Poems you love and want to share

Badenkate,

John G Magee is buried in Scopwick Church Burial Ground in Lincolnshire.
Standing at his grave makes me very emotional, the headstone has the first and last lines of his poem at the base, which is beautiful. However, knowing that he was but a 19 year old boy when he died makes me awfully sad.

It's a beautiful place, very peaceful and quiet, but with a young children's play area in the next field, which is fitting somehow, children growing up in freedom etc.

Scopwick Burial ground is worth seeing, if only because there are also 5 German war graves there, it makes one think a lot about forgiveness.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
BY E. E. CUMMINGS
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

I have this stuck on my fridge; it helps on low days.

Cure me with quietness by Ruth Pitter

Cure me with quietness
Bless me with peace;
Comfort my heaviness,
Stay me with ease.
Stillness in solitude
Send down like dew;
Mine armour of fortitude
Piece and make new;

That when I rise again
I may shine bright
As the sky after rain,
Day after night.

What a lovely thread. Luckygirl the Billy Collins poem is so good, and one that I will save to read again and again.

I love poetry and find it difficult to pick a favourite, so instead I will share one that I came across online several years ago which I love, and will possibly be new to all of you:

Customer by Alison Brackenbury

You do not know why I cried last night
Why the last sandwich sailed into the hedge.
You did not see the cat with smudged grey ruff
Freeze by my tyres, spring lightly to the edge.

You do not know my parents' Christian names,
My daughter's voice, or where I went to school
Nor tell from my too careful ironed out tone
Who I once loved; and who I think a fool.

I come in twice a week to pick through bread,
Choose cabbages, complain about the flu
Beg a stout box and melt into the rain
And so you think you know me. And you do.

Further to 'daffodils' -

'When wordsworth's heart with pleasure filled at a cloud of golden daffodils, it's a fair bet he didn't see them two weeks later.'

Don't know who wrote that, but bet it was a gardener!

One day I 'Googled' my name (like you do) and this is what I found...

www.linda-ellis.com/the-dash-the-dash-poem-by-linda-ellis-.html

I love Rupert Brooks Old Vicarage Granchester. It's far too long to repeat here but love the last two lines (same as with Daffodils)

'And stands the clock at ten to three,
and is there honey still for tea?'

For amusement John Betjeman 'Hunter Trials' and the one starting 'Call for the fish knives, Norman'

Also Rudyard Kipling 'Smugglers Song'

Makes methink I must search for an anthology to read to my grandchildren.

Badenkate, thank you so much for reminding me of John Magee's beautiful poem; it touches my soul.
Another favourite is Wordsworth's poem Daffodils, which begins "I wandered lonely as a cloud ...". It is quite a long poem, so I won't take up valuable space, other than to say that the last two lines, in particular,

"And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."

takes me back to glorious Coniston Water and my beloved Lake District, where I spent some very, very happy years.

I don't have much of an ear for poetry but have always loved When we Too Parted by Lord Byron- poignant!

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell in mine ear;
A shudder come o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well--
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

Thank you . I have enjoyed that. Thought I'd put in my sixpennorth.

Epitaph on a Tyrant.

Perfection of a kind was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

W.H. Auden January 1939

I have too many favourite poems to know where to start. Billy Collins does it for me and here is one of his, with its typical wry humour:

Forgetfulness
By Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Here is another of my favourites. It's one for me and the Owd Fella!

'Walking with Jaci' by David Churchill.

I know it is the best thing that we do
Festooned with map and compass, just the two
Of us, in muddy boots, food in the pack,
With walking poles and whistles, following the track
Through boulders, grass and trees, or best, with space
Around us, on a rocky ridge, at every pace
Surprised by joys familiar, a primrose, deer
Leaping for cover, the landscape near
With stile and gate and hedge and stream,
Or far, where mountains merge into the sky, a dream
Of mist and blueness and the fantasies of cloud.

So if a final peaceful sleep I am allowed,
Such as I've seen while others gently pass,
Then let me dream of walking on soft grass,
One step and then another, towards a beckoning bend,
And let the dream go on and on without an end.

And since you never dream, share this with me
And we'll go hand in hand, into eternity.

What a lovely thread ..
I have always loved poetry and remember being very young around 6 and being able to recite The Lamplighter by RL Stevenson at the front of the class .
I will add my favourite later . Please keep them coming !

The two airman poems are among my favourites too. Today, however, mine is this: I read it at my mother's funeral.

Let Me Go by Christina Rosetti
When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little, but not for long
And not with your head bowed low
Remember the love that once we shared
Miss me, but let me go.

For this is a journey we all must take
And each must go alone.
It’s all part of the master plan
A step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick at heart
Go to the friends we know.
Laugh at all the things we used to do
Miss me, but let me go.

(There is another verse, but I don't like it as much)

Badenkate, I too love this poem. Ronald Reagan paraphrased it "Oh they have slipped ...." when Challenger blew up in 1986.

Mine is by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah my foes, and oh my friends,
It gives a lovely light!

The Cloths of Heaven is I think my all time favourite. Possibly . But I have other all time favourites. Yeats is wonderful though.

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

This thread is a good idea. I like all the above, especially the one found in Auntie's house. Perhaps she had once had a secret lover - very romantic.
I like this one.

FOG

The fog comes
On little cat feet
It sits looking
O'er harbour and city
On silent haunches
And then moves on

It's by Carl Sandberg but I may have put the line breaks in the wrong places.

My mother used to recite this to us when we were little girls:

When icicle hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail
When blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
To whoo,
To whit, to whoo, a merry not
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the Parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marion's nose looks red and raw,
When roasting crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
To whoo
To whit, to whoo a merry note
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

It's from Love's labor's lost by William Shakespeare.

Badenkate - the very poem I was about to post. It has a very special place in my heart and I carry a very dog eared copy in my purse. It was my father's - an RAF pilot - favourite poem and he too carried a copy. We read it at his funeral.

John Masefield's Up On the Downs

Up on the downs the red eyed kestrels hover,
Eyeing the grass. The field mouse flits like a shadow into cover
As their shadows pass.

Men are burning the gorse on the down's shoulder;
A drift of smoke
Glitters with fire and hangs, and the skies smoulder,
And the lungs choke.

Once the tribe did thus in the downs, on these downs burning
Men in the frame.
Crying to the gods of the downs till their brains were turning
And the gods came.

And today on the downs, in the wind, the hawks, the grasses,
In blood and air,
Something passes me and cries as it passes.
On the chalk downland bare.

*Juliette", I have searched for this but all I could come up with are lots of other people who are looking for the author and who, again like you, found it written on a piece of paper but without any information as to the author.
Could it have been written by someone in the first world war to his sweetheart and later take up by other servicemen?

I found this when I was clearing my auntie's house after she had gone into a nursing home. I don't know who wrote it or where it came from. I regret not asking her now as it was on a scrap of paper and not in her handwriting.
Maybe someone else can cast some light on the author.

Think of me at night when sleep is near,
And I who loved you am so far away;
Think of me then and I will come to you,
Nor leave you til the night turns into day.

Stretch forth thine hand and through the depths of dark,
Another hand shall touch your fingertips,
And as of old, my voice shall breathe your name,
And press a kiss upon your dreaming lips.

I'm not particularly a poetry lover, but this poem always catches my emotions. Like trisher's, it's about a pilot in WW2 but it was written by him. He died in the war, but there is such a sense of freedom in the words. It's by John Magee and it's called '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 wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.