Favourite Poems

[Lissa]

Knowing we are a cultured lot on here, I was wondering which poem people really love for whatever reason.

I have two favourites, which I really can't choose between. Funnily enough, they are both War poems, although from different wars.

The first is by Wilfred Owen.........enough said!


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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 flound'ring 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


The second is by John Gillespie Magee Jnr - KIA 11 December 1941. He was a Canadian Spitfire pilot killed during the Battle of Britain.
This was the only poem he wrote.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

One I wrote myself - I like writing poetry:

The rose is like the flower of life,
A glory in fool bloom,
A moment in pure holy light,
Then sinks back into gloom.

I've got two legs from my hips to the ground,
And when I move them they walk around,
And when I lift them they climb the stairs,
And when I shave them they ain't got hairs.

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin

[Stingo]

It's Rudyard Kipling for me....

Tommy

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here.
"The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.


I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.


Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleepIs
cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bitIs
five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.


We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.


You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

Do not stand by my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there;I did not die.

Mary Frye


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
silence the pianos with a muffled drum
bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put white bows around the necks of the public doves,
Let the the traffic policemanwear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East, and west,
My was working week and my sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk , my song,
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can come to any good.

W.H. Auden

Originally Posted by Stingo

It's Rudyard Kipling for me....

ah, Mr Kipling does make exceedingly good poems

Daniel DeFoes "The True Born Englishman"

http://www.luminarium.org/editions/trueborn.htm if anyone has a spare hour or so to read it But for something written in 1701, its still extremely topical today...

Originally Posted by lynw

Daniel DeFoes "The True Born Englishman"

was'nt he in the shawshank redemption?

[fizzwheel]

Originally Posted by stewie

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
silence the pianos with a muffled drum
bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put white bows around the necks of the public doves,
Let the the traffic policemanwear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East, and west,
My was working week and my sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk , my song,
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can come to any good.

W.H. Auden

Thats one of my favourites to.