Favourite poems

[RedFox]

I have to own up to the fact that poetry isn't high on my list of priorities. With one or two exceptions, most serious poets don't write about stuff that I can identify with, so I've largely ignored them. Although - on the less serious side - I would support John Hegley for Poet Laureate.

My guess is that Gordon Brown feels the same way - otherwise why contribute an extract from a doctoral thesis to the book World Leaders' Favourite Poems? At least George Bush had the sense to keep stum.

Among the favourites listed are:
Gerry Adams - The Lake Isle of Innisfree - WB Yeats
Ian Paisley - I Must Go On - James Kyle Paisley (very appropriate)
Ariel Sharon - We Are Both From The Same Village - Naomi Shemer (hmmm)
Jose Maria Aznar - If - Rudyard Kipling (well, someone had to choose it...)

So, do you have a favourite poem? Alternatively, what should George Bush have chosen?

[Tiger Feet]

My current favourite. I also quite like (if that's the right word...probably not given it's about war) Wilfred Owen, but mainly because I studied his poetry in Higher English.


Warning


When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

I try not to think about George Bush.

[wigglebum]

My Favourite poem is a sonnet from William Shakespeare

Sonnet 17

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme

I love it.

[RedFox]

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple...

I like that; reminds me a little of the film Tatie Danielle. Which reminds me of Barbara one of the few poems that I do rate highly, by Jacques Prévert. I hope the translation below gives an insight for those who can't read the original French version (if not, at least translating it kept me occupied this evening!) It helps to know that Brest is a port on the French coast. And that it's set in World War II - though it could equally well be in Vietnam / Bosnia / Iraq. And that Prévert is addressing Barbara informally (using 'tu') rather than using the formal 'vous', as if she is a friend or family member.


Remember, Barbara
It was raining unceasingly on Brest that day
And you were walking smiling
Radiant delighted dripping-wet
In the rain
Remember, Barbara
It was raining unceasingly on Brest
And I ran into you on the rue de Siam
You were smiling
And I was smiling too
Remember Barbara
You who I didn't know
You who didn't know me
Remember
Remember when still that same day
Don't forget
A man was sheltering under a porch
And he shouted your name
Barbara
And you ran towards him in the rain
Dripping-wet delighted radiant
And you threw yourself into his arms
Remember that Barbara
And don't be annoyed with me if I address you as 'tu'
I say 'tu' to all those I love
Even if I've only seen them once
I say "tu" to all those I love
Even if I don't know them
Remember Barbara
Don't forget
That good and happy rain
On your happy face
On that happy town
That rain on the sea
On the arsenal
On the boat to Ouessant
Oh Barbara
What bloody stupidity war is
What has become of you now
Under this rain of iron
Of fire of steel of blood
And the one who held you in his arms
Lovingly
Is he dead disappeared or even still living
Oh Barbara
It rained unceasingly on Brest
As it rained before
But it's no longer the same and everything is wrecked
It's a rain of grief terrible and desolate
It's no longer even a storm
Of iron of steel of blood
Just simply some clouds
Which die like dogs
Dogs that disappear
With the currents over Brest
And go to rot far away
Far away very far from Brest
Of which nothing remains.

[killingtime]

I like Robert Browning's Porphyria's Lover. It's disturbing and creepy. I'm also a fan of Wilfred Owen's stuff like Tiger Feet.

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm'right-tops down for spite,
and did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me--she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

[Kel_Warminster]

I have always preferred the metaphysical poets and William Blake (Songs of Innocence and Experience...think Tyger Tyger), but also, I love WW1 poems by Wilfred Owen (Anthem for Doomed Youth), Rudyard Kipling (The Bridegroom) and Siegfried Sassoon. Having first read "Dulce et Decorum Est" at 17, it has been one of my favourites ever since;

DULCE ET DECORUM EST1

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest3 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 hoots4

Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .

Dim, through the misty panes10 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,11 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 cud12

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13

To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori.15

(It is an wonderful and great honour to die for one's country)

Truly haunting

[ElaineB]

And now one for cat lovers everywhere!

The Cats' Protection League - Roger McGough


Midnight. A knock at the door.
Open it? Better had.
Three heavy cats, mean and bad.

They offer protection. I ask, 'What for?'
The Boss-cat snarls, 'You know the score.
Listen man and listen good

If you wanna stay in the neighbourhood,
Pay your dues or the toms will call
And wail each night on the backyard wall.

Mangle the flowers, and as for the lawn
a smelly minefield awaits you at dawn.'
These guys meant business without a doubt

Three cans of tuna, I handed them out.
They then disappeared like bats into hell
Those bad, bad cats from the CPL.



Also love anything by Wendy Cope; Flowers in particular - I'll see if I can find it later!


Elaine