you aren't going to be impressed with the discovery of your own perception. What is it that you really want, perfection? Sorry, only us humans here, boss.

>>16
You didn't have to fag up, like, three boards with it.

>>13
Alliteration mother fucker, do you speak it?

>>18, YES! Thanks! I wasn't even sure what to call that type of poetry, but now I do! Alliteration...Thanks!

If anyone would like to hear what the basis for that poem 'Ethereal' came to be, here ya go.
Well, I'll let you in on the ideas behind it.
The poem is completely based upon me, well, about the traits that I possessed and exhibited throughout my life.
The reason for Ethereal? Because all of my actions degraded who I was to the point where I didn't even exist to me, I became ethereal to me. When I reach a peak of awareness, I'll write another poem to compliment 'Ethereal' in a way of becoming real once more. At least that's an idea of mine...:)

>>16
That doesn't make any sense.

>>21
He means interconnection between all human processes, so that if we grasp the reason for each, we may follow them far beyond what we thought possible.

Doesn't make his poem interesting, though.

Of course it doesn't to the slain. Those who have the capacity to look beyond can grasp what is hidden, but only when they use their eyes to see and the upon seeing question what is really there. Or you can just take me at my word and accept your final conclusion of 'Doesn't make his poem interesting, though.' I couldn't care less what you think, since you clearly don't care what you yourself thinks.

Rest your head on the heart of the wicked and let your choices become one with the beasts of the field. What displays of vulgarity may delight the passing of time, still patiently we wait. The master is absent, the mind but a shell. If you cratch your butt and sniff, does it not smell?
:P*

>>23
"The slain!" I like it. Evocative, but completely impenetrable.