Poetry ...love it or hate it?

Well - I would have chosen the Wendell Berry too - just love that poem - even though deep down I do not see the world as a graceful restful place, but one where nature is definitly red in tooth and claw. But it is a lovely idea, beautifully expressed.
I too love poetry and belong to a poetry group, where we try out writing ourselves (and help each other to improve) and also share poems that we have found that we think the others will enjoy.
I did not like poetry at school - some of the analysis and nit-picking may be illuminating and shed intellectual light on them (and help you pass an A-level), but can be death to the real centre of poetry, which is that it speaks directly to the heart - you can enjoy a poem for its rhythm or for the joy of the sounds without understanding the words in detail. I think that teachers should read children poems that are not exam-related, just for the joy of it!

I did! And we shouted and whispered and clapped. (Even Y13!) Poetry should be heard. But looking at how a poem is constructed is a bit like looking at a recipe and seeing how all the ingredients make a wondrous whole. But I know it's not for everyone!

Here's a modern version of 30 Days ....

Dirty days have September
April, June and November

From January until May
the rain it raineth every day

And all the rest have have thirty one
without a single blink of sun

Excepting February which has 28 days drear
and 29 in each leap year

And if any should have two and thirty
they'd be twice as wet and thrice as dirty.

Totally agree Mishap ...can I be cheeky and ask you to share one of your poems??

yes grannyactivist John Masefield's cargoes was one of the first poems that I fell in love with too!!

Agree goldengirl ...one has to be in the mood for poetry ...both to read or create. However ...next time I'm in the library, I shall be looking for some of the poets that others have offered on this thread.

Especially 'Wendell Berry' ...thamx Butternut

I also like narrative poems ...can any one remember who wrote "The Inchcape Rock"?

Robert Southey wrote The Inchcape Rock. No, I didn't know that - I Googled it!
Don't you think it's a pity that it seems to be out of fashion to learn poems by heart? I can still remember so much from my primary school days, including Cargoes; The Listeners by Walter de la Mare was another favourite. In secondary school, I seem to have learned most of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner at one time or another and have taught it so often I can quote it ad nauseam.

Poetry ...love it or hate it?

Maybe I love it
Maybe I don't
Sometimes I'll read it
Mostly I won't.

I'm fond of the quicky
One glance and you're done
Not that I'm picky
I just read and run.

Here's a a very special poem that my mother wrote and which I read at her funeral in 2004.

Memory

I must look down my memory years,
If I would find out who I am.
Memories of those I’ve loved
Memories of what I’ve been
Memories of things I’ve done
That made me what I have become.
All the memories I’ve shared
And those that I could never share
My inner secret memory
That made the total whole of me.

I must look down my memory years
And try to learn from what I see,
Forgive in others foolishness
I see reflected there in me.
When I and memory are dead,
All I could ever hope to be
Is just a minute living part
Of someone else’s memory.

Oh quiltinggran..... love it, what a lovely lady she must have been [bunch]

I'll get it right soon!

What a great poem, Quiltinggran. What a wonderful way of keeping her memory alive.

I think this may be my favourite autumn poem: The Splendour Falls, Tennyson.

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

And, bags, have you heard Britten's haunting setting of this poem as Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings? The recording made with Peter Pears is the seminal one. Lovely.

Yes I agree baggy it's another favourite we learnt at school. Thanks to this thread I've been recalling many of the first poems I learnt at junior school. Happily our teacher didn't dissect them, just encouraged us to engage with them and say why we did or didn't like them, what emotions, if any were stirred etc.

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
by William Butler Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Hello Jacey - it is sweet of you to ask to see one of my poems. It is difficult to know what to pick as I have so many and in so many different styles: serious, humourous, rhyming or not. In fact this poem is a bit out of my usual style, but I have picked this one, as it is relevant to our age group. My husband has Parkinsons Disease and his considerable skill as a violinist has been severely eroded, but my wee grandson aged 2 loves him to play. OH always says he cannot any more and little Sam insists - he calls his grandpa Papa.....

Grandpa’s Violin

Take your violin Papa
And play a tune for me
Fetch your violin Papa
I want to dance, you see

I cannot play the tunes my child
The way I used to play
In these shaking hands my child
The notes will go astray

But I am very small Papa
And love the notes I hear
I treasure simple things Papa
So you need have no fear

So take your violin Papa
And play a tune for me
Please, fetch your violin Papa
And come and dance with me

Love it, Mishap - so simple and so moving, but says such a lot. Just what poetry should do.

Lovely! xxx

Mishap that's really lovely.

Thank you Quiltinggran and Mishap ...both beautiful poems

Actually grannyactivist ...I came across the war poets in secondary school ...I must have had an enlightened teacher, as we didn't dissect them ...many of the images they created I can still recall.

Love your poem, mishap. Tears to my eyes, so lovely!

annobel, I haven't heard the Britten Serenade. I'll try and get it on iTunes.

I've thoroughly enjoyed some of the poems I've seen on this thread. bagitha, I didn't know the one you posted, but it 'sang' so well.

and Mishap - a very touching poem. My husband is a Papa, too.

I hesitated to include this poem. I don't know why, but perhaps it's because I think it sometimes tells of a grandmother's heartache.

Anyway, here it is ......

MOTHEROOT

Creation often
needs two hearts
one to root
and one to flower
One to sustain
in time of drouth
and hold fast
against the winds of pain
the fragile bloom
that is the glory
of its hour
affirms a heart unsung, unseen.

...Marilou Awiaka -
- Abiding Appalachia

Love this thread, love poetry, but not good at memorising it. mishap and*quillting gran* those are so moving, and GA I really like Yeats. Keep them coming, they are brightening up a grey day.

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

and my other favourite poem

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 impostors 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 worn-out 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 breathe 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!

Rudyard Kipling

Well that made me ...thanx Divawithattitude

Phenomenal!!