What's you're favorite poem.

[Gamble]

I love every everything Walter Raleigh has done. This one by far one of his best works. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I encourage you to post one you like.



The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd


If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall,

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten--
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind may move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Sir Walter Raleigh

[kneroh]

I love culture night at the tank! Sir Walter is the man!

Got way into the beat poets during college. Lawrence Ferlinghetti by far being my favorite. Here's one his shorter ones,

Come Lie With Me And
Be My Love

Come lie with me and be my love
Love lie with me
Lie down with me
Under the cypress tree
In the sweet grasses
Where the wind lieth
Where the wind dieth
As night passes
Come lie with me
All night with me
And have enough of kissing me
And have enough of making love
And let our two selves speak
All night under the cypress tree
Without making love

[Gamble]

It's nice to see an educated boy.

Your poem is nice, but quite steamy ;)

[Headman]

Here I sit
broken hearted
came to $#!^
but only farted.

[Foolproof]

THE SUN RISING.
by John Donne


Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

[kneroh]

I have a feeling this thread isn't going to last long, unless people start throwing up Gwar lyrics as poetry. Then it will be eternal.

I'm sure you know Sir Walt's "The Lie". The images that conquers up!

[CaliBeachhead32]

HOWL

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night...

(this masterpiece goes on and on... for the curious and those in the know... and knowing is half the poem...)

[Headman]

Originally Posted by kneroh

I have a feeling this thread isn't going to last long, unless people start throwing up Gwar lyrics as poetry. Then it will be eternal.

I'm sure you know Sir Walt's "The Lie". The images that conquers up!

Have you seen me?
Have you seen me?
Suckle my bloated love knuckle
Just like Fatty Arbuckle

[Gamble]

Doesn't matter.

In all honesty, all my forum friends have already posted.

Sounds lame, but hey it's the truth.

[kneroh]

Originally Posted by CaliBeachhead32

HOWL

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night...

(this masterpiece goes on and on... for the curious and those in the know... and knowing is half the poem...)

Allen Ginsburg, thank for that. Just not enough though. I'm going to go finish it. I love me some beat poetry.