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What’s your favourite poem?

Have you a favourite poem that you would like to feature here? If you have then send it and we will place it on this site.We will of course mention who it was sent in by.



On the Ning Nang Nong 


On the Ning Nang Nong 
Where the Cows go Bong! 
and the monkeys all say BOO! 
There’s a Nong Nang Ning 
Where the trees go Ping! 
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo. 
On the Nong Ning Nang 
All the mice go Clang 
And you just can’t catch ‘em when they do! 
So its Ning Nang Nong 
Cows go Bong! 
Nong Nang Ning 
Trees go ping 
Nong Ning Nang 
The mice go Clang 
What a noisy place to belong 
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!! 

Spike Milligan
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)
Wonderful poem.
Sent in by Stephen Holloway.
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin


I have always enjoyed Philip Larkin; he writes about the smallness of life and the larger events that affect us all.
Stephen Holloway.

What’s your favourite poem?

19 responses »

  1. I am a poet and I love poetry. My favorite poem that I did not write is:

    Let Go & Let God
    By: Lauretta P. Burns

    As children bring their broken toys with tears for us to mend,
    I bought my broken dreams to God,
    because He was my friend.
    But then, instead of leaving Him at peace to work alone,
    I hung around, and tried to help
    with ways that were my own.
    At last I snatched them back and cried,
    “How can you be so slow?”
    “My child, “He said, ” what could I do? You never did let go.”


  2. Fire and Ice

    Some say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I’ve tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To say that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice.


  3. Something Told the Wild Geese
    Rachel Field

    Something told the wild geese
    It was time to go,
    Though the fields lay golden
    Something whispered, "snow."

    Leaves were green and stirring,
    Berries, luster-glossed,
    But beneath warm feathers
    Something cautioned, "frost."

    All the sagging orchards
    Steamed with amber spice,
    But each wild breast stiffened
    At remembered ice.

    Something told the wild geese
    It was time to fly,
    Summer sun was on their wings,
    Winter in their cry.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I pay a quick visit everyday some blogs and websites to read articles, but this website presents quality based writing.


  5. Come show thy Durham breast…Emily


  6. There’s so many to choose from. My favourites include Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas. Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen and Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll.


  7. An impossible task out of so many to choose only one! Off the top of my head I will go with Edna St. Vincent Millay’s First Fig. It is short and to the point.
    “My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends – it gives a lovely light.”
    The other two that came quickly to mind were Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market and Dorothy Parker’s Resumé.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Stephen Griffin

    “On a Dream” or “To Autumn” by Keats and “The Song of Wandering Aengus” by Yeats.


  9. I think my favourite poems are the ones that I write! And I´m not really sure if you could call it poetry.

    The poem of Spike Milligan, the first one I thought it was brilliant for my taste at least. It´s sort of nutty, doesn´t use fancy words that I usually need a dictionary by my side when I read deep meaningful poetry, which I love reading and writing too, but once in a while or maybe more than once I like that out of the blue using crazy words sounds very spontaneous like the one of Mr. Milligan.


  10. It’s great to find an expert who can exilapn things so well


  11. It’s good to see someone thikning it through.


  12. My absolute favorite poem is ‘Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening’ by the brilliant Robert Frost.
    Thank you for posting about Robert Frost and his wonderful poetry.
    Have a nice day! 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    • arjuntherajeev. I love Robert Frost’s poetry. His poems, each of them, offers a perspective on life that has inspired me since i was a little girl and that was a long time ago. I have stopped by the woods and stared at the two road diverged by a yellow woods… Thanks for reminding me. Stay in touch.


  13. My favorite poem is concise ,simple and direct ..

    To all those that I meet
    With Kindness I will greet
    With a smiling face
    and a friendly trace,
    I will teach them to be kind
    In Soul, in Heart, and Mind.

    By Jessica M. Faasavalu

    Liked by 1 person

  14. When I was young and romantic, this was my favorite poem too. But then I gained more exposure to literature and poetry and now, after fifty years I consider Paradise Lost as my my favorite poem. But for general pleasure, I’ll take almost any poem by Theodore Roethke.

    Liked by 1 person

  15. Elegy for Jane – Theodore Roethke

    (My student, thrown by a horse)

    I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
    And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
    And how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her.
    And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
    A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
    Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
    The shade sang with her;
    The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
    And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.

    Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
    Even a father could not find her:
    Scraping her cheek against straw,
    Stirring the clearest water.
    My sparrow, you are not here,
    Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
    The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
    Nor the moss, wound with the last light.

    If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
    My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
    Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
    I, with no rights in this matter,
    Neither father nor lover.


  16. Not cliché at all! It was one of a handful I was considering. I think we need more rage against the dying of the light today. Don’t you?



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