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Post Info TOPIC: Your Favourite Poem


Honoured Mook

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Your Favourite Poem


What's your favourite poem?

This is mine.  It is called 'The Undertaking' by Louise Gluck (a modern American poetess)


The Undertaking

The darkness lifts, imagine, in your lifetime.
There you are - cased in clean bark you drift
through weaving rushes, fields flooded with cotton.
You are free. The river films with lilies,
shrubs appear, shoots thicken into palm. And now
all fear gives way: the light
looks after you, you feel the waves' goodwill
as arms widen over the water; Love

the key is turned. Extend yourself -
it is the Nile, the sun is shining,
everywhere you turn is luck.


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MookyDuchess

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My favourite is by Roger McGough, which he read at a Labour Party conference, called Conservative Government Unemployment Figures.



Conservative Government.
Unemployment?
Figures.

-- Edited by Kitty Fire at 07:49, 2008-04-08

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Honoured Mook

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"Five Ways To Kill A Man" - Edwin Brock

There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can make him carry a plank of wood
To the top of a hill and nail him to it.
To do this
Properly you require a crowd of people
Wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
To dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
Man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
Shaped and chased in a traditional way,
And attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
At least two flags, a prince and a
Castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
Allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
A mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
Not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
More mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
And some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
Miles above your victim and dispose of him by
Pressing one small switch. All you then
Require is an ocean to separate you, two
Systems of government, a nation's scientists,
Several factories, a psychopath and
Land that no one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways
To kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat
Is to see that he lives somewhere in the middle
Of the twentieth century, and leave him there.


I read it in Year 9 and liked it so much that I based an entire english oral around it last year biggrin.gif

-- Edited by AWOL at 09:25, 2008-04-08

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Honoured Mook

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He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, WB Yeats

Had I the heavens' 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.

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Honoured Mook

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Loved both of those last two. I knew the Yeats one but I'd never even heard of Edwin Brock.

-- Edited by Ladybird at 16:43, 2008-04-08

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Regular Crew

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Love W.B Yeats, a friend of ours had the poem put into glass and gave it to his Wife on their wedding day.

My Favourite is a quote from T.S Elliot

So far as we are human,
what we do must be
either evil or good:
so far as we do evil
or good, we are human:
and it is better, in a
paradoxical way, to do
evil than to do nothing:
at least we exist.

-- Edited by Lydia at 19:16, 2008-04-09

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Regular Crew

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mine is either The Raven by Edgar allen poe or THe Ghaor by Lord George byron. both are very dark

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International Mook of Mystery (mod)

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I have quite a few actually, but here are a few of my very favorites:

'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight' by Dylan Thomas

'Annabelle Lee' by Edgar Allen Poe
'Sonnet 130' by William Shakespeare
'O Captain! My Captain!' by Walt Whitman

Thought I'd give links instead of making an immpossibly long post :)

I also love 'The Inferno' by Dante Alighieri and 'The Cantebury Tales' by Chaucer, but if long/epic type poetry/verse/prose doesn't count here then go ahead and ignore that :P


-- Edited by Izil at 06:42, 2008-06-20

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Honoured Mook

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the inferno ftw

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Regular Crew

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"The Raven" is freaking brilliant.

Second is "Thanks" by W. S. Merwin-

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is



Or this one (by Kipling, who was GENIUS)-

For our white and our excellent nights--for the nights of swift running,
Fair ranging, far seeing, good hunting, sure cunning!
For the smells of the dawning, untainted, ere dew has departed!
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started!
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is standing at bay!
For the risk and the riot of night!
For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day!
It is met, and we go to the fight.
Bay! O bay!

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High Mookish Shaman

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My favourite at the minute is 'Nothing' by James Fenton:


I take a jewel from a junk-shop tray
And wish I had a love to buy it for
Nothing I choose will make you turn my way.
Nothing I give will make you love me more.

I know that Ive embarrassed you too long
And Im ashamed to linger at your door.
Whatever I embark on will be wrong.
Nothing I do will make you love me more.

I cannot work. I cannot read or write.
How can I frame a letter to implore.
Eloquence is a lie. The truth is trite.
Nothing I say will make you love me more.

So I replace the jewel in the tray
And laughingly pretend Im far too poor.
Nothing I give, nothing I do or say,
Nothing I am will make you love me more.

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Regular Crew

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At the moment i love Robert Frost's Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

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Lush Guru

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Tulips by Sylvia Plath.

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Honoured Mook

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A really famous one;
Annabell lee-Edgar Allen Poe

Or Spike Milligan stuff. He was a living ledgend.

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MookyDuchess

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On the ning nang nong
Where the cows go bong
And the monkeys all say boo

There's a nong nang ning
Where the trees go ping
and the teapots jibber jabber joo

On the nong ning nang
The mice go clang
And you just can't catch them when they do

So it's ning nang nong,
Cows go bong
Nong nang ning
Trees go ping
Nong ning nang
Mice go clang

What a noisy place to belong
Is the ning nang ning nang nong!

(From memory, so it might be a bit wrong...)

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Honoured Mook

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Love it :)
It's "Where the mice go clang" though I think.

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Mookish Deity Most High

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i just love this... it makes you smile, but it's also quite sinister.

'pencil incident - roger stevenson:

when i was seven
i pushed a pencil through
the arm of an armchair
from one side to the other.
after dad had told me off he said
'we'll draw a line
under this incident, shall we?

i said,
'shall we use my pencil?'
that was a mistake.



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Regular Crew

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THE SECOND COMING
by yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?



THE LAST TWO LINES REALLY HAUNT ME. I LOVE it!

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"Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost

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Seasoned Mookster

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The Lady of Shallott
by Alfred Tennyson



On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."



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Annointed Queen of Mook - Founder and Editor

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Roger McGough:

Today I drowned a wasp that I
found floating in the sink.
It struggled in the water but I
didn't stop to think.

If metamophorsis exists,
perhaps a wasp I'll be -
and I won't feel resentment
if you do the same to me.

Dorothy Parker:

"Ode to African violets"

Brief and frail and pale and blue,
little sisters, I'm like you.
You are heaven's masterpieces -
there, the similarity ceases.

I love Dorothy Parker. She was a very clever and thoughtful lady but she'd sacrifice a lot for a good line, a quick cheque and a drink. Poor Mrs Parker!

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MookyDuchess

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I love Dorothy parker too. Almost a role model of mine once upon a time.

And I've changed my mind about my favourite poem, because I've decided that song lyrics count as poems, if they can be read as such. So, I'm currently loving this by Neil Hannon, of the Divine Comedy:

Gin - Soaked Boy

Im the darkness in the light
Im the leftness in the right
Im the rightness in the wrong
Im the shortness in the long
Im the goodness in the bad
Im the saneness in the mad
Im the sadness in the joy
Im the gin in the gin-soaked boy

Im the ghost in the machine
Im the genius in the gene
Im the beauty in the beast
Im the sunset in the east
Im the ruby in the dust
Im the trust in the mistrust
Im the trojan horse in troy
Im the gin in the gin-soaked boy

Im the tigers empty cage
Im the mysterys final page
Im the strangers lonely glance
Im the heros only chance
Im the undiscovered land
Im the single grain of sand
Im the christmas morning toy
Im the gin in the gin-soaked boy

Im the world youll never see
Im the slave youll never free
Im the truth youll never know
Im the place youll never go
Im the sound youll never hear
Im the course youll never steer
Im the will youll not destroy
Im the gin in the gin-soaked boy

Im the half-truth in the lie
Im the why not in the why
Im the last roll of the die
Im the old school in the tie
Im the spirit in the sky
Im the catcher in the rye
Im the twinkle in her eye
Im the jeff goldblum in "the fly"

Who am i?



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Seasoned Mookster

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To his Coy Mistress, although i have not read it in a while. I also love the line from Sonnet 130 ' And yet, by heaven, my love is more rare, than anything of false compare' However I nitice it is wrote diffrently than the above url? Is my version inacurate?

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Honoured Mook

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I really like Donne's 'The Sun Rising' (or sunne, 6/half a dozen).

But at the moment I'm going though a Maya Angelou phase. This is one of my favourites;



Here's To Adhering.


I went to a party
out in Hollywood,
The atmosphere was shoddy,
but the drinks were good,
and that's where I heard you laugh.

I then went cruising
on an old Greek ship,
The crew was amusing
but the guests weren't hip,
that's where I found your hands.

On to the Sahara
in a caravan,
The sun struck like an arrow
but the nights were grand,
and that's how I found your chest.

An evening in the Congo
where the Congo ends,
I found myself alone, oh
but I made some friends,
that's where I saw your face.

I have been devoting
all my time to get
Parts of you out floating
still unglued as yet.

Won't you pull yourself together

For

Me

ONCE

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MookyDuchess

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I still hate poetry. :)

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Dame of Mooky

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My Favourite is a quote from T.S Elliot

So far as we are human,
what we do must be
either evil or good:
so far as we do evil
or good, we are human:
and it is better, in a
paradoxical way, to do
evil than to do nothing:
at least we exist.

No you don't you just haven't read enough to be in love with it, dear.

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MookyDuchess

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Well, perhaps, but also I've met some poets. Puts me off.

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High Mookish Shaman

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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, La Figlia Che Piange and Ash Wednesday, all by T.S. Eliot.

Wolves by Louis MacNiece.

The Cool Web by Robert Graves.

Cirque d'Hiver and The Weed by Elizabeth Bishop (by the way, Ladybird, if you like Gluck and haven't read any Bishop, you should check her out, especially her early stuff!)

Carrion Comfort and The Wreck of the Deutschland by Gerard Manly Hopkins.

Phew. I'll stop now. Stupid literature degree.

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Annointed Queen of Mook - Founder and Editor

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I'm loving that. In most instances I haven't heard of either the poet or the poem, I'll go and check them out.

One thing I do reckon though is that Gerard Manly Hopkins would have been well chuffed to have no 'e' in Manley!!

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High Mookish Shaman

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Magda Mookychick wrote:

I'm loving that. In most instances I haven't heard of either the poet or the poem, I'll go and check them out.

One thing I do reckon though is that Gerard Manly Hopkins would have been well chuffed to have no 'e' in Manley!!






That's embarrassing... he does...

He hated it, he thought it made him sound all English and nasty, he wanted to be Welsh and nervously Catholic. Poor bloke.

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