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    Am interested in people's favourite poems. I know its hard, but if you like, favourite poem of the moment:

    Mine has got to be either Philp Larkin "Aubade" or "This be the verse"
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    Suffering from Cambridge-nostalgia at the moment, so I would have to say Rupert Brooke's "the old vicarage".
    EDIT: thought I should add a link in case anyone wanted to read it...
    http://www.orchard-grantchester.com/poetry.htm
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    Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
    Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
    Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
    Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

    A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
    Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
    Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
    Comme des avirons traîner à coté d'eux.

    Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule !
    Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid !
    L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
    L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait !

    Le Poête est semblable au prince des nuées
    Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer ;
    Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
    Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher


    not my favourite but the first to stick in my head...
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    The Hollow men
    http://www.cs.umbc.edu/~evans/hollow.html

    also my favourite sonnet is

    Death be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
    For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
    Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
    From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
    Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
    And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
    Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
    Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
    And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
    And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
    And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
    One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
    And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.


    (John Donne)
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    The one by Anonymous:

    Do not stand at my grave and weep
    I am not there, I do not sleep
    I am a thousand winds that blow
    I am the diamond glints on snow
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain
    I am the gentle autumn rain
    When you awaken in the morning's hush
    I am the sweet uplifting rush
    Of quiet wings in silent flight
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry,
    I am not there, I did not die.

    I might have missed a bit out, but i think it's beautiful.
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    (Original post by vienna95)
    Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
    Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
    Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
    Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

    A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
    Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
    Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
    Comme des avirons traîner à coté d'eux.

    Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule !
    Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid !
    L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
    L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait !

    Le Poête est semblable au prince des nuées
    Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer ;
    Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
    Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher


    not my favourite but the first to stick in my head...
    wot does that mean!!
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    (Original post by serendipity)
    The one by Anonymous:

    Do not stand at my grave and weep
    I am not there, I do not sleep
    I am a thousand winds that blow
    I am the diamond glints on snow
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain
    I am the gentle autumn rain
    When you awaken in the morning's hush
    I am the sweet uplifting rush
    Of quiet wings in silent flight
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry,
    I am not there, I did not die.

    I might have missed a bit out, but i think it's beautiful.
    That is really lovely

    I like too many - just can't pick out a favourite. This one is nice though (but very sad)

    TIME does not bring relief; you all have lied
    Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
    I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
    I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
    The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
    And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
    But last year’s bitter loving must remain
    Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
    There are a hundred places where I fear
    To go,—so with his memory they brim!
    And entering with relief some quiet place
    Where never fell his foot or shone his face
    I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
    And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
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    (Original post by Saf!)
    wot does that mean!!
    i couldnt really do it justice translating it, but you can search for the english version of L'Albatros(The Albatross) by Charles Baudelaire.
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    (Original post by serendipity)
    The one by Anonymous:

    Do not stand at my grave and weep
    I am not there, I do not sleep
    I am a thousand winds that blow
    I am the diamond glints on snow
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain
    I am the gentle autumn rain
    When you awaken in the morning's hush
    I am the sweet uplifting rush
    Of quiet wings in silent flight
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry,
    I am not there, I did not die.

    I might have missed a bit out, but i think it's beautiful.
    wot is it called......... its lovely!........and so sad!
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    Often, to have fun itself, the crew men Take albatros, vast birds of the seas, That follow, indolent trip
    companions, The vessel slipping on the bitter gulfs.

    To pains the did they deposit on the boards, That these kings of the azure, clumsy and shameful, Leave pitiful
    their big white wings As rowing to lead to quoted of them.

    This winged traveler, as it is left and wants! Him, recently so beautiful, that it is comical and ugly! The one annoys his beak with a burns mouth, THE OTHER mime, while limping, the infirm one that flew!

    The Poête is similar to the prince of the clouds That haunts the storm and laughs itself bowman; Exiled on the
    ground in the middle of the booed ones, Its wings of giant prevent it from walk


    there i have translated it 4 u
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    (Original post by Mittow)
    Often, to have fun itself, the crew men Take albatros, vast birds of the seas, That follow, indolent trip
    companions, The vessel slipping on the bitter gulfs.

    To pains the did they deposit on the boards, That these kings of the azure, clumsy and shameful, Leave pitiful
    their big white wings As rowing to lead to quoted of them.

    This winged traveler, as it is left and wants! Him, recently so beautiful, that it is comical and ugly! The one annoys his beak with a burns mouth, THE OTHER mime, while limping, the infirm one that flew!

    The Poête is similar to the prince of the clouds That haunts the storm and laughs itself bowman; Exiled on the
    ground in the middle of the booed ones, Its wings of giant prevent it from walk


    there i have translated it 4 u
    hehe, nice try.
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    (Original post by vienna95)
    hehe, nice try.
    i did it on www.freetranslation.com
    lol
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    (Original post by Mittow)
    i did it on www.freetranslation.com
    lol
    i know.
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    (Original post by Mittow)
    Often, to have fun itself, the crew men Take albatros, vast birds of the seas, That follow, indolent trip
    companions, The vessel slipping on the bitter gulfs.

    To pains the did they deposit on the boards, That these kings of the azure, clumsy and shameful, Leave pitiful
    their big white wings As rowing to lead to quoted of them.

    This winged traveler, as it is left and wants! Him, recently so beautiful, that it is comical and ugly! The one annoys his beak with a burns mouth, THE OTHER mime, while limping, the infirm one that flew!

    The Poête is similar to the prince of the clouds That haunts the storm and laughs itself bowman; Exiled on the
    ground in the middle of the booed ones, Its wings of giant prevent it from walk


    there i have translated it 4 u
    u'r either REALLY good at french or u found the english version!
    thanx anyway!
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    (Original post by Saf!)
    u'r either REALLY good at french or u found the english version!
    thanx anyway!
    or neither.

    Often, to amuse themselves, the men of the crew
    Catch those great birds of the seas, the albatrosses,
    Lazy companions of the voyage, who follow
    The ship that slips through bitter gulfs.

    Hardly have they put them on the deck,
    Than these kings of the skies, awkward and ashamed,
    Piteously let their great white wings
    Draggle like oars beside them.

    This winged traveller, how weak he becomes and slack!
    He who of late was so beautiful, how comical and ugly!
    Someone teases his beak with a branding iron,
    Another mimics, limping, the crippled flyer!

    The Poet is like the prince of the clouds,
    Haunting the tempest and laughing at the archer;
    Exiled on earth amongst the shouting people,
    His giant's wings hinder him from walking.
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    Come and trip it as you go
    on the light, fantastic toe

    And in thy right hand lead with thee
    the mountain nymph; sweet liberty

    and if i give thee honour due,
    mirth, admit me of thy crew

    to live with her and live with thee
    in unreproved pleasure free

    (my favourite extract from my favourite poem)
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    Anyone want a cheese and pickle sandwich?

    Go To Bed With A Cheese And Pickle Sandwich

    It is life enhancing.
    It doesn't chat you up.
    You have to make it.

    A cheese and pickle sandwich
    is never disappointing.
    You don't lie there thinking:
    Am I too fat?
    Too fertile?
    Too insecure?

    Your thoughts are clear,
    your choices simple:
    to cut it in half
    or not to cut it in half,
    how thin to slice the cheese
    and where you should place the pickle.

    From a cheese and pickle sandwich
    you do not expect flowers,
    poems and acts of adoration.
    You expect what you get:
    cheese... and pickle.

    You want, you eat,
    and afterwards you have eaten.
    No lying awake resentful,
    listening to it snore.

    Safe snacks.
    It comes recommended.



    From Mandy Coe, Pinning The Tail On The Donkey, 2000, Spike.
    Poem first broadcast on Woman's Hour, BBC Radio 4.
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    I really like "If" by Rudyard Kipling

    My Grandma gave me this one:

    I have a little garden
    I dig it every day
    I water all the pretty flowers
    And throw the weeds away
    And yet the flowers are very scarce
    Of weeds there is no lack
    For when I'm fast asleep in bed
    They all come creeping back
    And this is most annoying for
    As anyone can tell
    They do not come back by themselves
    They bring their friends aswell!

    And one for the season:

    Watching them open the wrapping,
    Seeing the stars in their eyes,
    Catching that moment of magic -
    Their look of excited surprise.
    Here is the pure joy of Christmas,
    The pleasure a present ensures,
    But while theirs is the joy of receiving,
    The true joy of giving is yours.

    x-Laura-x
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    The best poem surely has to be Roger McGough's 'The lesson'. If you like older work, perhaps Wilfred Owen.

    The Lesson

    Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
    as bravely the teacher walked in
    the nooligans ignored him
    hid voice was lost in the din

    "The theme for today is violence
    and homework will be set
    I'm going to teach you a lesson
    one that you'll never forget"

    He picked on a boy who was shouting
    and throttled him then and there
    then garrotted the girl behind him
    (the one with grotty hair)

    Then sword in hand he hacked his way
    between the chattering rows
    "First come, first severed" he declared
    "fingers, feet or toes"

    He threw the sword at a latecomer
    it struck with deadly aim
    then pulling out a shotgun
    he continued with his game

    The first blast cleared the backrow
    (where those who skive hang out)
    they collapsed like rubber dinghies
    when the plug's pulled out

    "Please may I leave the room sir?"
    a trembling vandal enquired
    "Of course you may" said teacher
    put the gun to his temple and fired

    The Head popped a head round the doorway
    to see why a din was being made
    nodded understandingly
    then tossed in a grenade

    And when the ammo was well spent
    with blood on every chair
    Silence shuffled forward
    with its hands up in the air

    The teacher surveyed the carnage
    the dying and the dead
    He waggled a finger severely
    "Now let that be a lesson" he said
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    or the worst poem....
 
 
 
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