Top three fave poets

[tigereye]

Voting on a limited range of poets isn't really fair or comprehensive, it seems. So pick your top three, if you like.

[On the Road]

1. Wallace Stevens, TS Eliot, G M Hopkins

[Screaming Lord Byron]

2. John Donne, Murray Lachlan Young, Richard Brautigan.

Side votes for Shakespeare and Larkin.

[tigereye]

Brautigan

was great. Forgot him there for a minute. So sharp, so honest, so minimal in a way.

[Screaming Lord Byron]

5. Yeah, he's probably my favourite, come to think of it.

[Wickerman]

10. I kinda think I would cast my vote for Brautigan, too

:7

on edit would include Jack Spicer and Pablo Neruda.

[Screaming Lord Byron]

37. Yeah. I had that idea about you, for some reason.

[GCP]

3. Yeats, Donne and Blake eom

[Kellanved]

4. Goethe, Schiller, Fontane

... Morgenstern, ...

Sorry, never really got into English Poetry.

[tigereye]

11. i was just indoctrinated in college

but there is obviously a lot more out there. Well, unless you ask Bill Bennett. ;)

[medeak]

6. Carl Sandburg

edited..said three times...

[Bluzmann57]

7. OK in no particular order

Shel Silverstein, Robert Johnson, and Lewis Carroll. I like music and it is poetry to me. Silverstein was crazy but still talented. I also think he may have been stoned an awful lot. And Lewis Carroll maybe wasn't a poet in the traditional sense, but I think he was still pretty good. Johnson wrote timeless music, poetry if you will, and should be mentioned, imo.

[Magrittes Pipe]

8. Yeats, Rilke, and Neruda.

My Spanish ain't so good, so I read Neruda with original and translation side-by-side.

[tigereye]

12. nice mix, Al

[POed_Ex_Repub]

9. Edgar Allen Poe

Heck of an author too.

[tigereye]

13. hmm Donne, Ginsburg, Stevens, Giovanni

[redqueen]

14. Shakespeare, Bukowski, Akhmatova

No particular order

Still tought to pick only 3, though.

[tigereye]

17. well go for 10!

Akhmatova... good one. I like your taste. I have a feeling you and I would get along if we met, RQ. We seem to be on a somewhat similar wavelength. :)

[Nay]

15. Langston Hughes, Shakespeare, Rupert Brooke

[rbnyc]

16. Wallace Stevens, HD, William Blake. (nt)

[MasonJar]

18. Shakespeare, Browning, and Blake

[jmowreader]

19. Poe, Coleridge, Kipling

Poe because he did some NASTY ASS shit!

Coleridge because of the Ancient Mariner.

And as for Kipling--he's got to be every old soldier's favorite poet. Tell me, all of you old soldiers, if you hadn't heard something like "The Young British Soldier" from your first sergeant. (My first sergeant in Korea actually read this poem to us before every three-day weekend...)

WHEN the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the East
’E acts like a babe an’ ’e drinks like a beast,
An’ ’e wonders because ’e is frequent deceased
Ere ’e’s fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an’ ’ark to my lay,
An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what’s fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o’ the grog-sellers’ huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay’nets that rots out your guts—
Ay, drink that ’ud eat the live steel from your butts—
An’ it’s bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes—as it will past a doubt—
Keep out of the wet and don’t go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An’ it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o’ your foes is the sun over’ead:
You must wear your ’elmet for all that is said:
If ’e finds you uncovered ’e’ll knock you down dead,
An’ you’ll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you’re cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don’t grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it’s beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old—
A troop-sergeant’s widow’s the nicest I’m told,
For beauty won’t help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain’t enough for a soldier.
’Nough, ’nough, ’nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch ’em—you’ll swing, on my oath!—
Make ’im take ’er and keep ’er: that’s Hell for them both,
An’ you’re shut o’ the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an’ you’re wishful to duck,
Don’t look nor take ’eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you’re livin’, and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When ’arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She’s human as you are—you treat her as sich,
An’ she’ll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin’ their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o’ the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an’ don’t mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer’s dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

[brentspeak]

22. Kipling's "Danny Deever" is a great poem

"What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Colour-Sergeant said.

[brentspeak]

20. Keats, Eliot, Dylan Thomas

And some of Frost's darker, ominous poems ("Stopping by Woods...", "Birches")

[hyphenate]

21. Hmm

I like a lot of poets. I suppose my three top faves would "include" these, though if I thought about it, I might change a couple.

William Wordsworth
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Robert Frost
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

But then I also like

Lord Byron
William Blake
John Milton
A.E. Houseman
John Donne
Percy Shelley
Henry Wordsworth Longfellow
Robert Browning

Sorry for the long list. I just love poetry.

[tigereye]

30. great list

well there are so many great poets and even more great poems!

[hyphenate]

23. The easier question to ask

Is what are your favorite poems.

I would name about 5:

Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Old Ironsides by Oliver Wendell Holmes
I Must Go Down to the Sea Again by John Masefield
Ozymandias by Percy Shelley

[brentspeak]

27. "Ode to A Nightengale", "Ode on A Grecian Urn" - Keats

"Birches" - Frost
"Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines" - Dylan Thomas
"The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock" - Eliot

[LWolf]

35. Favorite Keats poem:

"To Autumn."

Since we're approaching the equinox, here it is:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[BrotherBuzz]

24. Ogden Nash

Hey, he's the only one I can relate to and understand. Well, I guess Bob Dylan and Richard Brautigan work for me, too.


In Watermelon Sugar

by Richar Brautigan

IN WATERMELON SUGAR the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar. I'll tell you about it because I am here and you are distant.

Wherever you are, we must do the best we can. It is so far to travel, and we have nothing here to travel, except watermelon sugar. I hope this works out.

I live in a shack near DEATH. I can see DEATH out the window. It is beautiful. I can also see it with my eyes closed and touch it. Right now it is cold and turns like something in the
hand of a child. I do not know what that thing could be.

There is a delicate balance in DEATH. It suits us.

The shack is small but pleasing and comfortable as my life and made from pine, watermelon sugar and stones as just about everything here is.
Our lives we have carefully constructed from watermelon sugar and then travelled to the length of our dreams, along roads lined with pines and stones.

I have a bed, a chair, a table and a large chest that I keep my things in. I have a lantern that burns watermelontrout oil at night.

That is something else. I'll tell you about it later. I have a gentle life.

I go to the window and look out again. The sun is shining at the long edge of a cloud. It is Tuesday and the sun is golden.

I can see piney woods and the rivers that flow from those piney woods. The rivers are cold and clear and there are trout in the rivers.

Some of the rivers are only a few inches wide.

I know a river that is half-an-inch wide. I know because I measured it and sat beside it for a whole day. It started raining in the middle of the afternoon. We call everything a river here.

We're that kind of people.

I can see fields of watermelons and the rivers that flow through them. There are many bridges in the piney woods and in the fields of watermelons. There is a bridge in front of this shack.

Some of the bridges are made of wood, old and stained silver like rain, and some of the bridges are made of stone gathered from a great distance and built in the order of that distance, and some of the bridges are made of watermelon sugar. I like those bridges best.

We make a great many things out of watermelon sugar here -- I'll tell you about it -- including this book being written near DEATH.

All this will be gone into, travelled in watermelon sugar.

- Richard Brautigan

[Ron Green]

25. cummings, Shakespeare, Emily D. (this month)

[Khephra]

26. Emily Dickenson, Poe, and Ginsberg

Oh, and Dr. Seuss as a runner-up.

:-)

[okasha]

28. Favorite Poets

HD,Johannes Bobrowski, Jose Angel Valente

Okasha

[tigereye]

32. that remids me

I forgot about the Haiku poets, as well, like Basho

welcome to DU Okasha!

another HD fan

[blondeatlast]

29. Dorothy Parker, Percy Bysse Shelley, Shakespeare. nt

[ChoralScholar]

31. Goethe, Kerouac, Seuss.

I'm nothing if not eclectic.

[PassingFair]

33. Poe, Robert Burns, and Lewis Carroll

Snicker snak, snicker snak

[screwfacecapone]

34. gil scott heron, maya angelou, and tupac (some of his stuff anyway)

definently stand out for me

[aaronbees]

36. my top three:

shakespeare, elizabeth bishop, campbell mcgrath

[ulysses]

38. Carolyn Forché, Galway Kinnell, James Wright

Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio
James Wright

In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.

All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.

Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.