Favorite Poet

[Jessica]

Hi All! I'm just curious who everyone's favorite poet is? I can never seem to decide on just one and i'm wondering if it's really possible to have one? Let me know your thoughts.

If you do have a favorite, please include a sample or link to his or her work!

Have a great day!

P.S. At the moment, mine is John Keats...but I think it's because I'm preparing for the Poetic Voices Romantics presentation on Thursday!

[cheryl]

i can never decide on just one, either. T.S. Eliot wrote my favorite poem, The Hollow Men, so I'll say him. I like Dylan Thomas, e.e. cummings, and Anne Sexton, and Rumi, too. I like these lines in particular (from The Hollow Men)

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

[Jessica]

If you like this ending by TS Elliot then check out the free verse photo on poets.org of this quote. Here's the link:http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20715. It's pretty awesome and trust me, you may spend hours looking through all of the photos and reading the quotes. It's my go-to bored online thing to do!

[denise]

Right now it's Charles Simic. I love the simple images he uses for big themes and I love the humor in his poetry.

The White Room

The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.

They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me--
And then didn't.

Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild

Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
Always more dark houses,
Hushed and abandoned.

There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.

The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn't leave her room.

The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things,

Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as "perfect."

Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn't it.

Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light--
And the trees waiting for the night.

[Jessica]

Really love this poem! So glad you shared it and I may use it for our Poem-A-Day email. I agree about the simplicity of images, but i also think that they are strong and memorable.

Thanks for sharing!!

[denise]

This poem by June Jordan stands out for me because of the sounds and flow. I also think her lists are very powerful.

The formatting here isn't the same as the actual poem which you can find on Poets.org

The Taking Back of Miss Valentine Jones, Poem # One

well I wanted to braid my hair
bathe and bedeck my
self so fine
so fully aforethought for
your pleasure
see:
I wanted to travel and read
and runaround fantastic
into war and peace:
I wanted to
surf
dive
fly
climb
conquer
and be conquered
THEN
I wanted to pickup the phone
and find you asking me
if I might possibly be alone
some night
(so I could answer cool
as the jewels I would wear
on bareskin for you
digmedaddy delectation:)
"WHEN
you comin ova?"
But I had to remember to write down
margarine on the list
and shoepolish and a can of
sliced pineapple in casea company
and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's
gaining weight and don' nobody groove on
that much
girl
and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before
the laundry hit the water which I had
to kinda keep an eye on be-
cause if the big hose jumps the sink again that
Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs
and brain me with a mop don' smell too
nice even though she hang
it headfirst out the winda
and I had to check
on William like to
burn hisself to death with fever
boy so thin be
callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?"
"Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not
wake enough to sit beside him longer than
to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/
his shirt and feed him orange
juice before I fall out of sleep and
Sweet My Jesus ain but one can
left
and we not thru the afternoon
and now
you (temporarily) shownup with a thing
you says' a poem and you
call it
"Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"

guilty po' mouth
about duty beauties of my
headrag
boozeup doozies about
never mind
cause love is blind

well
I can't use it

and the very next bodacious Blackman
call me queen
because my life ain shit
because (in any case) he ain been here to share it
with me
(dish for dish and do for do and
dream for dream)
I'm gone scream him out my house
be-
cause what I wanted was
to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my
self so fully be-
cause what I wanted was
your love
not pity
be-
cause what I wanted was
your love
your love

[Tabby]

I've never really had a favorite poet, but because of an assignment in my English class, I'm really starting to like Robert Frost. I like his style

[cheryl]

I want to thank Jessica for another chance to get to know the writing circle and enjoy poetry. I'd wanted to share this poem last night at the chap book gathering, so I'll share it now. I always go back to this one--it's comforting, consoling. And it's pretty local, from the late Trinity college professor Hugh Ogden:

Lecture on the Tides

This is the point when the earth
wobbles and the days lengthen
and the years have to have days
added. The point when the harness
that pulls the sea pulls each
of us into spring and makes us
shudder again when the first
red appears, the bleeding
that quicker than not becomes
green. You will always be here
as long as water cuts deeper
into soil and the coursing
adds to what is left, as long as
leaves are drawn out by the tide
and buds bleed through bark,
even you who are lost will always
be here as long as the moon
circles into its line with sun
and the oceans respond, as long
as we are able to find the moment
when the winds make the globe
waver, as long as the earth
corrects itself, as long as
pain takes faith in its bud
and flowers.
--Hugh Ogden, Two Roads and This Spring