Favorite Poem Anthologhy

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Introduction

This anthology of poems is rather short. It consists of only sixteen poems that I have read from the two course textbooks. I have picked these poems from these sources because the two books are the only forms of poetry that I have in my room. I never have been a reader of poetry, but these poems have made an impact on me in some way or another. Either by making me raise an eyebrow to the unusual content, forcing me to smile, or experiencing the emotion of the author.

I have arranged this collection of poems from beginning to end in the order that I prefer them. I like the finishing poem the most and the beginning poem is my least favorite. Each of the poems are about different topics and of several different styles of poetry. The poems have different meters, rhymes schemes, and only a few are by the same author.

I like Bishop's One Art because it addresses a true problem in life. I believe that losing can become habitual, and that there are such people as professional losers. The majority of people in the world can take loss a little too easy. Heat by Denis Johnson is a poem that makes me smile. Reading poetry that has a little bit of dirt mixed in it has to bring a smile on your smile on face. Churchgoing by Robin Skelton is a poem that has me think of a minister from the days of the depression, leaning over the pulpit and thundering away at a weary congregation. Elinor Wylie's Peter and John is an interesting poem about the punishment of Judas Iscariot for his betrayal of Jesus. The story is told through the conversation of two disciples, Peter and John, about the dream they each had. I like George Hebert's Easter Wings because of the poems visual appearance. I believe the author created this poem to be visual art as well as linguistic art. The Tale of Custard the Dragon is another poem that is fun to read. The simple vocabulary and entertaining rhyme scheme make this a poem for all ages. I like the occasional sappy love poem as well, like A Quoi Bon Dire. The author of the poem uses simple vocabulary to depict two elder people who's love has endured through the years and even through death. I like O Captain! My Captain! for the image it depicts. You can almost see the large ship coming in to port. With a large crowd gathered, anxious to welcome the crew home. However, there are a few sad sailors on board who have lost their Captain. Not Waving but Drowning is a poem, which makes my mind work. After I read it I can't help but think of people in my life that need help and I can't recognize it. The Dance reminds me that we are all a part of something bigger than we know. I constantly focus on the here and now, forgetting that there is a bigger picture in life. Robin Skelton's November reminds me of the days back in grade school. When I would hurry home from school, all bundled up to keep warm, then lie down and watch TV for hours. Those were the days. No End To It by Skelton is another reminder that everything we do has an effect on us down the timeline of our lives. There is no conclusion to any event in life. Observation is a poem I like because it reminds me that life is short. Time has managed to see all there is to see in this world and I will likely see a small percentage of a small percentage this world has to offer. I like Sometimes by Skelton as well. I like it because its reference to little things. Its often the little things that I person does which will send you falling head over heals in love. Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night is such an emotional poem, how can a person not like it? The words the author uses create a fire in the text, which I love to read. My favorite poem is Yes by Muriel Rukeyser. I love this poem. I often have a hard time saying no to people or I say yes before I can think a proposition through. There are too many people who do as I do also. For many people, I believe that they say yes with no intentions of following through, because they forget the last stanza of this poem.

One Art

Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something everyday. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster

places, and names and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Heat

Denis Johnson

Here in the electric dust your naked lover

tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.

It's beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,

Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,

streaming with hatred in the heat

as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin

to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,

and such a last light-full of spheres and zones.

August,

you're just an erotic hallucination,

just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,

are you serious? this large oven impersonating night,

this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,

the bogus moon to tenderness and magic

you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?

Churchgoing

Robin Skelton

Bent above pew and choir stall

he speaks as if his Christ were tall

beside him, caring for us all,

and though the sermon's old and stale

we cannot quite dismiss his tale,

but later, over snuggery ale,

protected from the night air's chill,

we think about that lonely hill

and pray good yet may come of ill.

Peter and John

Elinor Wylie

Twelve good friends

Walked under the leaves,

Binding the ends

Of the barley sheaves.

Peter and John

Lay down to sleep

Pillowed upon

A haymaker's heap.

John and Peter

Lay down to dream.

The air was sweeter

Than honey and cream.

Peter was bred

In the salty cold

His hair was red

And his eyes were gold.

John had a mouth

Like a wing bent down

His brow was smooth

And his eyes were brown.

Peter to slumber

Sank like a stone,

Of all their number

The bravest one.

John more slowly

Composed himself,

Young and holy

Among the twelve.

John as he slept

Cried out in grief,

Turned and wept

On the golden leaf

"Peter, Peter,

Stretch me your hand

Across the glitter

Of the harvest land!

"Peter, Peter,

Give me a sign!

This was a bitter

Dream of mine-

"Bitter as aloes

It parched my tongue.

Upon the gallows

My life was hung.

"Sharp it seemed

As a bloody sword.

Peter, I dreamed

I was Christ the Lord!"

Peter turned

To holy Saint John

His body burned

In the falling sun.

In the falling sun

He burned like a flame

"John, Saint John,

I have dreamed the same!

"My bones were hung

On an elder tree;

Bells were rung

Over Galilee.

"A silver penny

Sealed each of my eyes.

Many and many

A cock crew thrice."

When Peter's word

Was spoken and done,

"Were you Christ the Lord

In your dream?" said John

"No," said the other,

"That I was not.

I was our brother

Iscariot."

Easter Wings

George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

Though foolishly he lost the same,

Decaying more and more

Till he became

Most poor;

With thee

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did begin;

And still with sicknesses and shame

thou didst so punish sin,

That I became

Most thin.

With thee

Let me combine,

And feel this day thy victory;

For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

The Tale of Custard the Dragon

Ogden Nash

Belinda lived in a little white house,

With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,

And a little yello dog and a little red wagon,

And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,

And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,

And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,

But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had bif sharp teeth,

And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,

mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,

And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,

And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,

Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,

But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,

Ink, Blink and Mustard, the rudely called him Percival,

they all sat laughing in the little red wagon

At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,

And Blink said Weeck! which is giggling for a mouse,

Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,

When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,

And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.

Meowch! Cried Ink, and Ooh! Cried Belinda,

For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol is his left hand, pistol in his right,

And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,

His beard was black, one leg was wood;

It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help!

But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,

Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,

And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,

Clashed his tail like irons in dungeon,

With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm

He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belindas dragon,

And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,

He fired two bullets, but they didn't hit,

And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,

No one mourned for his pirate victim.

Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate

Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,

With her little black kitten and here little gray mouse,

And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,

And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,

And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,

Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,

But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

A Quoi Bon Dire

Charlotte Mew

Seventeen years ago you said

Something that sounded like Good-bye;

And everybody thinks that you are dead,

But I.

So I, as I grow stiff and cold

To this and that say Good-bye too;

And everybody sees that I am old

But you.

And one fine morning in a sunny lane

Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear

That nobody can love their way again

While over there

You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.

O Captain! My Captain!

Walt Whitman

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,

the ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red!

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores a-

crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Not Waving but Drowning

Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning;

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

The Dance

Robin Skelton

In the hour of the dawn

I recover a tune

that reminds me of dance,

of a measure I've known

as a movement of light

in the mind of the earth

and the steps are the steps

of both maidens and gods

in the circles of stone

that are cupped by the hills

with a canopy of sky.

In the hills of the dawn

I perceive that the tune

I have said I recall

is as new as the grass

interspersing the stones

of the pavement I tread

not remembered at all

but a gift, a surprise

from the spirit of things,

yet it motions my feet

in familiar ways.

In the temple of dawn

I am shuffling a step

that is older than dawn

or the order of time.

I am dancing the stars

that are farther than stars.

I am part of the song.

November

Robin Skelton

Again winter comes

and rain smears the pane

as firs darken green

and oaks bare their boughs.

The grey sea begins

to gnaw crumbling cliffs,

to heave rocks and scoop

out pools, gullies, caves.

while chill nights create

a new store of dreams

for springtime to claim

as truths born of love.

No End To It

Robin Skelton

Some things remain

as aftermath, an unwanted stain

on pillow or sheet

making it clear

that for us, here,

no ending is ever complete.

Always there are

the continuing, if minor, scar,

the snagged thread,

the aftertaste;

even dreams linger, must be outfaced

before leaving bed.

Each time we make an end

we try to pretend

there are actual conclusions,

even while knowing

wherever we are going

yesterdays intrude their delusions.

Observation

Robin Skelton

Oceans rise,

forests fall;

Time, watching,

sees it all.

Time, watching,

sees the rocks

break under

earthquake shocks,

sees rivers

dry to stone,

each creature

shrunk to bone,

roots withered

black as grain,

men, women

eating pain,

humankind

at an end.

Time, watching,

can't pretend

grief, shock; in

pale clear eyes

oceans fall,

forests rise.

Sometimes

Robin Skelton

Sometimes a gesture…

how she sheds her coat.

Sometimes a sound…

her footstep on the stair.

Sometimes an absence…

one hair on the pillow.

Sometimes a syllable,

her half-heard answer.

Sometimes a colour…

crimson at her throat.

Sometimes a pause…

her hand upon the door.

Sometimes time itself,

slow ticking time

sums up all the answers

I am hunting for.

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

Dylan Thomas

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 gently 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 dad 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.

Yes

Muriel Rukeyser

It's like a tap-dance

Or a new pink dress,

A shit-naïve feeling

Saying Yes.

Some say Good morning

Some say God bless-

Some say Possibly

Some say Yes.

Some say Never

Some say Unless

It's stupid and lovely

To rush into Yes.

What can it mean?

It's just like life,

One thing to you

One to your wife.

Some go local

Some go express

Some can't wait

To answer Yes.

Some complain

Of strain and stress

The answer may be

No for Yes.

Some like failure

Some like success

Some like Yes Yes

Yes Yes Yes.

Open your eyes,

Dream but don't guess

Your biggest surprise

Comes after Yes.

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