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The Raven BY EDGAR ALLAN PO – YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

 

ravon

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.
    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”
    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS

Under The Greenwood Tree by William Shakespeare – Famous poets

tree2

Under the greenwood tree
     Who loves to lie with me,
     And turn his merry note
     Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
   Come hither, come hither, come hither:
     Here shall he see
     No enemy
   But winter and rough weather.      Who doth ambition shun,
    And loves to live i’ the sun,
    Seeking the food he eats,
    And pleas’d with what he gets,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither:
    Here shall he see
    No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

  by William Shakespeare 
YOUR  FAVOURITE  POEM SENT IN BY YOU
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Before Summer Rain by Rainer Maria Rilke – Famous poets

planetmmm

Rainer Maria Rilke

1875–1926 

Rainer Maria Rilke was a Bohemian–Austrian poet and art critic. He is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language.. Bohemian-Austrian poetRilke was the only child of a German-speaking family in Prague, then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. His father was a retired officer in the Austrian army who worked as a railroad official; his mother, a socially ambitious and possessive woman. At age eleven Rilke began his formal schooling at a military boarding academy, and in 1891, less than a year after transferring to a secondary military school, he was discharged due to health problems, from which he would suffer throughout his life. He immediately returned to Prague, to find that his parents had divorced in his absence. Shortly thereafter he began receiving private instruction toward passing the entrance exams for Prague’s Charles-Ferdinand University. In 1894 his first book of verse,Leben und Lieder: Bilder und Tagebuchblatter, was published.

Before Summer Rain

something-you don't know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window
in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls with their ancient portraits glide
away from us cautiously as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now:
the chill uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid

 by: Rainer Maria Rilke

 YOUR FAVOURITE POEM sent in by you, what's yours ?

The Spider by the Gwydir;

redback-spider
The Spider by the Gwydir;
By the sluggish river Gwydir
Lived a wicked red-back spider
And he was just as wicked as can be

And the place that he was camped in
Was a rusty Jone’s jam-tin
In a paddock by the showground
Near Moree

Near him lay a shearer snoring
He’d been on beer and boozing
All through the night
And all the previous day.
And the rookin’ of the fookers
And the noise of showtime spruikers
Failed to wake him from the trance in which he lay.

Then a dainty little sheila
Wit a slimy looking spieler
Came along collecting wood to make a fire
Said the spieler, He’s a boozer,
He’s gonna be a looser,
If he isn;t you can christen me a liar.

Hustle round and keep nit honney
While I fan the mug for money
We’ll have some little luxuries for tea
But she said no don;t be silly
Ho home and boil the billy,
You can safely leave the mug to little me.

She circled ever nearer
Closer to that dopey shearer
Who was lying there all fast asleep and snug
But she did not see the spider
Who was ringin’ close beside her
For her mind was on the money and the mug.

The spider sighted dinner
He’d been daily growin’ thinner
He’d been fasting and was hollow as a drum.
As she eyed that bulging pocket
He darted like a rocket
And bit that rookin’ sheila on the bum.

The sheila started squealing,
Her clothes she was unpeelin’
To hear her cries would make you feel forlorn.
One hand the bite was pressin’
The other was undressin’
And she reached the camp the same as she was born.

Then the shearer pale and haggard
Woke and back to town he staggered
Where he caught the train and gave the booze a rest.
But he’ll never know the spider
That was camped beside the Gwydir
Had saved him sixty smakkers of the best.

anonymous

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM  SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOURS?

Water Clocks YOUR FAVOURITE POEM KATHERINE LARSON-

waterclock_full

The singing of the blind school
    children and the
Mediterranean’s flat expanse are metaphors

for every kind of solitude made
    forgivable by time.
The hillside museum with rows of empty

earthen vessels is full of it. A stillness
    so replete 
it resembles something like intimacy.

A fullness only partially fathomed. 
    Like water clocks
and sundials that allowed time to be

translated into elements: dropletsshadows.
    And the laughter
of bathers from the spiaggetta.

                        ~

The train stops just outside of Naples
    where I buy a glass
of cold juice squeezed from tangerines

and walk into Pompeii. I couldn’t have
    imagined the
magnitude of it. Brilliant pillars flush

with sky. Temples where sunlight
    streams white
and seems to radiate from inside

the stones. Certain histories require
    forgetfulness.
Others, strict belief. But I think

some histories live us. In the higher cities
    of the brain,
even the speechless ones are burning.  

KATHERINE LARSON 

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU  WHATS YOURS?

ASSISI BY NORMAN MACCAIG – Your Favourite poem

I studied this poem for my ‘Higher’ English exam at school in Scotland over 20 years ago and it has always stayed with me.  The first few lines are heartbreakingly descriptive and set the scene beautifully to enable the final verse to bring the message home in some of the most poignant writing I have read 

CHURCHBBBBBBBBBThe dwarf with his hands on backwards
sat, slumped like a half-filled sack
on tiny twisted legs from which
sawdust might run,
outside the three tiers of churches built
in honour of St Francis, brother
of the poor, talker with birds, over whom
he had the advantage
of not being dead yet

A priest explained
how clever it was of Giotto
to make his frescoes tell stories
that would reveal to the illiterate the goodness
of God and the suffering
of His Son. I understood
the explanation and
the cleverness.

A rush of tourists, clucking contentedly,
fluttered after him as he scattered
the grain of the Word. It was they who had passed
the ruined temple outside, whose eyes
wept pus, whose back was higher
than his head, whose lopsided mouth
said Grazie in a voice as sweet
as a child’s when she speaks to her mother
or a bird’s when it spoke
to St Francis.

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU = http://elizabethfrattaroli.wordpres

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Still I Rise by Maya Angelou ( 1978) – Your Favourite Poem

PhoenixRising

Impossible to pick a “favorite” poet or poem, but this is one:

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.

Sent in by Wendy Shreve

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOUR’S ?

Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock – Your Favourite Poem

sailorxxxxxxxxxxx

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

Wallace Stevens (1879 – 1955)

Kind Regards G 🙂

Sent in by you – What’s your favourite poem?

‘Ulalume’. by Edgar Allan Poe’ – YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

 

My favorite would have to be Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Ulalume’. One, for his sheer mastery of language. Two for inspiring a story of mine that was published. And third, for this YouTube version by Jeff Buckley.

 YOUR FAVOURITE POEM   SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS?

 

 

 

Rumi > Quotes > Quotable Quote – Your favourite poem

Rumi

“Be helpless, dumbfounded,
Unable to say yes or no.
Then a stretcher will come from grace
to gather us up.

We are too dull-eyed to see that beauty.
If we say we can, we’re lying.
If we say No, we don’t see it,
That No will behead us
And shut tight our window onto spirit.

So let us rather not be sure of anything,
Beside ourselves, and only that, so
Miraculous beings come running to help.
Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying finally,
With tremendous eloquence, Lead us.
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,
We shall be a mighty kindness.”

― Rumi

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