THE JAMES MASON COMMUNITY BOOK CLUB discussion

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James Mason Fun Stuff! > YOUR FAVORITE POEMS AND POETS

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message 101: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
D. A. wrote: "Robert Frost's "Dust of Snow" was the first poem I savored. I had heard poetry, read poetry, memorized poetry; yet, when my poetry professor stood before the class and recited those few lines, the ..."

thank you D.A. for a wonderful post!!!


message 102: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Marie wrote: "My favorite poets are the Romantics like Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron, John Keats and William Blake.

I also like Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath."


All great!! although Donne tops my list


message 103: by Ray (new)

Ray Van Horn, Jr. (Westminster) | 8 comments Bukowski, Morrison, Gibran, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Shakespeare, Poe, Whitman, Dickinson. In my neck of the woods, my poem and open mike mentors have been Daniel Armstrong and Susan Beverly.


message 104: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Ray wrote: "Bukowski, Morrison, Gibran, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Shakespeare, Poe, Whitman, Dickinson. In my neck of the woods, my poem and open mike mentors have been Daniel Armstrong and Susan Beverly."

great and eclectic list!


message 105: by Ray (last edited Feb 15, 2012 04:24AM) (new)

Ray Van Horn, Jr. (Westminster) | 8 comments Thank you, sir! I have many others who inspire me, but that's a rough overview of those who tend to whisper the muse to me louder than others.


message 106: by Ray (new)

Ray Van Horn, Jr. (Westminster) | 8 comments And if I can shamlessly plug a new poem over at my site, "Underneath a Billboard," hopefully folks will enjoy it. :) www.rayvanhornjr2.blogspot.com


message 107: by Peter (last edited Feb 15, 2012 11:12AM) (new)

Peter Meredith (goodreadscomPeterMeredith) | 32 comments My review of my favorite poem that I just posted here on Goodreads:
I write this review as someone who dislikes poetry, or maybe I should say, before I'm attacked by the poetry police, that I have disliked every poem forced down my throat by well meaning sadistic teachers. (Someone please explain the antithetical concept of a well meaning sadist. I'm afraid I might have made that up and it makes no sense.)
The Raven I enjoyed. Perhaps because of its length. For me, a poem can't be too long. The longer the poem, the higher my risk of death(probably through suicide) before I might finish it. Nor can a poem be too short.
I know a lot of you out there think, the shorter the better when it comes to poetry, but a short poem is just a waste. The author should have put the time into a dirty limerick instead. Either way, the length of the Raven was, as Goldilocks was so fond of saying, just right. It told it's story and no more.
The story itself was good. Poems are a difficult medium for horror, but Poe had me hooked quickly, wondering what it was tapping or rapping on his chamber door. Though it might have been better if the Raven had razor sharp talons instead of just dreadful insinuations with its 'Nevermore'
The best part of the Raven for me, the poetry novice, was the clever verbiage matched with the more clever rhyming scheme. You would think that since this was the best poem I've ever read that I would give it five stars, but it was still a poem and likely never to be read by me again...four stars and no more.


message 108: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Ray wrote: "And if I can shamlessly plug a new poem over at my site, "Underneath a Billboard," hopefully folks will enjoy it. :) www.rayvanhornjr2.blogspot.com"

superb poem!!!


message 109: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Peter wrote: "My review of my favorite poem that I just posted here on Goodreads:
I write this review as someone who dislikes poetry, or maybe I should say, before I'm attacked by the poetry police, that I have ..."


facinating post Peter


message 111: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Autumn wrote: "W.H. AudenAnne SextonWilliam Carlos WilliamsWalt WhitmanLangston Hughes[authorimage:Edna St. Vinc..."

superb list! and great pics!!


message 112: by Ken (new)

Ken Consaul | 437 comments Peter wrote: "The author should have put the time into a dirty limerick instead."

Hey. Hey! I'm right here.


message 113: by Autumn (new)

Autumn | 18 comments Rick wrote: "Autumn wrote: "W.H. AudenAnne SextonWilliam Carlos WilliamsWalt WhitmanLangston Hughes[authorimag..."

Thank you Rick :)


message 114: by Mataos (new)

Mataos Ponticello (MattPonticello) | 10 comments "A Season in Hell" by Rimbaud


message 115: by KOMET (last edited Mar 09, 2012 05:47PM) (new)

KOMET | 734 comments "ULYSSES" - Alfred, Lord Tennyson


This poem never fails to move me whenever I recite it.

Alfred Tennyson


message 116: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
No man is an island..an element of itself...it is part of a continent- a piece of the main
JOHN DONNE


message 117: by KOMET (last edited Mar 10, 2012 02:54PM) (new)

KOMET | 734 comments ULYSSES

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
with me —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Alfred Tennyson


message 118: by Jill (last edited Mar 10, 2012 01:22PM) (new)

Jill Hutchinson (Bucs1960) O Captain, My Captain - Walt Whitman

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 wrote the poem after Abraham Lincoln's assassination. Repeated metaphorical reference is made to this issue throughout the verse. The "ship" spoken of is intended to represent the United States of America, while its "fearful trip" recalls the troubles of the American Civil War. The titular "Captain" is Lincoln himself.

With a conventional meter and rhyme scheme that is unusual for Whitman, it was the only poem anthologized during Whitman's lifetime. He only wrote a poem like this once.


message 119: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
just amazing how vivid word images great poems imspire


message 120: by Kristen (new)

Kristen true beauty = Pablo Neruda


message 121: by Martha (new)

Martha Samsell (tmhoira2012) I love Emily Dickinson and T.S. Eliot. I love the Book of Practical Cats. Dickinson I can relate to her poetry.


message 122: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Martha wrote: "I love Emily Dickinson and T.S. Eliot. I love the Book of Practical Cats. Dickinson I can relate to her poetry."

Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot

Agree- a real gem!!!


message 123: by Elaine (new)

Elaine Campbell (goodreadscomnickthegreek11) | 52 comments When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd by Walt Whitman


message 124: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Elaine wrote: "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd by Walt Whitman"

Always enjoy Whitman!
Though I am a Donne man first!


message 125: by Anne (new)

Anne (Spartandax) | 245 comments My absolutely favorite poem is "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes. So beautiful, but poignant and sad too.


message 126: by Duffy (new)

Duffy Pratt | 1 comments William Carlos Williams:

So much depends upon
A red wheelbarrow
Glazed with rain water
Beside the white chickens.

Yeats:

I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those breasts are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'

'Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.

'A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'

Frost:


WE make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.

’Tis pity if the case require 5
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.

But so with all, from babes that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar, 10
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.

And the incomparable Dylan Thomas:

I

I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.

These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
the signal moon is zero in their voids.

I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb’s weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.

I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its heats;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.

II

But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and midnight as she blows.

We are the dark deniers, let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp,
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy’s lamp,
And from the planted womb the man of straw.

We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds’ iron,
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world’s ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the country gardens for a wreath.

In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ho the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love’s damp muscle dries and dies,
Here break a kiss in no love’s quarry.
O see the poles of promise in the boys.

III

I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggot’s barren.
And boys are full and foreign in the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.


message 127: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Duffy wrote: "William Carlos Williams:

So much depends upon
A red wheelbarrow
Glazed with rain water
Beside the white chickens.

Yeats:

SUPERB!!!!!!!!!!

I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those breasts are f..."



message 128: by Margaret (new)

Margaret (MargaretBlake) | 21 comments Rick wrote: "D. A. wrote: "Robert Frost's "Dust of Snow" was the first poem I savored. I had heard poetry, read poetry, memorized poetry; yet, when my poetry professor stood before the class and recited those f..."

I remember studying that poem in my American literature class when I was taking my degree. I love it still.


message 129: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Margaret wrote: "Rick wrote: "D. A. wrote: "Robert Frost's "Dust of Snow" was the first poem I savored. I had heard poetry, read poetry, memorized poetry; yet, when my poetry professor stood before the class and re..."

so true!! some poems truly stay with you always!


message 130: by Cindy (new)

Cindy Sprigg | 7 comments On Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, 'Speak to us of Children.'

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Khalil Gibran


message 131: by KOMET (new)

KOMET | 734 comments My favorite poet is ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

And one of my favorite poems (from Tennyson) is the following ---

ULYSSES

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: But every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bounds of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachos,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port, the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have tol'd and wrought, and thought with me-
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads - you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved heaven and earth; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


message 132: by Rick (last edited Jan 24, 2013 04:54PM) (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Complete English Poems by John Donne

I am reading the above edition of Complete John Donne poems...SUPERB edition..as it has notes and translations of Olde English words on bottom of each page...makes for a much more fulfilling experience


message 133: by Paul (new)

Paul (PaulLev) | 27 comments "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" by Thomas Gray


message 134: by Barb (new)

Barb (lv2scpbk) | 123 comments Anyone watching the TV show "The Following" starring Kevin Bacon? It's based on Edgar Ellen Poe's works.


message 135: by Paul (new)

Paul (PaulLev) | 27 comments Great show Barbara - here are my reviews http://paullevinson.blogspot.com/2013...

And I'll add another poem & poet to this list - "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvel


message 136: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Barbara wrote: "Anyone watching the TV show "The Following" starring Kevin Bacon? It's based on Edgar Ellen Poe's works."

Heard of the show. Did not know it was Poe related!


message 137: by Alfrick (new)

Alfrick | 4 comments My favorite poet is Anonymous.
There once was a girl with class
Who had a magnificent ass
not round and pink
as you may think
But grey, had long ears and ate grass.


message 138: by Richard (new)

Richard Rose (goodreadscomDickRose) | 24 comments Per Isaac Asimov"
The limerick packs words astronomical
In a space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.


message 139: by Richard (new)

Richard Rose (goodreadscomDickRose) | 24 comments I like "Dover Beach." by Matthew Arnold.
It's a downer, but definitely worth reading.

For more upbeat poetry, there's always Longfellow's "Psalm of Life."


message 140: by Larry (new)

Larry Winebrenner (wmyrral) | 98 comments Alfrik---

Sounds like my grandfather's animal. He taught it to eat nothing but sawdust to save on feed. Just about the time the fool animal learned to like sawdust,, it died.


message 141: by Shelley (new)

Shelley | 72 comments I agree with Rick and D.A. about Frost. He seems more of a miracle every year: the accessible surface, and the depths underneath. Every image of his seems rooted in some kind of vaster image in the subconscious, so it's all very rich.

Shelley, http://dustbowlstory.wordpress.com


message 142: by Bryn (last edited Mar 11, 2013 04:31AM) (new)

Bryn Hammond (BrynHammond) | 21 comments I've always been keen on Algernon Charles Swinburne. Way out of fashion.

Algernon Charles Swinburne


message 143: by Anne (new)

Anne (Spartandax) | 245 comments One of my all time favorites.
Little Boy Blue, by Eugene Field.
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place---
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.


message 144: by Larry (new)

Larry Winebrenner (wmyrral) | 98 comments Lovely poem Anne.

Now it's time for Little Boy Blue Jr. to show up and for toys to smile. :)


message 145: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Bryn wrote: "I've always been keen on Algernon Charles Swinburne. Way out of fashion.

Algernon Charles Swinburne"


So happy you brought him up. He deserves to be remembered and read!


message 146: by Rick (last edited Mar 13, 2013 08:56PM) (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Another poet I enjoy is Hart Crane. Tragic endThe Complete Poems The Complete Poems and Selected Letters and Prose of Hart Crane by Hart Crane


message 147: by J.R. (new)

J.R. | 250 comments Many. Among them Robert Frost, Wendell Berry and Hayden Carruth.


message 148: by Bryn (new)

Bryn Hammond (BrynHammond) | 21 comments @Rick That's lovely to hear. Back at uni, I was ashamed to admit I liked him. It was, um, am I allowed to like Swinburne? He wasn't taught, though I managed to smuggle him into an essay. I think he's having a little lease of life nowadays.


message 149: by Rick (new)

Rick F. | 12861 comments Mod
Bryn wrote: "@Rick That's lovely to hear. Back at uni, I was ashamed to admit I liked him. It was, um, am I allowed to like Swinburne? He wasn't taught, though I managed to smuggle him into an essay. I think he..."

always enjoyed him!!! Max Beerbohm has some hilarious caricatures of him in this most worthy book! Max Beerbohm's Caricatures by N. John Hall


message 150: by Nick (new)

Nick Wastnage (NickWastnage) | 36 comments I've always liked Ted Hughes. Birthday Letters is a good one to start on. More recently, I've read some of Seamus Heaney's poems. Here's a couple of lines from 'Had I not been awake' from Human Chain.

'Had I note been awake I would have missed it
A wind that rose and whirled until the roof...'

I always read a few lines each day before I start writing.


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Books mentioned in this topic

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Authors mentioned in this topic

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T.S. Eliot (other topics)
Thomas Hardy (other topics)
Dorothy Parker (other topics)
W.B. Yeats (other topics)
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