what is your favorite poem?

[helena]

Every month I put up a new poem on the bulletin board, with the name and photo (or drawing) of the poet. This is the end of our 2nd year doing this. We keep a folder of our growing collection and recite them to each other often. My fav is 'Woman's work' by Maya Angelou my daughters are 'Gathering Leaves' by Robert frost and 'Trees' by Joyce Kilmer. This months poem turned out to be a bit of a snoozer, and it's got me looking for next years poems. I'm wondering what some of your family favorites are? Any suggestions?

thanks!

[rainforest mama]

Mine is "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

[cathmom]

anyone lived in a pretty how town by e.e. cummings

 

Little Boy Blue by Eugene Field

 

This is a great idea! I do something similar with Monet paintings. I think I will start this too!

[Stacia]

Ok, not a 'literary' choice at all, but "Sick" by Shel Silverstein always makes me laugh. It is just sooooo perfect for dramatic interpretation. :D

 

Sick by Shel Silverstein

 

"I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay."

I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I'm going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I've counted sixteen chicken pox

And there's one more--that's seventeen,

And don't you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I'm sure that my left leg is broke--

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button's caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,

My 'pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?

What's that? What's that you say?

You say today is. . .Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

 

 

P.S. I also love "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer.

 

"I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of Robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree."

Edited March 17, 2009 by Stacia

[Rosie_0801]

Daffadowndilly by A.A Milne :)

And the second verse of this: http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/2000/m/mackel01.html

Oh, and the "Andy" poems by Henry Lawson

 

:)

Rosie

[Katrina]

I don't know how old your kids are so this may not be appropriate, but I just LOVE this poem.

 

The Highwayman

 

PART ONE

I

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's red-lipped daughter,

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

 

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,

When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching—

Marching—marching—

King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window;

And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;

They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.

She heard the dead man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!

Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding,

Riding, riding!

The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

When they shot him down on the highway,

Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—

Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

[happi duck]

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

http://www.gratefulness.org/poetry/peace_of_wild_things.htm

[Spinning]

Well, on the morbid side, I just love "Annabel Lee" by Poe, and close toss up would be "The Raven."

http://www.rincondelarte.cl/poe.htm (Annabel Lee)

 

But Frost is my all-time favorite poet, and I love "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171621

 

and "My November Guest." http://www.internal.org/view_poem.phtml?poemID=154

 

Sorry. That's four. It's just hard to pick just one! :001_wub: American Poets!

Edited March 17, 2009 by Spinning

[TeacherZee]

Mine is "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

:iagree:

 

But I also like "The Unknown Citizen" by Auden

 

(To JS/07 M 378

This Marble Monument

Is Erected by the State)

 

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be

One against whom there was no official complaint,

And all the reports on his conduct agree

That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a

saint,

For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.

Except for the War till the day he retired

He worked in a factory and never got fired,

But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.

Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,

For his Union reports that he paid his dues,

(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)

And our Social Psychology workers found

That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.

The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day

And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.

Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,

And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.

Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare

He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan

And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,

A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.

Our researchers into Public Opinion are content

That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;

When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.

He was married and added five children to the population,

Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his

generation.

And our teachers report that he never interfered with their

education.

Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:

Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

 

(and many many others:D)

Edited March 17, 2009 by TeacherZee
Edited to add the poem

[Spy Car]

Ezra Pound

 

Canto I [i'll spare you the other 119 parts :D]

 

And then went down to the ship,

Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and

We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,

Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also

Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward

Bore us onward with bellying canvas,

Crice's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.

Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,

Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day's end.

Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean,

Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,

To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities

Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever

With glitter of sun-rays

Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven

Swartest night stretched over wreteched men there.

The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place

Aforesaid by Circe.

Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,

And drawing sword from my hip

I dug the ell-square pitkin;

Poured we libations unto each the dead,

First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour

Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads;

As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best

For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,

A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.

Dark blood flowed in the fosse,

Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides

Of youths and of the old who had borne much;

Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,

Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,

Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,

These many crowded about me; with shouting,

Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;

Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze;

Poured ointment, cried to the gods,

To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine;

Unsheathed the narrow sword,

I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,

Till I should hear Tiresias.

But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,

Unburied, cast on the wide earth,

Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,

Unwept, unwrapped in the sepulchre, since toils urged other.

Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech:

"Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?

"Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?"

And he in heavy speech:

"Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Crice's ingle.

"Going down the long ladder unguarded,

"I fell against the buttress,

"Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.

"But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied,

"Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed:

"A man of no fortune, and with a name to come.

"And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows."

 

And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban,

Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first:

"A second time? why? man of ill star,

"Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?

"Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever

"For soothsay."

And I stepped back,

And he strong with the blood, said then: "Odysseus

"Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,

"Lose all companions." Then Anticlea came.

Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus,

In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer.

And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outwards and away

And unto Crice.

Venerandam,

In the Cretan's phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite,

Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, oricalchi, with golden

Girdle and breat bands, thou with dark eyelids

Bearing the golden bough of Argicidia. So that:

[Peek a Boo]

Well, on the morbid side, I just love "Annabel Lee" by Poe, and close toss up would be "The Raven."

http://www.rincondelarte.cl/poe.htm (Annabel Lee)

 

 

Another vote for Annabel Lee! i LOVE that poem!

 

"But our love it was stronger by far than the love

of those who were older than we;

of many far wiser than we;

and neither the angels in heaven above

nor the demons down under the sea

can ever dissever my soul from the soul

of the beautiful Annabel Lee."

 

I've got the first 4 verses of the Raven memorized. need to work on the rest. Always a hoot at Halloween parties ;)

[Jennifer in NH]

I have two all time favorites:

 

1. The Cremation of sam Mc Gee by Robert servive.

" There are strange things done in the midnight sun

by the men who moil for gold; ......"

That one is really long and my dad taught it to me...I love it!

 

2. Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas.

 

It makes me cry every time.

[JFSinIL]

Wordsworth - Tintern Abbey

 

and the one written by a young pilot in WWI who later died....I forget the name of it!!!! Flight? Soaring????? I have to find the name of it now!!! (have a newspaper clipping of the poem - minus title - on the 'fridge.

 

Ok - googled it:

 

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

 

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee

No 412 squadron, RCAF

Killed 11 December 1941

[AmyP]

I also love Annabel Lee, I have since I first read it. I'm also fond of The Walrus and the Carpenter and Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll.

[MamaT]

My personal favorite is a poem my son wrote for me, after that If by Rudyard Kipling.

 

My Constant

 

If I could remember the beginning of me

I would see your smiling face

Because you are constant as the tide of the sea

With a love that fills every inch of outer space

 

As a child it was your kisses on my bruises

And your hugs during my worst nights

It is you that still finds all my toys I lose

You that helps me gain the goals in my sights

 

It was you that filled me with Curiosity

So now I must hunt for the end of every Mystery

It was you that showed me Literature's beauty

And every world that simply waits for my Imagination

 

Because one of the best parts of my day

Is waking up and having the morning together

Before I have to get on the rush of my way

There isn't much we have to say

You just seem to make things better

 

So thank you, for putting the Love of Life in my heart

And putting Wisdom in these eyes

In the production of my life, you have an enormous part

Simply because you answered all of my Whys

 

 

 

 

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 imposters 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 wornout 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 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!

[Chris in VA]

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

 

13. Pied Beauty

 

 

GLORY be to God for dappled things—

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; 5

And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

 

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 10

Praise him.

 

 

I love this poem because I see my life as a dappled thing--light and dark, sorrow and joy, all mottled by the hand of God. Learning to give praise for this dappled thing is evidence of growth, I think.

 

I also love just about anything by Emily Dickinson, and this one, but I don't think kids would like it:

BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you

As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;

That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend

Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due, 5

Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,

Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.

Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,

But am betroth'd unto your enemie: 10

Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe;

Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I

Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,

Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

 

Here's two more--oh dear, I could go on!

 

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that 's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 5

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face; 10

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

 

And finally, as I raise my children and do not regret the time doing so...

 

You are the trip I did not take;

You are the pearls I cannot buy;

You are my blue Italian lake;

You are my piece of foreign sky.

 

Anne Campbell

[helena]

Some other poems we enjoyed were 'In the Shadows' by Pauline E. Johnson 'How Happy is the Little Stone' by Emily Dickinson, 'Pippa's Song' by Robert Browning, 'Last Word of a Blue Bird As Told to a Child' (I love hearing my 7 yo recite this one) by Robert Frost, and 'When I Heard the Learned Astronomer by Walt Whitman. What's kind of cool about doing this is they know what different poets look like, as we repeat some of the poets I put up a picture of their younger or older years, so they can see the poets at different stages of their life. It's amazing to watch them memorize and recite with such an understanding and love for the words. It figures the one thing I do that is free and simple, will probably stay with us through high school:tongue_smilie:. Thanks for all the responses! Any more??? By the way my kids are 10 & 7. But I'm collecting for future years as well!

[blessed2fosteradopt]

I Shall Not Live In Vain

 

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Into his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

 

Emily Dickinson

 

As a foster/adoptive parent and because of the work I do and the lives I see transformed every day, I find this poem especially poignant.

 

Thanks for letting me share.

 

Blessings,

 

Lisa

[Parrothead]

I'm a bit strange. Longfellow's The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere is one of my favorites.

[Mandy in TN]

I love poems and don't think that I can pick just one.

Some of my favorite poets are Basho, Issa, Valerie Worth, e.e. cummings, and Carl Sandburg.

 

How about these 5 for favorite poems.

 

Issa's Snail-ku

my favorite translations leave the surprise for last

 

Oh, my little snail,

Slowly, ah, very slowly-

Climb up Mount Fuji!

 

Carl Sandburg

 

The Fog

by Carl Sandburg

 

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

 

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

 

Emily Dickinson

 

Nobody

by Emily Dickinson

 

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us- don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

 

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

 

Edgar Allan Poe

 

From The Conqueror Worm

by Edgar Allan Poe

 

Out- out are the lights- out all!

And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

While the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

 

There are also random poems that really impacted my life. One was a poem that I had to memorize in 7th grade. It is holocaust poetry and was studied in the historical context and the context a learning literary terms. I have never forgotten it.

 

Die Bucherverbrennung

The Burning of the Books,

(translation by H.R. Hays)

 

When the Regime ordered that books with dangerous teachings

Should be publicly burnt and everywhere

Oxen were forced to draw carts full of books

To the funeral pyre, an exiled poet,

One of the best, discovered with fury, when he studied the list

Of the burned, that his books

Had been forgotten. He rushed to his writing table

On wings of anger and wrote a letter to those in power.

Burn me, he wrote with hurrying pen, burn me!

Do not treat me in this fashion. Don't leave me out. Haven’t I

Always spoken the truth in my books? And now

You treat me like a liar! I order you:

Burn me!

 

:D Mandy

[mrsdash]

My 2 favorites are

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling and Custard the Dragon by Ogden Nash. The latter is very silly :)

[myfunnybunch]

i thank you God for most this amazing

 

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

 

(i who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth

day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay

great happening illimitably earth)

 

how should tasting touching hearing seeing

breathing any--lifted from the no

of all nothing--human merely being

doubt unimaginable You?

 

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

 

~e.e. cummings

 

And....

 

Arithmetic

 

Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.

 

Arithmetic tells you how many you lose or win if you know how many you had before you lost or won.

 

Arithmetic is seven eleven all good children go to heaven -- or five six bundle of sticks.

 

Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.

 

Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky -- or the answer is wrong and you have to start all over and try again and see how it comes out this time.

 

If you take a number and double it and double it again and then double it a few more times, the number gets bigger and bigger and goes higher and higher and only arithmetic can tell you what the number is when you decide to quit doubling.

 

Arithmetic is where you have to multiply -- and you carry the multiplication table in your head and hope you won't lose it.

 

If you have two animal crackers, one good and one bad, and you eat one and a striped zebra with streaks all over him eats the other, how many animal crackers will you have if somebody offers you five six seven and you say No no no and you say Nay nay nay and you say Nix nix nix?

 

If you ask your mother for one fried egg for breakfast and she gives you two fried eggs and you eat both of them, who is better in arithmetic, you or your mother?

 

~Carl Sandburg

[percytruffle]

I have several favorites which include: The Red Wheel Barrow (William Carlos Williams), The Ballad of the Harp Weaver (Edna St. Vincent Millay), Jabberwocky (Lewis Carroll), and Home (Edgar Guest).

 

The Red Wheelbarrow

William Carlos Williams

 

 

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

 

glazed with rain

water

 

beside the white

chickens.

[Guest Virginia Dawn]

I love Poe! I still remember my Aunt reading The Raven to me at the age of 9. It left a lasting impression.

 

Beside The Raven, The Bells is a fun one to recite.

 

I also like the Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha, especially the part about his childhood.

 

"By the shining big sea water

was the wigwam of Nokomis,

daughter of the moon, Nokomis."

 

I like the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, too. :-)

[slug hollow]

I remember loving the poems of Tennyson. Man, it's been a long time since I've read any of them. Here's one. Could have been the age....

 

The Burial of Love

 

 

 

His eyes in eclipse,

Pale-cold his lips,

The light of his hopes unfed,

Mute his tongue,

His bow unstrung

With the tears he hath shed,

Backward drooping his graceful head,

Love is dead:

His last arrow is sped;

He hath not another dart;

Go–carry him to his dark deathbed;

Bury him in the cold, cold heart–

Love is dead.

 

O truest love! art thou forlorn,

And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles

Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?

Shall hollow-hearted apathy,

The cruellest form of perfect scorn,

With languor of most hateful smiles,

For ever write,

In the withered light

Of the tearless eye,

And epitaph that all may spy?

No! sooner she herself shall die.

 

For her the showers shall not fall,

Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all;

Her light shall into darkness change;

For her the green grass shall not spring,

Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,

Till Love have his full revenge.

[5Youngs]

Mine is "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

 

I love The Road Not Taken by Frost, tied with The Lady of Shalot by Tennyson~

I had to know WHAT Anne was reading in the opening scene of Anne of Green Gables!

Edited March 17, 2009 by 5Youngs

[Nakia]

Mine is "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

 

Me too!

[5Youngs]

I don't know how old your kids are so this may not be appropriate, but I just LOVE this poem.

 

The Highwayman

 

 

When they shot him down on the highway,

Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

 

 

Again, I know this from Anne of Green Gables~

I'm seeing a trend here......

[pqr]

Kipling.... His poems still resonate.

 

 

TOMMY

by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

 

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!

 

 

God Bless our troops!

Edited March 17, 2009 by pqr

[Spy Car]

Kipling.... His poems still resonate.

 

 

When I saw you'd posted I thought, it has to be Kipling!

 

But I thought maybe "Gunga Din." I was close :D

 

Bill (also a fan of Kipling)

[Mommy22alyns]

I rather like Resume by Dorothy Parker. :tongue_smilie:

 

Totally not for kids though... just people who have been there.

[Guest Katia]

I like these three a lot: Daffodils by William Wordsworth ; Silver by Walter de la Mare and Barter by Sara Teasdale.

 

"Daffodils" (1804)

 

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

 

When all at once I saw a crowd,

 

A host, of golden daffodils;

 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

 

Continuous as the stars that shine

 

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

 

They stretch'd in never-ending line

 

Along the margin of a bay:

 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

The waves beside them danced; but they

 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

 

A poet could not but be gay,

 

In such a jocund company:

 

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie

 

In vacant or in pensive mood,

 

They flash upon that inward eye

 

Which is the bliss of solitude;

 

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

 

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

 

 

Silver

 

Slowly, silently, now the moon

Walks the night in her silver shoon;

This way, and that, she peers, and sees

Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch

Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;

Couched in his kennel, like a log,

With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep

Of doves in silver feathered sleep

A harvest mouse goes scampering by,

With silver claws, and silver eye;

And moveless fish in the water gleam,

By silver reeds in a silver stream.

 

Walter de la Mare

 

Barter

 

Life has loveliness to sell,

All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up

Holding wonder like a cup.

 

Life has loveliness to sell,

Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

 

Spend all you have for loveliness,

But it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

 

-Sara Teasdale

[mazakaal]

Mine is "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

 

This has been my favorite poem since I was a kid.

[suzf242]

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

 

13. Pied Beauty

 

 

GLORY be to God for dappled things—

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;

And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

 

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.

 

 

Chris -- this is my favorite too! I learned it in college (20 years ago) and still think about it a lot.

 

Thanks for sharing!

 

Suzanne

[kalanamak]

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,

But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out,

Against the wreckful siege of battering days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack,

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O! none, unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Edited March 18, 2009 by kalanamak

[Reya]

Every month I put up a new poem on the bulletin board, with the name and photo (or drawing) of the poet. This is the end of our 2nd year doing this. We keep a folder of our growing collection and recite them to each other often. My fav is 'Woman's work' by Maya Angelou my daughters are 'Gathering Leaves' by Robert frost and 'Trees' by Joyce Kilmer. This months poem turned out to be a bit of a snoozer, and it's got me looking for next years poems. I'm wondering what some of your family favorites are? Any suggestions?

thanks!

 

As a child, mine was The Listeners by Walter de la Mare

[Jane in NC]

When my now 17 year old son was a toddler, he loved this poem which I had to read to him regularly:

 

Animal Crackers

by Christopher Morley

 

Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,

That is the finest of suppers I think;

When I'm grown up and can have what I please

I think I shall always insist upon these.

What do YOU choose when you're offered a treat?

When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"

Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?

It's cocoa and animals that I love most!

 

The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know;

The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,

And there in the twilight, how jolly to see

The cocoa and animals waiting for me.

 

Daddy and Mother dine later in state,

With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;

But they don't have nearly as much fun as I

Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;

And Daddy once said, he would like to be me

Having cocoa and animals once more for tea.

 

 

 

While I adore T.S. Eliot, particularly The Four Quartets, I don't think that you were looking for suggestions for older readers--or are you?

 

Jane

[Ria]

Goodness...too many to pick just one.

 

In Just by e e cummings

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

My Mistress' Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun by Wm. Shakespeare

Out, Out by Robert Frost

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Elliot

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

 

There are more....

 

Ria

[Karen sn]

Trees

Joyce Kilmer

 

I can say this by heart....

 

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the Earth's sweet flowing breast.

 

A tree who looks at god all day

And lifts her leafy arms to pray.

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robbins in her hair.

 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me

But only god can make a tree.

 

......or something like that.....

[heart'sjoy]

It's been a joy to find some manly poems for my sons.

 

Song of the Train

by David McCord

 

Clickety-Clack,

Wheels on the track,

This is the way

They begin the attack;

Click-ety clack,

Click-ety clack,

Click-ety - clack-ety,

Click-ety

Clack

( 2 more stanza)

 

The White Ships

by David McCord

 

Out from the beach the ships I see

On cloudy sails move sleepily,

And though the sind be fair and strong

I watch them steal like ants along,

Following free, or wheeling now

To dip the sun a golden prow.

 

But when I ride upon the train

And turn to find the ships again,

I catch them far against the sky,

With crowded canvas hurrying by,

To all intent as fast as we

Are thundering beside the sea.

 

 

We've also enjoyed period poems. TOGy2 encompassed the Middle Ages.

 

The Miller of the Dee by Charles Mackay is wonderful conversation between a discontent king and a contented miller complete with "thine's and thee's."

 

My daughter, age 9, chose a long poem by Alfred Tennyson titled, Lady Claire. It's almost a ballad as a newly engaged heiress suddenly discovers she is "beggar born" and lays her case before her betrothed to see if there be "any faith in man."

 

I think my husband learned portions of The Charge of the Light Brigade. Are there any poems similar to this one?

[OhioM]

He clasps the crag with crooked hands

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world he stands.

 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

[Lizzie in Ma]

Here is a link

[pqr]

 

I think my husband learned portions of The Charge of the Light Brigade. Are there any poems similar to this one?

 

 

There are lots of Poems for boys.

 

Kipling

 

Gunga Din

Fuzzy Wuzzy

Ballad of East and West

Grave of the Hundred Head

 

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/kipling_ind.html

 

Tennyson

 

The Revenge. A Ballad of the Fleet

 

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-revenge-a-ballad-of-the-fleet/

 

Doyle

 

A Private of the Buffs (Warning some "racist" content)

 

http://www.bartleby.com/246/562.html

[lionfamily1999]

the lesson of the moth

 

By Don Marquis, in "archy and mehitabel," 1927

i was talking to a moth

the other evening

he was trying to break into

an electric light bulb

and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows

pull this stunt i asked him

because it is the conventional

thing for moths or why

if that had been an uncovered

candle instead of an electric

light bulb you would

now be a small unsightly cinder

have you no sense

plenty of it he answered

but at times we get tired

of using it

we get bored with the routine

and crave beauty

and excitement

fire is beautiful

and we know that if we get

too close it will kill us

but what does that matter

it is better to be happy

for a moment

and be burned up with beauty

than to live a long time

and be bored all the while

so we wad all our life up

into one little roll

and then we shoot the roll

that is what life is for

it is better to be a part of beauty

for one instant and then cease to

exist than to exist forever

and never be a part of beauty

our attitude toward life

is come easy go easy

we are like human beings

used to be before they became

too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him

out of his philosophy

he went and immolated himself

on a patent cigar lighter

i do not agree with him

myself i would rather have

half the happiness and twice

the longevity

but at the same time i wish

there was something i wanted

as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy

 

Just in case you didn't know ;) archy is a cockroach...

link:

http://www.donmarquis.com/index.html

[ereks mom]

Find more here: http://www.sofinesjoyfulmoments.com/quotes/edguest.htm

 

The Weaver

Edgar Guest

 

The patter of rain on the roof,

The glint of the sun on the rose;

Of life, these the warp and the woof,

The weaving that everyone knows.

Now grief with its consequent tear,

Now joy with its luminous smile;

The days are the threads of the year--

Is what I am weaving worth while?

 

What pattern have I on my loom?

Shall my bit of tapestry please?

Am I working with gray threads of gloom?

Is there faith in the figures I seize?

When my fingers are lifeless and cold,

And the threads I no longer can weave

Shall there be there for men to behold

One sign of the things I believe?

 

God sends me the gray days and rare,

The threads from his bountiful skein,

And many, as sunshine, are fair.

And some are as dark as the rain.

And I think as I toil to express

My life through the days slipping by,

Shall my tapestry prove a success?

What sort of weaver am I?

 

Am I making the most of the red

And the bright strands of luminous gold?

Or blotting them out with the thread

By which all men's failure is told?

Am I picturing life as despair,

As a thing men shall shudder to see,

Or weaving a bit that is fair

That shall stand as the record of me?

 

 

Faith

Edgar Guest

 

This much I know:

God does not wrong us here,

Though oft His judgments seem severe

And reason falters 'neath the blow,

Some day we'll learn 'twas better so.

 

So oft I've erred

In trifling matters of my own concern;

So oft I've blundered at the simplest turn,

Chosen the false path or the foolish word

That what I call my judgment seems absurd.

 

My puny reason cries

Against the bitter and the cruel blows,

Measuring the large world by the inch it knows,

Seeing all joy and pain through selfish eyes,

Not knowing hurt and suffering may be wise.

 

But I have come to see,

So vast God's love, so infinite His plan

That it is well it was not left to man

To alter or to say what is to be,

When reason failed, faith also then would flee.

 

God knoweth best!

Through the black night and agony of grief

Faith whispers low: "Hold fast to your belief!

In time His purpose He shall manifest,

Then shall you learn how greatly you were blest."

 

 

Sermons We See

Edgar Guest

 

I'd rather see a sermon than hear one any day;

I'd rather one should walk with me than merely tell the way.

The eye's a better pupil and more willing than the ear,

Fine counsel is confusing, but example's always clear;

And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds,

For to see good put in action is what everybody needs.

 

I soon can learn to do it if you'll let me see it done;

I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run.

And the lecture you deliver may be very wise and true,

But I'd rather get my lessons by observing what you do;

For I might misunderstand you and the high advise you give,

But there's no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.

 

When I see a deed of kindness, I am eager to be kind.

When a weaker brother stumbles and a strong man stays behind

Just to see if he can help him, then the wish grows strong in me

To become as big and thoughtful as I know that friend to be.

And all travelers can witness that the best of guides today

Is not the one who tells them, but the one who shows the way.

 

One good man teaches many, men believe what they behold;

One deed of kindness noticed is worth forty that are told.

Who stands with men of honor learns to hold his honor dear,

For right living speaks a language which to every one is clear.

Though an able speaker charms me with his eloquence, I say,

I'd rather see a sermon than to hear one, any day.

 

 

If This Were All

Edgar Guest

 

If this were all of life we'll know,

If this brief space of breath

Were all there is to human toil,

If death were really death,

And never should the soul arise

A finer world to see,

How foolish would our struggles seem,

How grim the earth would be!

 

If living were the whole of life,

To end in seventy years,

How pitiful its joys would seem!

How idle all its tears!

There'd be no faith to keep us true,

No hope to keep us strong,

And only fools would cherish dreams--

No smile would last for long.

 

How purposeless the strife would be

If there were nothing more,

If there were not a plan to serve,

An end to struggle for!

No reason for a mortal's birth

Except to have him die--

How silly all the goals would seem

For which men bravely try.

 

There must be something after death;

Behind the toil of man

There must exist a God divine

Who's working out a plan;

And this brief journey that we know

As life must really be

The gateway to a finer world

That some day we shall see.

[Danestress]

LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

 

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more.

 

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.

 

by Housman

 

It will be something else tomorrow. But I will always love this one.

[6packofun]

Oh, several poems for all my moods. LOL I really like Consider the Lilies of the Field and In the Bleak Midwinter (and MANY others) by Christina Rossetti. I've always really loved Kubla Khan by Sam Coleridge. :)

[laurafrantz]

Not sure if this is helpful to the OP since it's in French but I've loved this poem from the first time I read it, and I have found no translation that I truly like:

 

J'ai voulu ce matin te rapporter des roses ;

Mais j'en avais tant pris dans mes ceintures closes

Que les noeuds trop serrés n'ont pu les contenir.

 

Les noeuds ont éclaté. Les roses envolées

Dans le vent, à la mer s'en sont toutes allées.

Elles ont suivi l'eau pour ne plus revenir ;

 

La vague en a paru rouge et comme enflammée.

Ce soir, ma robe encore en est tout embaumée...

Respires-en sur moi l'odorant souvenir.

[Rosie_0801]

I have a new favourite poem!

 

By Mary Leslie Newton

Queen Anne, Queen Anne, has washed her lace

(She chose a summer's day)

And hung it in a grassy place

To whiten, if it may.

Queen Anne, Queen Anne, has left it there,

And slept the dewy night;

Then waked, to find the sunshine fair,

And all the meadows white.

Queen Anne, Queen Anne, is dead and gone

(She died a summer's day),

But left her lace to whiten in

Each weed-entangled way!

[Tutor]

Death Be Not Proud by John Donne

 

The mushroom is the elf of plants by Emily Dickinson

 

The City in the Sea by Edgar Allen Poe