Poetry ...love it or hate it?

I'd forgotten "Phenomenal Woman" Diva! It was in a GCSE anthology a few years ago and we loved it. Thank you for reminding me.

I love the poetry of Maya Angelou but on a more frivolous note how about:

When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope is gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on.

and of course there is always

I must go down to the sea again
to the lonely sea and the sky
I left my vest and knickers there
I wonder if they're dry!

The wonderful Spike Milligan

Diva - love it!

diva

And here is one of my all-time favourite poems about someone old:

      William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
                    When You Are Old

    WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
    And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
    And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
    Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

    How many loved your moments of glad grace,
    And loved your beauty with love false or true,
    But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
    And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

    And bending down beside the glowing bars,
    Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
    And paced upon the mountains overhead
    And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

 

For Crimson re another thread ...thanx for reminding me

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy

1927 prose poem by American writer Max Ehrmann (1872-1945)

The following poem resonates with me probably because of questions I'm trying to resolve in my life at the moment.
The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(Dream Work)

That was a new one for me quiltinggran ...thanx for sharing

...and a new one for me, too, quiltinggran

I've had to read through that poem a couple of times, quiltinggran. I think it could apply to a good few of us on GN. Best wishes.

Very interesting poem - I do not know Mary Oliver and will look her up. Thanks for posting that.

I love this thread!

Me too Mishap, I can't remember where I originally found the Mary Oliver poem - she's American and after sending the poem onto a friend she bought me two of her books! I love some of the other poems people have posted too so thank you everyone for those, especially you Jacey for reminding me of Desiderata.
Thank you also to all who said nice things both about my mother and her poetry.
Here's another of her poems.

One Life

We have but this one life to live
And each day as we live it,
Greedy Time will not return to us
One unrelenting minute.
And every hour of every day,
Bringing happiness or sorrow,
Must just as surely pass away.
Tomorrow is tomorrow!

And so I write my verse today
That I may, in later years,
Recall in them this present time,
Its joys, its hopes, its fears.
And should I strike
Just one sweet chord,
Within the written line,
Let the tune live in the memory,
And beat the enemy, Time.

I feel September coming, subtle, slow;
The promise of the springtime now is mine.
I wonder, though, if ever Autumn's glow
Can equal the clear brightness of springtime?
I think not; but the difference is all.
Both gold and green are beautiful to see,
And all the golden leaves that softly fall
Once young, gave life back to the tree.
Fall softly then, and let the summer go;
Let the old leaves fall, let new ones grow.

I like this, and hope someone will read it when we're gone and think of me and my old man!

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 a track
Through boulders grass and trees, or best, with space
Surprised by the 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 have 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.

Ariadne - a very gently poem for this grey and soggy Sunday morning.

It would be better if I hadn't left a line out! Line six should read "Around us, on a rocky ridge, at every pace". Excuse one daft old bird!

Thank you, Butternut. One of my own-I rarely share them but felt I could, here.

I wondered.

I thought I didn't like poetry (legacy of really strict English teacher, I suspect) but I'm loving this thread. One of my favourites is Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 "Let me not to the marriage of true minds".

Yes, kittylester, that's definitely one of my favourites too,

One to share for tomorrow ... with

Forgotten Dead, I Salute You

Dawn has flashed up the startled skies,
Night has gone out beneath the hill
Many sweet times; before our eyes
Dawn makes and unmakes about us still
The magic that we call the rose.
The gentle history of the rain
Has been unfolded, traced and lost
By the sharp finger-tips of frost;
Birds in the hawthorn build again;
The hare makes soft her secret house;
The wind at tourney comes and goes,
Spurring the green, unharnessed boughs;
The moon has waxed fierce and waned dim:
He knew the beauty of all those
Last year, and who remembers him?

Love sometimes walks the waters still,
Laughter throws back her radiant head;
Utterly beauty is not gone,
And wonder is not wholly dead.
The starry, mortal world rolls on;
Between sweet sounds and silences,
With new, strange wines her beakers brim:
He lost his heritage with these
Last year, and who remembers him?

None remember him: he lies
In earth of some strange-sounding place,
Nameless beneath the nameless skies,
The wind his only chant, the rain
The only tears upon his face;
Far and forgotten utterly
By living man. Yet such as he
Have made it possible and sure
For other lives to have, to be;
For men to sleep content, secure.
Lip touches lip and eyes meet eyes
Because his heart beats not again:
His rotting, fruitless body lies
That sons may grow from other men.

He gave, as Christ, the life he had
The only life desired or known;
The great, sad sacrifice was made
For strangers; this forgotten dead
Went out into the night alone.
There was his body broken for you,
There was his blood divinely shed
That in the earth lie lost and dim.
Eat, drink, and often as you do,
For whom he died, remember him.

Muriel Stuart

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Straight-backed and walking briskly,
Your dark curls bouncing in rhythm with the swirl of your skirt
As the heels of your best court shoes clicked along the pavement.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Your green eyes sparkling brightly
And sweet face eager with the joy of anticipation
As rapid steps bore you on to your unwritten future.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Your skin smooth, no tell-tale lines,
Your waist trim and shoulders squared, pink-tipped nails shining
On the long slim fingers of your unblemished hands.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Break into a girlish run
Until you were enveloped in an infinite embrace,
As if death itself would fail to divide the two of you.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
My viewpoint strangely shortened
And perspective skewed. When my blurred vision cleared again
All was silent and I saw you both were gone – again.

Last Post by Carol Ann Duffy

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud...
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home -
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce - No - Decorum - No - Pro Patria Mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too -
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert -
and light a cigasrette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.

Autumns Doorway

Splinters of warmth
Pierce misty mornings.
Dew adorned hedges
Patterned with lace.
Through Autumns doorway
Into October chill;
The long summer days
A hazy memory.

This is for tomorrow and for all those like Grannyactivist and her daughter who will remember .

So many different lengths of time by Brian Patten

How long does a man live after all?
A thousand days or only one?
One week or a few centuries?
How long does a man spend living or dying
and what do we mean when we say gone forever?

Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification.
We can go to the philosophers
but they will weary of our questions.
We can go to the priests and rabbis
but they might be busy with administrations.

So, how long does a man live after all?
And how much does he live while he lives?
We fret and ask so many questions -
then when it comes to us
the answer is so simple after all.

A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,
for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,
for as long as we ourselves live,
holding memories in common, a man lives.

His lover will carry his man's scent, his touch:
his children will carry the weight of his love.
One friend will carry his arguments,
another will hum his favourite tunes,
another will still share his terrors.

And the days will pass with baffled faces,
then the weeks, then the months,
then there will be a day when no question is asked,
and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach
and the puffed faces will calm.
And on that day he will not have ceased
but will have ceased to be separated by death.

How long does a man live after all?
A man lives so many different lengths of tim