What is your favorite poem?

ProgMetalFan

ProgMetalFan

In the attic
Jan 3, 2002
4,630
12
38
PITTSBURGH
My favorite poem is "I Know You" by Henry Rollins.



[size=+1]I know you[/size]
[size=+1]You were too short[/size]
[size=+1]You had bad skin[/size]
[size=+1]You couldn't talk to them very well[/size]
[size=+1]Words didn't seem to work[/size]
[size=+1]They lied when they came out of your mouth[/size]

[size=+1]You tried so hard to understand them[/size]
[size=+1]You wanted to be part of what was happening[/size]
[size=+1]You saw them having fun[/size]
[size=+1]And it seemed like such a mystery[/size]
[size=+1]Almost magic[/size]

[size=+1]Made you think that there was something wrong with you[/size]
[size=+1]You'd look in the mirror and try to find it[/size]
[size=+1]You thought that you were ugly[/size]
[size=+1]And that everyone was looking at you[/size]

[size=+1]So you learned to be invisible[/size]
[size=+1]To look down[/size]
[size=+1]To avoid conversation[/size]

[size=+1]The hours, days, weekends[/size]
[size=+1]Ah, the weekend nights alone[/size]
[size=+1]Where were you?[/size]
[size=+1]In the basement?[/size]
[size=+1]In the attic?[/size]
[size=+1]In your room?[/size]
[size=+1]Working some job - just to have something to do.[/size]
[size=+1]Just to have a place to put yourself[/size]
[size=+1]Just to have a way to get away from them[/size]
[size=+1]A chance to get away from the ones that made you feel[/size]
[size=+1]so strange and ill at ease inside yourself[/size]

[size=+1]Did you ever get invited to one of their parties?[/size]
[size=+1]You sat and wondered if you would go or not[/size]
[size=+1]For hours you imagined the scenarios that might transpire[/size]
[size=+1]They would laugh at you[/size]
[size=+1]If you would know what to do[/size]
[size=+1]If you'd have the right things on[/size]
[size=+1]If they would notice that you came from a different planet[/size]

[size=+1]Did you get all brave in your thoughts?[/size]
[size=+1]Like you going to be able to go in there and deal with it[/size]
[size=+1]and have a great time.[/size]
[size=+1]Did you think that you might be the life of the party?[/size]
[size=+1]That all these people were gonna talk to you and you[/size]
[size=+1]would find out that you were wrong?[/size]
[size=+1]That you had a lot of friends and you weren't so[/size]
[size=+1]strange after all?[/size]

[size=+1]Did you end up going?[/size]
[size=+1]Did they mess with you?[/size]
[size=+1]Did they single you out?[/size]
[size=+1]Did you find out that you were invited because they[/size]
[size=+1]thought you were so weird?[/size]

[size=+1]Yeah, I think I know you[/size]
[size=+1]You spent a lot of time full of hate[/size]
[size=+1]A hate that was pure sunshine[/size]
[size=+1]A hate that saw for miles[/size]
[size=+1]A hate that kept you up at night[/size]
[size=+1]A hate that filled your every waking moment[/size]
[size=+1]A hate that carried you for a long time[/size]

[size=+1]Yes, I think I know you[/size]
[size=+1]You couldn't figure out what they saw in the way they lived[/size]

[size=+1]Home was not home[/size]
[size=+1]Your room was home[/size]
[size=+1]A corner was home[/size]
[size=+1]The place they weren't, that was home[/size]

[size=+1]I know you[/size]

[size=+1]You're sensitive and you hide it because you fear[/size]
[size=+1]getting stepped on one more time[/size]
[size=+1]It seems that when you show a part of yourself that is[/size]
[size=+1]the least bit vulnerable someone takes advantage of you[/size]
[size=+1]One of them steps on you[/size]

[size=+1]They mistake kindliness for weakness[/size]
[size=+1]But you know the difference[/size]
[size=+1]You've been the brunt of their weakness for years[/size]
[size=+1]And strength is something you know a bit about because[/size]
[size=+1]you had to be strong to keep yourself alive[/size]

[size=+1]You know yourself very well now[/size]
[size=+1]And you don't trust people[/size]
[size=+1]You know them too well[/size]

[size=+1]You try to find that special person[/size]
[size=+1]Someone you can be with[/size]
[size=+1]Someone you can touch[/size]
[size=+1]Someone you can talk to[/size]
[size=+1]Someone you don't feel so strange around[/size]
[size=+1]And you find that they don't really exist[/size]
[size=+1]You feel closer to people on movie screens[/size]

[size=+1]Yeah, I think I know you[/size]
[size=+1]You spend a lot of time daydreaming[/size]
[size=+1]And people have made comment to that effect[/size]
[size=+1]Telling you that you're self involved, and self centred[/size]

[size=+1]But they don't know, do they?[/size]
[size=+1]About the long night shifts alone[/size]
[size=+1]About the years of keeping yourself company[/size]
[size=+1]All the nights you wrapped your arms around yourself[/size]
[size=+1]so you could imagine someone holding you[/size]
[size=+1]The hours of indecision, self doubt[/size]
[size=+1]The intense depression[/size]
[size=+1]The blinding hate[/size]
[size=+1]The rage that made you stagger[/size]
[size=+1]The devastation of rejection[/size]

[size=+1]Well, maybe they do know[/size]
[size=+1]But if they do, they sure do a good job of hiding it[/size]
[size=+1]It astounds you how they can be so smooth[/size]
[size=+1]How they seem to pass through life as if life itself[/size]
[size=+1]was some divine gift[/size]
[size=+1]And it infuriates you to watch yourself with your[/size]
[size=+1]apparent skill at finding every way possible to screw it up[/size]

[size=+1]For you life is a long trip[/size]
[size=+1]Terrifying and wonderful[/size]
[size=+1]Birds sing to you at night[/size]
[size=+1]The rain and the sun the changing seasons are true friends[/size]
[size=+1]Solitude is a hard won ally, faithful and patient[/size] [size=+1]Yeah, I think I know you[/size]
 
How can you beat some Dylan Thomas?

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
[size=+3]O</I>[/size][size=+2]n death [/size]by John Keats




I.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.



II.

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.
 
Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came




My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travelers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower, Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out through years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels bagin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears on bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside ( "since all is o'er," he saith,
"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend."),

While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.






Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band"-to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps-that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now-should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shone one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all around"
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound,
I might go on; naught else remained to do.

So, on I went, I think I never saw
Suck starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers-as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion.
"See Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case;
'Tis the Last Judgment’s fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
in leprosy: thin dry blades pricked the mud
which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!




Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked on draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards-the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

Giles then, the soul of honour-there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.
Good--but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands
In to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof-to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.




Which, while I forded,--good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
--It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque,
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

And more than that--a furlong on--why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake. not wheel--that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? With all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) withing a rood--
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap-perchance the guide I sought.




For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round the mountains--with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me,--solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts-- you're inside the den!

Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain...Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the while world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

Not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day
Came back again for that! Before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--
"Now stab and end the creature-to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--
How such a one was strong and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."

Robert Browning
 
I can't stand poems, probably because I read so many when I was in school. I prefer to stick with my own writings.
 
I love "I Know You." I'm also partial to "The Connoisseuse of Slugs" and "Dover Beach."


Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
 
Great thread, 'I know you' was a prelude to modern society and Childe Roland was a classic epic by the master Browning.

Words to live by:


Rudyard Kipling
If

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
 
RequiemX said:
There's a really good song version of The Highway Man. I think by Loreena McKennit.
Click to expand...

Yes, Loreena McKennitt did a wonderful musical interpetation of The Highwayman. I love her interpetation of The Lady Of Shalott which is actually one of the few poems I actually like. I hardly read poetry but I think that would be my favorite if I had to pick one that isn't mine.
 
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