14 thoughts on “Do you have a favorite poem?

  • 2/25/2007 at 7:15 pm

    I’m not usually into poetry but I do like this one:

    -50C by Arvo Turtiainen

    In December nights
    the teeth of the stars
    bite, grinding the bread of frost.

    In December nights
    the moon sailed
    like a coffin
    to the blue hell of the zenith.

    The black forests
    and the walls of Northern lights
    stood still

    of the blade of frost
    In death’s hands
    in December nights.

  • 2/25/2007 at 10:34 pm

    One of mine:

    i go to this window

    just as day dissolves
    when it is twilight(and
    looking up in fear

    i see the new moon
    thinner than a hair)

    making me feel
    how myself has been coarse and dull
    compared with you, silently who are
    and cling
    to my mind always

    But now she sharpens and becomes crisper
    until i smile with knowing
    -and all about

    the sprouting largest final air

    inward with hurled
    downward thousands of enormous dreams

    e.e. cummings

  • 2/26/2007 at 8:48 am

    Martin Espada’s Advice to Young Poets:

    Never pretend
    to be a unicorn
    by sticking a plunger on your head.

  • 2/26/2007 at 10:13 am

    The Secret Sits

    We dance round in a ring and suppose,
    But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

    –Robert Frost

  • 2/26/2007 at 10:37 am

    Putting in a Window

    By John Brantingham

    Carpentry has a rhythm that should never
    be violated. You need to move slowly,
    methodically, never trying to finish early,
    never even hoping that you’d be done sooner.
    It’s best if you work without thought of the
    end. If hurried, you end up with crooked
    door joints and drafty rooms. Do not work
    after you are annoyed just so the job
    will be done more quickly. Stop when you
    begin to curse at the wood. Putting in
    a window should be a joy. You should love
    the new header and the sound of
    your electric screwdriver as it secures
    the new beams. The only good carpenter
    is the one who knows that he’s not good.
    He’s afraid that he’ll ruin the whole house,
    and he works slowly. It’s the same as
    cooking or driving. The good cook
    knows humility, and his soufflé never falls
    because he is terrified that it will fall
    the whole time he’s cooking. The good driver
    knows that he might plow into a mother
    walking her three-year old, and so watches
    for them carefully. The good carpenter
    knows that his beams might be weak, and a misstep
    might ruin the place he loves. In the end,
    you find your own pace, and you lose time.
    When you started, the sun was high and now
    that you’re finished, it’s dark. Tomorrow, you
    might put in a door. The next day,
    you’ll start on your new deck.

  • 2/26/2007 at 12:22 pm

    What is something that you have written?

  • 2/26/2007 at 12:26 pm

    One of my more recent favorites

    Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou

    You may write me down in history
    With your bitter, twisted lies,
    You may trod me in the very dirt
    But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

    Does my sassiness upset you?
    Why are you beset with gloom?
    ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
    Pumping in my living room.

    Just like moons and like suns,
    With the certainty of tides,
    Just like hopes springing high,
    Still I’ll rise.

    Did you want to see me broken?
    Bowed head and lowered eyes?
    Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
    Weakened by my soulful cries.

    Does my haughtiness offend you?
    Don’t you take it awful hard
    ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
    Diggin’ in my own back yard.

    You may shoot me with your words,
    You may cut me with your eyes,
    You may kill me with your hatefulness,
    But still, like air, I’ll rise.

    Does my sexiness upset you?
    Does it come as a surprise
    That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
    At the meeting of my thighs?

    Out of the huts of history’s shame
    I rise
    Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
    I rise
    I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
    Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
    Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
    I rise
    Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
    I rise
    Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
    I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
    I rise
    I rise
    I rise.

  • 2/26/2007 at 9:55 pm

    There once was a man from nantucket…

  • 2/27/2007 at 7:33 am

    Most of it I write for my husband, but I’ll share a short one that predates him.

    Put your trust in God above
    For then you need not fear
    Keep near to you the ones you love
    And love the ones you’re near

  • 2/27/2007 at 8:09 am

    Bluebird – Charles Bukowski

    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I’m not going
    to let anybody see

    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the whores and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    in there.

    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    you want to blow my book sales in

    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody’s asleep.
    I say, I know that you’re there,
    so don’t be
    then I put him back,
    but he’s singing a little
    in there, I haven’t quite let him
    and we sleep together like
    with our
    secret pact
    and it’s nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don’t
    weep, do

  • 2/27/2007 at 10:01 am

    I learned 90% of my dirty limericks from typing “fortune -o” before checking my email with PINE at school.

  • 2/27/2007 at 11:33 am

    Acquainted With The Night, by Robert Frost

    I have been one acquainted with the night.
    I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
    I have outwalked the furthest city light.

    I have looked down the saddest city lane.
    I have passed by the watchman on his beat
    And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

    I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
    When far away an interrupted cry
    Came over houses from another street,

    But not to call me back or say good-by;
    And further still at an unearthly height
    One luminary clock against the sky

    Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
    I have been one acquainted with the night.


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