My favourite poetry

I don't know a lot about poetry. But I have one favourite poem thats personal and special and was written just for me. I don't think i'll post it, but the sentiment is there.

Gunga Din
Rudyard Kipling

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I'll marrow you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Song
Seamus Heaney

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.


There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.

Shannon Ketch- laughter of gold

All the rain off lead birds
in silver treetops
And victory of sounds emitted
on ponies of glory
From mouths ground down
lower than the salts of mirth
The paralysis of stars
& the funerals of cars

The red coat fur of shattered
early mornings, light barely come up
Ashtray miming the slow
music of angels in crush-velvet chairs
Broken clinks as they hit
night's loose boards
The floor where the ceiling is
but a cracked panorama

All the drains in the house
these tiny palaces
Chirp when victory is in town
that's where i'll be

in fact most things by the poemfone poets

also john cooper clarke -evidently chicken town

the f*cking cops are f*cking keen
to f*cking keep it f*cking clean
the f*cking chief's a f*cking swine
who f*cking draws a f*cking line
at f*cking fun and f*cking games
the f*cking kids he f*cking blames
are nowehere to be f*cking found
anywhere in chicken town

the f*cking scene is f*cking sad
the f*cking news is f*cking bad
the f*cking weed is f*cking turf
the f*cking speed is f*cking surf
the f*cking folks are f*cking daft
don't make me f*cking laugh
it f*cking hurts to look around
everywhere in chicken town

the f*cking train is f*cking late
you f*cking wait you f*cking wait
you're f*cking lost and f*cking found
stuck in f*cking chicken town

the f*cking view is f*cking vile
for f*cking miles and f*cking miles
the f*cking babies f*cking cry
the f*cking flowers f*cking die
the f*cking food is f*cking muck
the f*cking drains are f*cking f*cked
the colour scheme is f*cking brown
everywhere in chicken town

the f*cking pubs are f*cking dull
the f*cking clubs are f*cking full
of f*cking girls and f*cking guys
with f*cking murder in their eyes
a f*cking bloke is f*cking stabbed
waiting for a f*cking cab
you f*cking stay at f*cking home
the f*cking neighbors f*cking moan
keep the f*cking racket down
this is f*cking chicken town

the f*cking train is f*cking late
you f*cking wait you f*cking wait
you're f*cking lost and f*cking found
stuck in f*cking chicken town

the f*cking pies are f*cking old
the f*cking chips are f*cking cold
the f*cking beer is f*cking flat
the f*cking flats have f*cking rats
the f*cking clocks are f*cking wrong
the f*cking days are f*cking long
it f*cking gets you f*cking down
evidently chicken town

and most stuff by him.

a lot of roger mcgough.

i'll probably update on this sometime...wiht others that don't jump to mind..also all of the poems i've seen written on the london underground walls, i'm still waiting for the money to be able to buy the book of them.

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

I cant stand Seamus Heaney, I just find his poems boring.

clarke had a lot to say, andi think in that poem he is making a statement on society. as far as i'm aware he himself wasn't a violent person. i also like a poem which i studied ages ago i cna't remember it and from the current study i have really fallen for john donne's the flea today since i have basically jsutb een lookign at htat all day. it is ver y clvever

Quote: Caged_Liberty_

Studied this today in my English lit tutorial, it's great to read aloud, try it :

The Windhover
Gerard Manley Hopkins

To Christ our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom
of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcno, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on a swing,
As a skate's keel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and the gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-break embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Hehe, I like that.. I don't really understand it, but its fun to read.

yeah i really like that and can imagine how linguistically it could be dismantled beyond belief...

i love 'no choice' i haven't read any MacCaig before but it is realyl good and a joy to read.

Well I don't mind that one actually, but I've had some of the most boring lectures of my life on Donne!

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with 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 crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My 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 ever come to any good.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it.

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.

Quote: phoenix_

who was that by?...it is... it leaves my speechless. yeah.

dunno but it's in the book 'the perks of being a wallflower' by steven chobsky

Her Anxiety by W. B. Yeats

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returnig spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at best
Into some lesser thing
prove that i lie

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death
prove that i lie

prufrock is a bit special. we had to study it last year and i came to the conclusion that t.s.eliot is far too clever for his own good, but i like the way his poems challenge the reader, it's all "i'm not going to put a translation here, you can go and find the latin or german yourself" curious fella, very interesting hearing him read his own stuff, too. anyway...

Poetry of Departures - Philip Larkin

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.
We all hate home
And having to be there:
I detect my room,
It's specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you b*st*rd;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me to stay
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo'c'sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.

The Listeners

'IS there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor.
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

By Walter de la Mare.

Love it.

Two Spells For Sleeping


Eight white stones
in a moonlit garden,
to carry her safe
across the bracken
on a gravel path
like a silvery ribbon
seven eels in the urge of water
a necklace in rhyme
to help her remember
a river to carry her
unheard laughter
to light about her
weary mirror
six candles for a kings daughter
five sighs for a drooping head
a prayer to be whispered
a book to be read
four ghosts to gentle her bed
three owls in the dusk falling
what is that name
you hear them calling?
In the soft dark welling,
two tales to be telling,
one spell for sleeping,
one for kissing, for leaving.


Michael Donaghy

Quote: Havana_Gang_brawl_

Sticks and stones may break my bones
but words can also hurt me.
Stones & sticks break only skin,
while words are ghosts that haunt me.

Slant and curved the word-swords fall
to pierce and stick inside me.
Bats and bricks may ache through bones,
but words can mortify me.

Pain from words has left its scar
on mind and heart that's tender.
Cuts and bruises now have healed;
it's words that I remember.

Great poem. Heard those words in the past and did not know it was a poem.

by Barrie Wade

EDIT: I just notice this thread

I just started reading anthology there are some interested poem let me jut type one this one was written by Matthew Sweeney

The house

the house has a dozen bedrooms,
each of them cold and wind
battered the window and blew down power-lines to leave the house dark.
Rats lived in the foundations,
sending scouts under the stairs
for a year or two, and once a friendly ghost was glimpsed at the foot of a bed. down hill half a mile was the Atlantic,
with its ration of the drowned
one of whom visited the house, carried there on a door.
It hosted dry corpses, too,
with nostrils huge to a child, but never a murder- except the lambs bled dry in the yard outside. sunlight never took over the interior, and after dark the cockroaches came from under a cupboard to be eaten by the dog.
crows were always sitting on the wires, planning nests,
in the chimneys, and shotgun sometimes blew a few away.
Neighbours never entered
As often as in the other houses,
But it did have a piano upstairs.
And I did grow up there.

that is the one of my favourite poem so i hope yous like it

I'm putting this poem in for Shane, seeing as though he was talking about Flanders Fields (in The Shout Box) yesterday.

In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie
  In Flanders fields.

Take up your problem with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
  In Flanders fields.

(Edit: When I bought $1o (Canadian) on Saturday, it had the first verse of the poem on it. In English and in French. Here is the first verse... in French.

Au champ d'honneur les coquelicots
Sont parsemes de lot en lot,
Aupres des croix; et dans l'escape
Les alouettes devenues lasses
Melent leurs chants au sifflement
Des obusiers.)

You're welcome.

Here are 2 John Betjeman poems:

The Arrest Of Oscar Wilde At The Cadogan Hotel

He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer
As he gazed at the London skies
Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains
Or was it his bees-winged eyes?

To the right and before him Pont Street
Did tower in her new built red,
As hard as the morning gaslight
That shone on his unmade bed,

'I want more hock in my seltzer,
And Robbie, please give me your hand-
Is this the end or beginning?
How can I understand?

'So you've brought me the latest Yellow Book:
And Buchan has got it in now:
Approval of what is approved of
Is as false as a well-kept vow,

'More hock, Robbie- where is the seltzer?
Dear boy, pull again at the bell!
They are all little better than cretins,
Though this is the Cadogan Hotel.

One astrakhan coat is at Willis's-
Another one's at the Savoy:
Do fetch my morocco portmanteau,
And bring them on later, dear boy.

A thump, and a murmur of voices-
('Oh why must they make such a din?')
As the door of the bedroom swung open
And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in:

'Mr Woilde, we ave come for tew take yew
Where felons and criminals dwell:
We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly
For this is the Cadogan Hotel.'

He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book.
He staggered- and, terrible-eyed,
He brushed past the palms on the staircase
And was helped to a hansom outside.

On Seeing An Old Poet In The Cafe Royal

I saw him in the Cafe Royal.
Very old and very grand.
Modernistic shone the lamplight
There in London's fairyland.
'Devilled chicken. Devilled whitebait.
Devil if I understand.

Where is Oscar? Where is Bosie?
Have I seen that man before?
And the old one in the corner,
Is it really Wratislaw?'
Scent of Tutti-Frutti-Sen-Sen
And cheroots upon the floor.