Hello All,
There is a wonderful Spanish poet, Juan Ramon Jimenez.
Try him, you’ll love him.
Take Care,
Fieldthistle

You can hear samples of Bernstein reading his poetry if you like it:

http://www.amazon.com/Prison/dp/B0000035EV/sr=8-1/qid=1156943714/ref=pd_bbs_1/102-9733551-5409745?ie=UTF8

Sounds like a modern day Jim Morrison..
I like it….

This one is not for everyone. It is not so family friendly. It is an intense work by an obscure modern poet, Steven Jesse Bernstein, who later commited suicide by stabbing himself repeatedly in the neck.

No No Man (Part Two)
by Steven Jesse Bernstein

Midnight, and the sunglasses twirl. My injuries, a death plant warped in Hollywood rockery of juice cans and hypodermic needles. You’re so cool, baby, you don’t know what you need. If the jaundice comes up, get out of the traffic. A girl with an ass that hurts me all over again, I know that girl’s ass hurts glass and pebbles crunching under her shoes. The movie goes on and the men go inside, hiding their bottles. These men look confused like fish getting clubbed on the pier. What they see in there is better than me. Pick a needle out from the burnt matches and test it, blow through it, make a little bubble – there is a wazzoo up the strip. Put it in with the dust and the pocket of cigarettes, the key, the muffled bottom of the storm. Pull down my eyelids with my fingernails in a window not made to look in or out of, or to be used as a mirror though it works good as a mirror. There is a yellow line. It is jaundice. It is not a yellow line. It is not jaundice, no. The ass that makes me hurt, made to make me hurt, turns, showing breasts that make me hurt but a face like a butcherboard. Eyes smeared on, worn out red elastic mouth, the mouth of a sock waiting to be used. It hurts. Little tender thing in the dark under the shorts, leaky pelvis all over the sheets. Yo, baby, got a No No? No, No No. Sick animal glare in the skin of the pavement, oh I do want to go down right here where they threw the mop head, the paper towels, and rubbers, got a No No whistle is all. You can’t make music with that. Movie inside is big as the wall of a building, so bright it’d make you throw up but they watch it, the men, and they eat and they drink and they eat and they drink. Actually, it’s not just the two of us, her and me. There are cops and me and her and the good for nothing windows and brown suits and grey suits and blue suits, cars that stop and ones that go. There are palm trees and people leaning on the palm trees, scratching, reading, and looking at the trash which is empty, believe me, from being looked at. And gargoyles of human beings hung on the ugly architecture of wobbling lurching bodies coming down fast like dying empires, after the sun is already dead in their eyes. Rooms full of spooks drunk on dish soap spiked with whatever was left on the tables when the bar closed. An animal over there with spotted pants dreams googleplex with the chopped up palm and broken wall and it’s just lost, oh my God. Moving like a range of dusty mountains, dead with nothing to hold it down, moved by earthquake or rain that swallows the stars and moon. Get out of the way, off the curb, he pukes on the garden and slams sideways into the stucco. What are the cops waiting for here, lined up in their cars staring at their clip boards and microphones. "We got some people scratching themselves, a man looking at his eyeballs up under his shades, and a woman with a poochy ass who keeps turning around and around. Find a hurt place and don’t ever let it heal. Get that fucker hanging on the wall and tear him loose, the stars are coming out. There is a TV set in a window, it says, ‘The stars are coming out.’"

I have so many favorites! I won’t hog this thread with them all. I’ll copy two, and you can look these two up for yourselves:

We’ll Go No More A-roving
Lord Byron

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock
TS Eliot

As I Walked Out One Evening
by W. H. Auden

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.’

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.’

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

quote:

Originally posted by SassyGritsAL

Don’t know the author but this one has always been my favorite:

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog was covered with dust, but sturdy and stanch he stands
The little toy soldier was red with rust, his musket held in his hand
Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier passing fair
That was the time when our Little Boy Blue kissed them and put them there
Now don’t you go until I come he said
And don’t you make any noise
So toddling off to his trundle bed, he dreamt of his pretty toys
And while he was dreaming, and angel fair, awaken our Little Boy Blue
Ah, the years and many, the years are long, but our little toy friends stand true

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
each in his same old place
Awaiting the touch of a tiny hand
and the smile on a tiny face
But as they are waiting the long years through
on the dust of that little chair
Oh what has happened to our Little boy Blue
Since he kissed them
and put them there?

-Eugene Field

I memorized that one if fifth grade, and reciting it always makes my mom cry.

I think you can get a glimpse into a person’s substance by seeing the poetry they favor. Great thread.

My current favorite poet is William Blake. Why he remains relatively obscure is a mystery to me. I guess maybe it’s because reams of his stuff IS obscure and maybe even boring. But those wonderful little pods of genius that he scatters throughout–like finding diamonds on the beach.

Poetry can be useful as well as beautiful, as I learned one day years ago at a management conference in Irvine, CA. In the opening address, the main moderator explained that because late arrivals at sessions were so disruptive, none would be tolerated. He said that anyone arriving late would have the choice of leaving immediately or giving a personal performance of some kind to the entire group. My company had paid a couple thousand dollars for me to attend this thing, and here we were, back in the third grade!

On the second day during the afternoon break, I ran to my rental car to retrieve a copy of Sunset magazine that I’d brought from home. On the cover, it featured a delicious-looking burrito, and the feature article covered great burrito places in L.A. I was trying to convince the people I’d met at the conference to go with me to try one of the places, but was met with universal fear of being mugged or worse if we went into the city (conference attendees were management accountant types, by way of explanation[;)]). I figured there was safety in numbers (at least half of the party in question were male) and thought the pictures in the magazine might win them over.

Everyone was already reseated when I got back, and as I slipped into my seat I glanced at the big conference room clock and realized that I was about 20 seconds late. This did not go unnoticed by the Nazi moderator, who stood up from the panel and announced that I would now be performing for the group. I was really angry and knew that he could probably not force me to do it. He could probably make me leave, though, and I didn’t want to. I made a snap decision to follow the course of least kafuffle.

As I made my way to the front of the conference room, I tried to come up with something to perform. If I’d decided to sing, I would have been forced to leave, banned from the rest of the week’s sessions, and ousted from the state of California. I finally settled on reciting "Stopping by The Woods on a Snowy Evening," by Robert Frost because it was the only thing I could think of. It was ludicrous, I know, but try as I might, that was all my fevered mind could come up with.

What I had thought was a ridiculous choice under the circumstances was viewed quite differently by the audience. I guess talking about woods and frozen lakes on a 105 degree day to conference captives has its merits. I got a standing ovation.

I never did get those people to drive into L.A. with me. On the Thursday night, we drove down to Laguna Beach and had a wonderful dinner at a fancy restaurant on a cliff overlooking the sea. The peoplewatching was almost as entertaining as counting the Lamborghinis in the parking lot. But I would have traded it all for one of those burritos.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

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.

oooh, I like that one. Thanks for sharing.

Are these sensitive souls the ones I’ve seen argue over mayonaise vs salad dressing?
Well I’ve got one:

Come to me
Sue Saniel Elkind

Come to me looking
as you did fifty years ago
arms outstretched
and I will be waiting
virgin again
in white that changes
to splashes of roses
as we lie together
Come to me smiling again
with your morter and pestle
and vitamin pills
because I am given to colds
and coughs that wrack us both
Oh come to me again
and I will be there
waiting with withered hands
gnarled fingers
that will leave marks
of passion on your back.

These two are by different poet laureates in the last few years.

Stanley Kunitz wrote this one. My husband e-mailed it to me this morning, because it was the first time he’d seen it, and he loved it. I have loved it since first reading it about 5 years ago.

TOUCH ME

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
Some forty years ago
When I was wild with love
And torn almost in two
Scatter like leaves this night
Of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
It is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
Under a gunmetal sky
Staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
Underfoot as if about
To burst from their crusty shells;
And like a child again
Marveled to hear so clear
And brave a music pour
From such a small machine.

What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
Stirs in the buried life
One season only
And it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
Thrash against the windowpanes
And the house timbers creak.

Darling, do you remember
The man you married? Touch me,
Remind me who I am.

This one is by Billy Collins, perhaps the most poignant piece of writing I’ve found regarding 9/11/2001.

THE NAMES

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze upon the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name–
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stiched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner–
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.
When I peer into the woods
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft between buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening–weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds–
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound.)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of a tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room
On the walls of the heart.

I love reading poetry and I love writing it. These two, I think, are just incredible.

Hey, Mosca, well done!

Wow; some WW1 poetry. Here’s my favorite from that period:

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!– An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.–
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Don’t know the author but this one has always been my favorite:

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog was covered with dust, but sturdy and stanch he stands
The little toy soldier was red with rust, his musket held in his hand
Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier passing fair
That was the time when our Little Boy Blue kissed them and put them there
Now don’t you go until I come he said
And don’t you make any noise
So toddling off to his trundle bed, he dreamt of his pretty toys
And while he was dreaming, and angel fair, awaken our Little Boy Blue
Ah, the years and many, the years are long, but our little toy friends stand true

quote:

Originally posted by Poverty Pete

Swinburne, now there’s a classic British perv.
"Come down and redeem us from virtue, Our Lady of Pain."

Now now, Poverty Pete. Moi was not mentioning "that" poem, just "The Triumph Of Time". [}:)]

Andrea

Rudyard Kipling’s "The Thousandth Man"

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it’s worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.
Nine nundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.

‘Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for ‘ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ’em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him.
The rest of the world don’t matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ’em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man h’s worth ’em all,
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong’s your wrong, and his right’s your right,
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men’s sight —
With that for your only reason!
Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot — and after!

I learned about it in a Star Trek novel, found the poem, and it rang so true for the relationships I have with my very best friends that I’ve always loved the poem.

I also can’t recite Frost’s "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" without thinking of the song Hernando’s Hideaway, because the poem will fit in the song. It’s how I remember the words!!!! (don’t think Frost included the Ole part though tee hee)

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. (ole)[:p]

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.