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Favorite Poems thread!

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RationalBiker

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Rudyard Kipling "IF"

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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath 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!

(I read somewhere that this poem was presented at Ayn Rand's funeral)

Edited by ~Sophia~
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  • 2 months later...

(The author is a mystic but I still kind of like this poem).

The Invitation

by Oriah

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for

and if you dare to dream of meeting your hearts longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool

for love

for your dream

for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon

I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow

if you have been opened by lifes betrayals

or have become shriveled and closed

from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain

mine or your own

without moving to hide it

or fade it

or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy

mine or your own

if you can dance with wildness

and let the ecstasy fill you

to the tips of your fingers and toes

without cautioning us to

be careful

be realistic

remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another

to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal

and not betray your own soul.

If you can be faithless

and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty

even when it is not pretty

every day.

And if you can source your own life

from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure

yours and mine

and still stand at the edge of the lake

and shout to the silver of the full moon,

"Yes".

It doesn't interest me to know where you live

or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night

of grief and despair

weary and bruised to the bone

and do what needs to be done

to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know

or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand

in the centre of the fire

with me

and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you

from the inside

when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone

with yourself

and if you truly like the company you keep

in the empty moments.

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Back in the late 70's and early 80's, before computerised programming tv, channels would fill gaps with odds and sods. One channel would use music clips. From that time, there are only two that I remember. One is Kermit T. Frog's Rainbow Connection from The Muppet Movie. The other, more importantly, was one that had a deep and lasting effect on me: the words are a paean to a lightbringer, the music itself is moving, the clip was constructed of fantastic views taken from the Apollo Program, the guitar solo is kickass, and I have a major thing for women with voices that are powerful yet remain delightfully feminine. I didn't know what it was called or who it was by until, about 10 years ago, a new friend at uni just happened to have it amongst his collection, some 16 years or so after I first heard it. It turns out that the maker of the clip didn't write the original, that the original is actually a poem/song thing by some other guy many a decade ago and the musician just fixed it up slightly (and did a much better job than the poet, IMHO). Here is that musician's wording of that poem (sung beautifully by his wife at the time):

Queen and Huntress chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in a silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep.

Earth let not an envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to cheer, when day did close.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal-shining quiver;

Give unto the flying heart

Space to breath, how short soever.

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright.

Bless us then with wished sight,

Thou who makes a day of night.

The musician who fixed the poem into the above is Mike Oldfield, and the singer was Sally Oldfield. The song is called Ode to Cynthia, aka Incantations Part 4, aka Excerpt From Incantations. The original poem/song (which I also discovered entirely by accident) is called Hymn to Diana by Ben Jonson as part of a greater work called Cynthia's Revels. Jonson's Hymn had the last verse split up nonsensically and distributed without rhyme or reason amongst the other three verses.

JJM

Edited by John McVey
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  • 4 months later...
Algernon Charles Swinburne's "Love and Sleep":

... ... ...

Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,

Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,

Some Swinburne poems are simply a delight to read, for the poem itself and in admiration of the craftsmanship. (They must be read out loud.)

Check out his poem titled "Dolores".

Swinburne contemplates love and lust -- actually, mainly lust. To put it in Objectivist terms, he explores the positives of the "body" side of that mind-body duality. The poem reads like a hymn to lust and bodily pleasure. While worshiping Dolores, the courtesan, Swinburne labels her "Our Lady of Pain", possibly seeing that she is only half the story. Yet, he knows she's important and complains about the Platonic Christian ethic that has sought to ban her, asking "What ailed us, O gods, to desert you ... For creeds that refuse and restrain"

Here are selected portions:

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel

Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;

The heavy white limbs, and the cruel

Red mouth like a venomous flower;

When these are gone by with their glories,

What shall rest of thee then, what remain,

O mystic and sombre Dolores,

Our Lady of Pain?

... ... ...

There are sins it may be to discover,

There are deeds it may be to delight.

What new work wilt thou find for thy lover,

What new passions for daytime or night?

What spells that they know not a word of

Whose lives are as leaves overblown?

What tortures undreamt of, unheard of,

Unwritten, unknown?

... ... ...

Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time,

And bared all thy beauties to one?

Ah, where shall we go then for pastime,

If the worst that can be has been done?

...

... ... ...

In a twilight where virtues are vices,

In thy chapels, unknown of the sun,

To a tune that enthralls and entices,

They were wed, and the twain were as one.

For the tune from thine altar hath sounded

Since God bade the world's work begin,

And the fume of thine incense abounded,

To sweeten the sin.

... ... ...

Thou shalt bind his bright eyes though he wrestle,

Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive;

In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,

In his hands all thy cruelties thrive.

In the daytime thy voice shall go through him,

In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache;

Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him

Asleep and awake.

... ... ...

They shall pass and their places be taken,

The gods and the priests that are pure,

They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken?

They shall perish, and shalt thou endure?

... ... ...

We shall see whether hell be not heaven,

Find out whether tares be not grain,

And the joys of the seventy times seven,

Our Lady of Pain.

Edited by softwareNerd
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  • 7 months later...

A REAL MAN

Men are of two kinds, and he

Was of the kind I'd like to be.

Some preach their virtues, and a few

Express their lives by what they do.

That sort was he. No flowery phrase

Or glibly spoken words of praise

Won friends for him. He wasn't cheap

Or shallow, but his course ran deep,

And it was pure. You know the kind.

Not many in a life you find

Whose deeds outrun their words so far

That more than what they seem they are.

There are two kinds of lies as well:

The kind you live, the ones you tell.

Back through his years from age to youth

He never acted one untruth.

Out in the open light he fought

And didn't care what others thought

Nor what they said about his fight

If he believed that he was right.

The only deeds he ever hid

Were acts of kindness that he did.

What speech he had was plain and blunt.

His was an unattractive front.

Yet children loved him; babe and boy

Played with the strength he could employ,

Without one fear, and they are fleet

To sense injustice and deceit.

No back door gossip linked his name

With any shady tale of shame.

He did not have to compromise

With evil-doers, shrewd and wise,

And let them ply their vicious trade

Because of some past escapade.

Men are of two kinds, and he

Was of the kind I'd like to be.

No door at which he ever knocked

Against his manly form was locked.

If ever man on earth was free

And independent, it was he.

No broken pledge lost him respect,

He met all men with head erect,

And when he passed I think there went

A soul to yonder firmament

So white, so splendid and so fine

It came almost to God's design.

Edgar A. Guest

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  • 3 months later...

*** Mod's note: merged with an earlier, similar topic. - sN ***

Post your favorite poems, I'll start

"If"

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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath 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

Edited by softwareNerd
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Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

W. E. Henley

Tommy

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,

The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";

But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,

But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";

But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,

The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,

O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;

An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"

But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",

But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,

O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"

But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;

An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling

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Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night, Dylan Thomas

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How did I miss this thread, and how could one so old NOT contain Ulysses? :P

"...Some work of noble note, may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with Gods...."

Ulysses - Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honoured of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers;

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this grey spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle —

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and through soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me —

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

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Years ago I read a supremely excellent poem by Joseph Haldeman about, of all things, cryogenic suspension. It was published in Omni magazine, which is now defunct. It contains one of my favorite lines:

"A billion suns have risen since my birth

I'm old, but still too young for ash or earth."

Very good poem, not many people can create a meaningful sonnet that long.

I'm also extremely fond of the cowboy poems of Badger Clark, one of which was quoted by Ayn Rand in CUI:

The Westerner

My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains,

And each one sleeps alone.

Their trails may dim to the grass and rains,

For I choose to make my own.

I lay proud claim to their blood and name,

But I lean on no dead kin;

My name is mine, for the praise or scorn,

And the world began when I was born

And the world is mine to win.

They built high towns on their old log sills,

Where the great, slow rivers gleamed,

But with new, live rock from the savage hills

I'll build as they only dreamed.

The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp

lies,

Till the rails glint down the pass;

The desert springs into fruit and wheat

And I lay the stones of a solid street

Over yesterday's untrod grass.

I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth

Or the way he makes his prayer.

I grant him a white man's room on earth

If his game is only square.

While he plays it straight I'll call him mate;

If he cheats I drop him flat.

Old class and rank are a wornout lie,

For all clean men are as good as I,

And a king is only that.

I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state

That will spoon me out my food.

A stout heart sings in the fray with fate

And the shock and sweat are good.

From noon to noon all the earthly boon

That I ask my God to spare

Is a little daily bread in store,

With the room to fight the strong for more,

And the weak shall get their share.

The sunrise plains are a tender haze

And the sunset seas are gray,

But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze

Over me and the big today.

What good to me is a vague "maybe"

Or a mournful "might have been,"

For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn

And the world began when I was born

And the world is mine to win.

To see more of his poems, go to http://www.cowboypoetry.com/badger.htm#Westerner

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I think all of the poems presented on this page of this thread at least are great poems.

I love to write poetry, and I have a few of them on my website in the esthetics section under "poetry." http://www.appliedphilosophyonline.com/esthetics.htm

Of course, my own poetry says what I want to say to the world, so I'm rather found of them. Here is a sample:

Here is a Clue

by Thomas M. Miovas, Jr.

All Rights Reserved 1993

Here is a clue as what to do

While 'tempting to correct the glue

That binds your mind and body to

A culture stuck in moods of blue:

Remember art is Man's best way

Of realizing causal sway --

The cult of moralizing gray

Won't stand a chance to give a nay.

For an artistic vision bright

Enlightens all to see the right

Of Man the hero at his height

And glories even in the night.

'Tis not all lost to those who see

The power of philosophy,

But honor those who's glory be

Made real by concretizing thee.

Take up the banner of true art:

A necessary vital part

Not often used to make a start

(Most think of axes then depart).

Stay here and use your mind, to wit:

A change of soul to further it

Along such lines as proper knit;

Integrity will cure the rift.

The mind, it too needs nutrients

To help it through the rudiments

Of carving life from all the rents

Put forth by those at variance.

Let not your soul be want of life

Nor give into opposing strife,

For use of art as cutting knife

Can turn a man into a smythe.

'Tis his own soul he seeks to carve

From out of wasteland with no bard;

His heroes often left to starve

Because it's thought to be too hard.

But if it's difficult to be

A hero in this land of free,

Where else do you expect to see

Advice for rationality?

For justice is and justice must

Become the one to drive to dust

Dishonest preachers gaining trust

Of people's souls driving to bust.

Productiveness is not all clay

That's shaped by mindful hands at play;

One's spirit, too, needs to display

The prideful vigor of the day.

Be independent and be smart,

Let not the otherism start

To drain the knowledge of your part:

Simply compose heroic art.

Look deep enough and you will find,

That vision locked within your mind;

Philosophy and art combined

Lets few men settle for the rind.

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Years ago I read a supremely excellent poem by Joseph Haldeman about, of all things, cryogenic suspension. It was published in Omni magazine, which is now defunct. It contains one of my favorite lines:

"A billion suns have risen since my birth

I'm old, but still too young for ash or earth."

Very good poem, not many people can create a meaningful sonnet that long.

I'm also extremely fond of the cowboy poems of Badger Clark, one of which was quoted by Ayn Rand in CUI:

The Westerner

My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains,

And each one sleeps alone.

Their trails may dim to the grass and rains,

For I choose to make my own.

I lay proud claim to their blood and name,

But I lean on no dead kin;

My name is mine, for the praise or scorn,

And the world began when I was born

And the world is mine to win.

They built high towns on their old log sills,

Where the great, slow rivers gleamed,

But with new, live rock from the savage hills

I'll build as they only dreamed.

The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp

lies,

Till the rails glint down the pass;

The desert springs into fruit and wheat

And I lay the stones of a solid street

Over yesterday's untrod grass.

I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth

Or the way he makes his prayer.

I grant him a white man's room on earth

If his game is only square.

While he plays it straight I'll call him mate;

If he cheats I drop him flat.

Old class and rank are a wornout lie,

For all clean men are as good as I,

And a king is only that.

I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state

That will spoon me out my food.

A stout heart sings in the fray with fate

And the shock and sweat are good.

From noon to noon all the earthly boon

That I ask my God to spare

Is a little daily bread in store,

With the room to fight the strong for more,

And the weak shall get their share.

The sunrise plains are a tender haze

And the sunset seas are gray,

But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze

Over me and the big today.

What good to me is a vague "maybe"

Or a mournful "might have been,"

For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn

And the world began when I was born

And the world is mine to win.

To see more of his poems, go to http://www.cowboypoetry.com/badger.htm#Westerner

These are great, Janet. Thanks for posting. The first, above, almost immediately set my mind a-going, thus;

The only stars that shot out at my birth

Were my two hands---to clasp the best of earth.

Then, as I get carried away,

A billion times the earth has circled round

And still the spring of life's not fully wound.

The hour hand of man has just begun

And Reason, with its minutemen, does run.

Excuse me, Jennifer.

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  • 4 weeks later...

A new favorite...

by my daughter Alanna.

Dared by a Dandelion

Twist a dandelions stem,

and turn the seeds to the wind.

Such is the way of jumping,

when one knows not where she'll land.

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