Share a favorite poem

Poetry is something that I have enjoyed casually over the years with a handful of works finding a place in my heart for, hopefully, forever.

From the most eloquent to the commonly simple, poetry exists in many many forms.

This thread serves as a place to share poetry that speaks to you. I hope we all might find some inspiration here.

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 "If"
Published in 1910

I'll share two readings of poems that I'm sitting with a lot recently - one by a modern authoress, and one of the "old classics."


"We Are: A Spell For Cracking Shells" by Anonsee Storyweaver, a "cut-up" style rearrangement/remix of another poem, "I Am" by Laurin Dechae. Read here by Anonsee herself with other members of performing collective The Kallai, acapella with some sound editing and design.


"Desiderata" by Max Ehrmann, read here by Leonard Nimoy with instrumental accompaniment, released as "Spock Thoughts" on his album 'The Two Sides Of Leonard Nimoy." (Fun fact: I initially didn't know this poem wasn't written by Nimoy, upon discovering the recording)

Spock wasn't the only one to write poetry on Star Trek - Data did too!

In fact, it inspired one of my dragons to write his own version (dragons plagiarise terribly...) to welcome Spot the Chamelon.

I should warn you that dragon poetry has been compared to Vogon poetry, though I think a little unfairly...

ODE TO SPOT



Furcifer oustaleti is your taxonomic nomenclature,
an ectothermic quintuped, insectivore by nature.
Your colour changing, vision and olfactory senses
contribute to your hunting skills and natural defences.

I find myself intrigued by your dermal fluctuations,
an iridescent way to aid communications
that illustrates your need to show us how you're feeling
then back to green and pleasant leafy tones to aid concealing.

Your tail is quite stupendous and helps you in your climbing
a true fifth limb which seems to me more use than all this rhyming...
And when not being utilised to aide in locomotion,
it too changes tint and hue reflecting your emotion.

O Spot, the complex wisdom and compassion you display
tell me how awesome it will be now you are here to stay.
For while you're here to teach me things and help me comprehend
I hope that I can be to you a true and trusted friend.

Written by Iggy. Mr Data helped.

Here's a link to the original version.

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road Goes Ever On - J.R.R. Tolkien

I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen,
Of meadow-flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were,
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring
That I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen:
In every wood, in every spring
There is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think,
Of people long ago,
And people who will see a world
That I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door.

I Sit Beside the Fire and Think - J. R. R. Tolkien

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.

Alone (excerpt) - Edgar Allan Poe

In the scenery of spring,
nothing is better, nothing worse;
The flowering branches are
of themselves, some short, some long.

-Ryokan (often known as a requote by Alan Watts)

O there is blessing in this gentle breeze,
A visitant that while it fans my cheek
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
From the green fields, and from yon azure sky.
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come
To none more grateful than to me; escaped
From the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner: now free,
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale
Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove
Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream
Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The earth is all before me. With a heart
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,
I look about; and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!

The Prelude / Growth of a Poet's Mind (excerpt) - William Wordsworth

All I Need To Know In Life I Learned From My Chickens
by Michaele Oleson

Wake up early, stay busy
Rest when you need to, but always stay alert
Visit your favourite places every day
Scratch out a living

Routine is good; Plump is good
Don't ponder your purpose in life - your brain is too small
Accept the pecking order and know you enemies
Weed your garden 

Look after your children - Sit on them if necessary
Take them for walks, show them the little things and talk constantly
Make a nice nest - share it with friends
Brag on your accomplishments

Protect your nest egg; Test your wings once in a while
Squawk when necessary - As you age, demand respect
Leave a little something for those who care about you
Chase butterflies

One of my favorites

Puppy Poem (author unknown)

This morning, I woke up & kissed my dad's head.
I peed on the carpet and then went back to bed.

The life of a puppy, oh my, this is great."
Then I thought about breakfast," I hope it's not late."

Mom took me outside and we walked for a while.
This never fails to make Mama smile.

I sniffed of everything, that we did pass,
I ate something weird - it gave me gas.

I'm sure God loves me, I know that is true.
He gave me so many great things to chew.

Rugs, plants or rocks, I really don't care,
What I truly like best is Dad's underwear.

That obedience book was sort of yummy,
Though it didn't sit well on my poor puppy tummy.

I threw up a bit, but that was all right,
When Mom found it later, I was well out of sight.

I made streamers of T. P., while running at full speed.
Mom is pretty quick- but I was still in the lead.

I flew under the bed, and Mom flew past,
She stopped-shook her head, and breathed,  "You're too fast."

Mama later phoned Daddy, and said, "It was frightening!"
That afternoon, she was sure I'd pooped lightning.

She'd sat at the computer, while I chewed the cord,
The thought I was mad, but I was just bored.

When Mama had enough, couldn't take anymore,
That's when my tushy got shoved out the door.

I love it inside, but outside is best!
Lay in the cool grass, and had a good rest.

That didn't last long, there was too much to do!
Can't quite remember here I hid Daddy's shoe.

I found an old bone, and scratched at a flea,
I watched the dumb squirrels as they jumped in a tree!

I barked at the kids, they got off the bus.
I can't figure out why this makes Mama fuss.

I barked at the neighbor, and I barked at the wind,
I barked and barked, till Mom yelled, "Come in!"

The sun dipped in the west-soon Daddy would come!
I sure love my daddy: we always have fun.

I barked at my daddy, then turned on my charms,
I woo-wooed, "Hello," then jumped in his arms.

Sitting under the table -- it's sooo hard to wait.
Daddy slipped me a goodie right off his plate.

I raced through the house, and scattered my toys,
Ricocheted off the furniture, and made lots of noise.

Mom found her purse - the one I abused.
Daddy let loose a chuckle. Mom asked "Amused??"  

I cowered down low, I must be in trouble.
Dad said, "Wasn't MY boy, it must be his double!"

Mom turned off the TV, and said," Time for bed."
Dad said, "Let's go boy," and patted my head.

I got in my spot, between Mom and Dad,
I thought 'bout my day and what fun I had.

Mama kicked out my bone from the covers below,
Then let loose a sigh - a sigh deep and low.

She gave me a kiss, and snuggled me tight,
And whispered so softly, 'My darling goodnight'

This is short and sweet, but I've loved it for a long time...

People talk of Nature's Laws,
but do things have a natural cause?

Black earth becoming yellow crocus,
is undiluted hocus pocus!

The wonderful Wendell Berry, who passed a few days ago.  Amazing he wrote this in 1973, right?  He was kind of like the Jules Verne of farming.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
by Wendell Berry


Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion — put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

"Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from The Country of Marriage, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. 1973. Also published by Counterpoint Press in The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry,
1999; The Mad Farmer Poems, 2008; New Collected Poems, 2012.

The Bridge Builder by Will Allen Dromgoole

An old man going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening cold and gray,
To a chasm vast and deep and wide.
Through which was flowing a sullen tide
The old man crossed in the twilight dim,
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,
“You are wasting your strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day,
You never again will pass this way;
You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build this bridge at evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old gray head;
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followed after me to-day
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been as naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”

Jenny kissed me, when we met.
Jumping from the chair she sat in
Time, you thief, who loves to get sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, say that health and wealth have missed me.
Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me!

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver

Before ChatGPT, Before Bostrom, There Was Wiener. And He Got Everything Right.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/877691181064534/posts/1452696206897359/

Excerpts:

In 1950, an MIT mathematician sat down and wrote a small, non-technical book for ordinary people. He wrote no equations, offered no jargon, and made no predictions. He issued a warning. His name was Norbert Wiener, and he had already invented the science that artificial intelligence would eventually be built upon.

He predicted in 1950 that machines would eventually replace human work not merely in factories, but in offices, in drafting rooms, in translation bureaus, in any domain where a human being was being paid to follow a defined procedure. He said white-collar work would not be exempt.

He also described, with remarkable precision, what we now call the alignment problem. He did not use that term; it did not yet exist. But he said that machines optimize for the goal you give them, not the goal you meant. They pursue the literal specification with terrifying efficiency, and the outcome is a disaster the builder did not foresee.




A Sigh for Cybernetics - Felicia Lamport

Will It Cook My Goose
by Bill Lindsay

I
just
noticed
that our oven
has a STOP TIME
button; it's probably
meant to be a STOP TIMER,
but I daren't touch it - just in case

How happy he, who free from care
The rage of courts, and noise of towns;
Contented breathes his native air,
In his own grounds.
       
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
       
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide swift away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
       
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
       
Thus let me live, unheard, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Solitude - Alexander Pope

not so much a poem, but a poetic form of wisdom:

circumstances don't matter, only your state of being matters -bashar

as in, the circumstance doesn't materialize something into reality, it is only your choice about the event that 'materializes' your choice about it, into reality. try this koan on the next time you want to get mad at something, and see the magic flow!

The Breath of Allegiance

I breathe allegiance to Forest,
And to the oxygen for which it stands,

One atmosphere,
Reciprocal under Cosmos,

With respiration
And ataraxia for all.

There was once an animal born into this world, and opening his eyes upon Life, he saw above and about him confining walls, and before him were bars of iron through which came air and light from without; this animal was born in a cage.

Here he grew, and throve in strength and beauty under the care of an invisible protecting hand. Hungering, food was ever at hand. When he thirsted water was brought, and when he felt the need to rest, there was provided a bed of straw upon which to lie; and here he found it good, licking his handsome flanks, to bask in the sun beam that he thought existed but to lighten his home.

Awaking one day from his slothful rest, lo! the door of his cage stood open: accident had opened it. In the corner he crouched, wondering and fearingly. Then slowly did he approach the door, dreading the unaccustomed, and would have closed it, but for such a task his limbs were purposeless. So out the opening he thrust his head, to see the canopy of the sky grow broader, and the world waxing wider.

Back to his corner but not to rest, for the spell of the Unknown was over him, and again and again he goes to the open door, seeing each time more Light.

Then one time standing in the flood of it; a deep in-drawn breath – a bracing of strong limbs, and with a bound he was gone.

On he rushes, in his mad flight, heedless that he is wounding and tearing his sleek sides – seeing, smelling, touching of all things; even stopping to put his lips to the noxious pool, thinking it may be sweet.

Hungering there is no food but such as he must seek and ofttimes fight for; and his limbs are weighted before he reaches the water that is good to his thirsting throat.

So does he live, seeking, finding, joying and suffering. The door which accident had opened is opened still, but the cage remains forever empty!

Emancipation: A Life Fable - Kate Chopin

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

For the Fallen (excerpt) - Robert Laurence Binyon

—

Waves of summer grass:
All that remains of soldiers’
Impossible dreams.

Haiku - Matsuo Bashō

Thank you for sharing this.  I am a big fan of Wendell Berry and did not know he passed away.  

Kim Goodwin wrote:The wonderful Wendell Berry, who passed a few days ago.  Amazing he wrote this in 1973, right?  He was kind of like the Jules Verne of farming.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
by Wendell Berry


Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion — put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

"Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from The Country of Marriage, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. 1973. Also published by Counterpoint Press in The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry,
1999; The Mad Farmer Poems, 2008; New Collected Poems, 2012.

I've always liked the imagery of this poem "Root Cellar" by Theodore Roethke:

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks! -
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

favorites change frequently....this is todays'.

INDECISION
by Jeff Foster

Friend, please,
do not try to decide now.
Do not shut any possibility out of your heart. Honor this place of not knowing.

Bow before this bubbling mess of creativity.
Slow down. Breathe.
Sink into wonderment.
Befriend the very place where you stand.
Any decision will make itself, in time.
Any choice will happen when your defenses are down.
Answers will appear only when they are ready.
When the questions have been fully honored and loved.

Do not label this place “indecision.”
It is more alive than that.
It is a place where possibilities grow.
It is a place where uncertainty is sacred.
There is courage in staying close.
There is strength in not knowing.
There is power in doubt.

Friend, please know,
there is simply no choice now.
Except to breathe, and breathe again,
and trust this Intelligence beyond mind.

A decision will grow, but for today, nourish the ground.

🦇🎃👻 Halloween Poems 👻🎃🦇


Each night Father fills me with dread
When he sits on the foot of my bed;
I'd not mind that he speaks
In gibbers and squeaks,
But for seventeen years he's been dead.

—

The first child of a Mrs. Keats-Shelley
Came to light with its face in its belly;
Her second was born
With a hump and a horn
And her third was as shapeless as jelly.

The Listing Attic (excerpts) - Edward Gorey


☽ — Happy Haunting — ☾