They fuck you up your mum and dad (Phillip Larkin)

I feel a particular affinity with this poem.

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry.

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

I have really enjoyed this thread. Just reading 'The Naming of Parts' again was so moving. The cross referencing of the strictly formal 'army speak' with the natural beauty still going on gave it such an authentic feel.
I suppose feel is what poetry is all about.
I can't write poetry at all but salute and thank those who can.

I like that Larkin poem, Gonegirl.
And many others. Poetry has played a big part in my life and I have quite a collection. I also write some. (it's rubbish!)
Here is a sad one by Thomas Brown.

DORA.
SHE knelt upon her brother's grave,
My little girl of six years old—
He used to be so good and brave,
The sweetest lamb of all our fold;
He used to shout, he used to sing,
Of all our tribe the little king—
And so unto the turf her ear she laid,
To hark if still in that dark place he play'd.
No sound! no sound!
Death's silence was profound;
And horror crept
Into her aching heart, and Dora wept.
If this is as it ought to be,
My God, I leave it unto Thee.

I love Larkin in general, for his poetry anyway. He wasn't a very nice man though. Racist, misogynist and generally not a likeable man. I think 'This Be The Verse' says a lot really. I discovered from Andrew Motion's really very good biography that Larkin's dad had a picture of Hitler on the mantelpiece throughout the war.

And anyone familiar with AA Milne's 'Now We Are Six' really should read the parody, 'Now We Are Sixty' by Christopher Matthew. Here's one:

INSOMNIA (after In The Dark)

I've been to dinner,
And over-eaten,
And drunk a brandy or three;
I've taken a couple
Of Alka-Seltzer
And had a jolly good pee;
I've settled the cat,
And I've locked the back door,
And I've turned on the burglar alarm,
And I've laid up for breakfast,
And kissed the wife,
Which never does one any harm.

So... here I am in the dark awake,
The clock has just struck two;
I've counted sheep
And bonked Bo-Peep,
And still I'm nowhere nearer sleep;
Here I am in the dark awake,
What am I going to do?
I can't turn the light on and watch the telly,
I can't read a book or quote bits of Shelley,
I can't nip downstairs and eat taglietelle,
It'd only wake up the old moo.

I'm kissing Nicole Kidman....
I'm winning the Nobel .....
I think I must be dying ....
I'm well.
I'm halfway up Mount Everest.....
I'm milking a prize cow.....
I'm a two-time Oscar winner .....
I'm a WOW.
I've won a boardroom battle .....
I'm feeling really chuffed .....
I'll be all right tomorrow .....
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I'll win the fight tomorrow .....
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I'll see .....
the light .....
tomorrow ......
(^Heigh-ho!^)
I'm stuffed.

Eloethan I love that poem. I have a book of poems written by schoolchildren. One of my favourites:

'Logic' (Rosemary Cowan, aged 17)

Last year
My father died.
It stretched him out
And took his breath
Away clear.
It was so much it
Broke the back
Of reason.

When I find hoards
Of foreign coins
Or see his books
And pills again,
I leave them back
And dust around those
Little jabs
Of pain.

Dedicated to all Gransetters

Warning by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

I love that one Eloethan.

This is from a poetry book, with poems aimed primarily at children but I still find this poem very moving:

Geography Lesson
by Brian Patten

Our teacher told us one day he would leave
And sail across a warm blue sea
To places he had only known from maps,
And all his life had longed to be.

The house he lived in was narrow and grey
But in his mind's eye he could see
Sweet-scented jasmine clinging to the walls,
And green leaves burning on an orange tree.

He spoke of the lands he longed to visit,
Where it was never drab or cold.
I couldn't understand why he never left,
And shook off the school's strangelehold.

Then halfway through his final term
He took ill and never returned.
He never got to that place on the map
Where the green leaves of the orange trees burned.

The maps were redrawn on the classroom wall;
His name forgotten, he faded away.
But a lesson he never knew he taught
Is with me to this day.

I travel to where the green leaves burn,
To where the ocean's glass-clear and blue,
To places our teacher taught me to love -
And which he never knew.

There are many lovely poems on this thread. Thank you Gonegirl.

I love anything by Yeats, George Mackay Brown, most of Ted Hughes and Dylan Thomas (especially the wonderful Fern Hill).

This is Country Girl by GMB

I make seven circles, my love
For your good breaking,
I make the gray circle of bread
And the circle of ale.
And I drive the butter round in a golden ring
And I dance when you fiddle
And I turn my face with the turning sun till your feet come
in from the field.
My lamp throws a circle of light,
Then you lie for an hour in the hot unbroken
circle of my arms.

My six-year-old-grandson and I often read poems together. He sometimes finds it difficult to go to sleep so we have learnt some poems by heart that he can recite to himself.

This poem by Michael Rosen is a favourite. I had to explain the play on words but once he understood he found it hilarious:

^"Here are the football results:

League Division Fun
Manchester United won, Manchester City lost.
Crystal Palace 2, Buckingham Palace 1
Millwall Leeds nowhere
Wolves 8. A cheese roll and had a cup of tea 2
Newcastle’s Heaven, Sunderland’s a very nice place 2
Ipswhich one? You tell me."^

You got the swearing into the title then Gonegirl.

Jules
I was honoured to be asked by my cousins to read Warning at my aunt’s memorial service. She was 104. It was her favourite poem, she often wore purple!
I used to read poems to her when I visited. Some she knew by heart from her schooldays so would join in with delight.

my sweet old etcetera
ee cummings 1894-1962

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting
for

my sister
isabel created hundreds
and hundreds of socks not to
mention fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera

my mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course
my father used
to become hoarse about it was
a privilege and if only he
could

meanwhile my
self et etcetera
lay quietly
in deep mud et
cetera
dreaming
et
cetera of
your smile
eyes knees and
of your
etcetera

Apologies if format is not perfect!

Seamus Heaney Blackberry Picking for me. The terribly sad Mid Term Break is also a wonderful poem.

Philip Larkin "They fuck you up....." is certainly the most quoted and discussed poem in my family, by my DH and I, a topic we discuss often as we both had rather odd parents we have to try very hard not to turn into.

Amagran ?

This as an expression of love in later life

I cannot promise never to be angry;
I cannot promise always to be kind.
You know what you are taking on, my darling –
It’s only at the start that love is blind.
And yet I’m still the one you want to be with
And you’re the one for me – of that I’m sure.
You are my closest friend, my favourite person,
The lover and the home I’ve waited for.
I cannot promise that I will deserve you
From this day on. I hope to pass that test.
I love you and I want to make you happy.
I promise I will do my very best.

Wendy Cope

I meant to say - I love this thread. Thank you Gonegirl.

'Autobiography' by Louis McNeice, about the death of his mother when he was 5 years old. Its starkly simple evocation of a small child's pain and feelings of abandonment move me to tears. The verse describing his mother, and the following one say everything:

My mother wore a yellow dress
Gently, gently, gentleness
Come back early, or never come

When I was five, the dark dreams came
Nothing after was quite the same
Come back early, or never come

I am also a big fan of the Polish Nobel laureate, Wyslawa Szymborska, whose writing is both witty and moving.

No! Always hated Hiawatha!

In junior school we had a poetry class every week, I cannot say I enjoyed wading through ‘Hiawatha’

Just read through some of the poems on here.

The "Naming of parts" one is so sad because those soldiers would soon be leaving their cottage gardens behind, often for good.

I love 'Warning' written by Jenny Joseph.

When I grow old I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
etc.
SO funny

Jules
Jules

I liked this one by Adrian Mole.

THE HOI POLLOI RECEPTION
By A. Mole

The food stood on the table
The drink stood on the bar
The crisps lay in the glass dish
‘Twixt the gherkins in the jar.
The poets were expected
The artists had sent word
The pianists and flautists
Were bringing lemon curd.

The novelists were travelling
From dim and distant lands
The journalists were trekking
O’er deep and shifting sands.
The hoi polloi stood standing
Outside the party room
Which glowed with invitation
Like a twenty-year-old womb.
Yet they dared not cross the portal
To taste the waiting feast
For fear of what would happen
If they dared to cross the beast.

The hoi polloi grew weary
And sat upon the floor
And told each other stories
Until the clock struck four.
They drew each other pictures
One person sang a song
But was careful at the end
To say, “Of course they won’t be long.”

The artists and the poets
And the people who write books
The musicians and the journalists
And the Nouvelle Cuisine cooks
Sent word they couldn’t make it
They couldn’t leave the town.
They were meeting VIP’s for drinks
And couldn’t make it down.

The gherkins went untasted
The crisps were never crunched
The Chablis kept its cork in
The Twiglets went unmunched
But still the people waited
For a hundred million days
And just to help to pass the time
They wrote and acted plays.

They carved a pretty pattern
On the panel of the door.
They painted lovely pictures on the
Coldly concrete floor
They sang in pretty harmony
About the epic wait.
Then hush!... Was that a car we heard
Was that a creaking gate?

It’s the sculptors on the gravel
It’s the poets wild-eyed
Quick open wide the door to
Let the journalists inside.
Oh welcome to our party!
We thought you’d never come
So sad we ate the food though
We haven’t left a crumb!

For in the time of waiting
The hoi polloi grew brave
They went into the room
And took the things they craved.
And the poets and the sculptors
And the artists and the cooks
And the women good at music
And the men who wrote the books
And the journalists and actors
And the people trained to sing
Stood waiting ever after for the party to begin.

Postscript by Seamus Heaney. As l type this l am actually sitting in our car by the Flaggy Shore immortalised in the work of Seamus Heaney as above.
My bliss at present.
Dawn.