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Old January 12th, 2001, 09:19 PM   #1
AuntieWOW
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Which poets do you enjoy and why? Feel free to share their poetry here for us to all enjoy!
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Old February 23rd, 2001, 02:47 PM   #2
Addie
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Emily_Dickinson

I Many Times Thought
_
I many times thought peace had come
When peace was far away,
As wrecked men deem they sight the land
When far at sea they stay.

And struggle slacker, but to prove,
As hopelessly as I,
That many the fictitious shores
Before the harbor lie.

*******************************

Emily_Dickinson... Wow, how do I explain what her words do for me? Many poems just sort of put it all there. The concept, the words, it gives it all to you. But, with Emily Dickinson I need to really read to hear what the words say. And read again. Sometimes I need to look up a word to get a better definition so that I can better understand what the poem says. And, I can read the same poem at different times in my life and see something I didn't see before, or understand something that I didn't "get." Her words change and grow with my life experiences...or something like that. She makes me think as well as feel.
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Old February 28th, 2001, 05:20 PM   #3
mhinnyme
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MAYA ANGELOU


I simply love her.Its her ability to uplift
my spirits with simple yet significant celebration of womanhood type poems.She is gifted with an ability to write and a most distinctive voice to deliver such wonderful words.

One of my all time favorites is Phenominal Woman.If I find it I'll post it here.Were all phenominal in our own way.

I have other favorites but Maya is always at the top of my list.
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Old March 1st, 2001, 02:35 PM   #4
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PHENOMENAL WOMAN

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.<br>
I'am not cute or built to suit size.<br>
But when I start to tell them <br>
They think I'am telling lies.
I say,<br>
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips <br>
The stride of my step<br>
The curl of my lips.<br>
I'a woman<br>
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.<br>


I walk into the room
just as cool as you please
And to a man,<br>
The fellows stand or<br>
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me a hive of honey bees<br>
I say, <br>
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,<br>
And the joy in my feet.
I'am a woman<br>
Phenomenally<br>
Phenomenal woman,<br>
That's me.

Its in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breast
the grace of my style.

It's the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand

"cause I'am a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woma
That's me!


I shorten it but you get the picture.
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Old March 2nd, 2001, 09:46 AM   #5
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mhinnyme - that's an excellent poem, thank you for reminding me of its wondrousness
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Old March 2nd, 2001, 09:57 AM   #6
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Okay, here's a new one by my favourite poetess

<b>KINCH & LACK (Boys? Outfitters)

By U.A.Fanthorpe</b>

Elderly man with a tape-measure.
Pedantic; a shade arch
(I don?t see this at the time),
Treats my brother like a bride.


My mother not at ease
(I feel, but don?t know why);
My brother, flattered, diffident,
Somehow aware of destiny.


Youngest son faces his kingdom
And his trousseau, socks, cap, scarf,
Wreathed in official colours
For unimagined deeds,


Greek, rugger, chemistry, things
He will do and I shan?t,
Though I am two years older,
Taller, have read more books.

He?s rehearsed for a special future
By a man with pins in his mouth;
Seven-year Dante, whose Vergil
Salutes his inches with respectful craft.

Mother stands restlessly by,
The cheque-book in her bag
(And I know, without being told,
There?s a world enlisting him
That hasn?t a place for me.

O.K. I?ll make my own).

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Old March 2nd, 2001, 10:27 AM   #7
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I, myself have always been a fan of Edgar Allan Poe. One of my favorites is his Poem "A Valentine".

One of the reasons I find this poem fascinating is that the person for whom this poem is written is hidden within the poem itself. I can not even tell you how long it took me to figure this out..lol.. the only clues given are in the poem itself.
To translate the recipient read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third of the third, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.

~A Valentine~

For her ryhme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! --they hold a treasure
Divine--a talisman--an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure--
The words--the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialist point, or you may lose the labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now peering
Eyes' scintillating soul there lie perdus
Three eloquent wordsoft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets--as the name is a poet's too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando--
Still form a synonym for Truth.--Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do
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Old March 8th, 2001, 03:10 PM   #8
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<b>The Hitchhikers</b> by Diane Wakoski

They burn you
like the berries of mountain ash in August,
standing by the road,
clearly defined,
Autumnal brilliant, heads
scorched from waiting
in the sun.
How can
you pass them up?
But you do,
and dream each night of a hell,
where you are a hitchhiker,
and no one will ever stop to pick you up.

Excuses:
I'm a woman alone;
I'm moving all my books;
I need the time for thinking;
One of them might murder me;
but really, it is the look each one gives me
of need,
desperate need,
pick me up, or Ill fail to reach my goal,
and that need frightens me,
so I look away,
speed on,
dream each night of a mountain ash
with its bunches of orange berries gleaming
like the failures of my life,
burning beautifully on the tree,

Oh, hitchhikers, hitchhikers,

And they remind me
that I drive across country often, looking for your face
in each car I pass,
or which passes me, knowing you would not hitchhike, either,
thinking of the two years I spent with you,
reliving them over and over,
knowing I had everything I wanted,
but like Midas was silent and stiff with the gold I had touched,
felt always as if I had been buried under a ton of diamonds,
still feel the dust of them glinting on me as I drive across country,
my hair sparkling with the brilliance you left,
and those hitchhikers,
reminding me of hell. That I had what I wanted once,
and lost it,
failed, watched myself failing,
still not understanding why I failed,
but knowing I did,
and still passing--65, 75, 85 miles an hour,
those hitchhikers,
burning by the side of the road,
burning
like the berries of the beautiful mountain ash,
burning like my tongue
on fire,
burning me, as I sleep protected in my rings of fire,
the gleaming car which hurtles me through America,
and all I have
is not enough.

Mountain ash, not the ash from out of which a bird
with glinting neck feathers who flies suddenly up on the road
in front of the swift car, would come,
not the ash on the foreheads of holy sinners,
not the ash of immortality.

Ash--a tree, with its berries not the colour of any jewel,
not the colour of blood, but a rare and exceptional colour, given only
to plants,
and I see each one of you,
as I pass on the road,
burning like the autumn berries,
and the beauty makes me pass by quickly.

In my car, is an altar, sacrificial stone and knife,
the tears of blame and understanding,
and blood; all the blood my body has lost;

Oh, hitchhikers, hitchhikers,
you would not want to travel with me.
You would not want to travel with me.

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Old April 26th, 2001, 10:19 AM   #9
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anyone lived in a pretty how town ... by e.e. cummings

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



---?1936 e. e. cummings
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Old April 26th, 2001, 10:45 AM   #10
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WOW!!!! Lovely ((((Liam)))) thanks for sharing that with the boards!
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Old April 26th, 2001, 11:20 AM   #11
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Anytime, my friend! Anytime!
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Old April 26th, 2001, 01:27 PM   #12
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Oh ((((Liam)))) thank you, that's an old favourite of mine. Anyone who's new to cummings, do SAY the poem out loud

I shall try to find something ...
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Old April 26th, 2001, 01:39 PM   #13
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((Liam))
Thank you
(I like the rhythm)

><>
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Being kind is more important than being right...
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Old April 26th, 2001, 01:40 PM   #14
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This one's by Roger McGough, a great and funny British poet (still living, I'm glad to say). It's title made it irresistable for posting

<b>Q

By Roger McGough</b>

I join the queue
We move up nicely.

I ask the lady in front
What are we queuing for.
'To join another queue,'
She explains.

'How pointless,' I say,
'I'm leaving.' She points
To another long queue.
'Then you must get in line.'

I join the queue.
We move up nicely
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Old April 26th, 2001, 02:54 PM   #15
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Ha! I like that one, Q!!
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