Young Writers Society

so who or what is your is your fav poet or poetry

you mean on the site or just generally..?

well, i like William Blake a lot and my favourite poem of his is 'Tyger, Tyger' which goes a little something like this...

Tyger, Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night.
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

that's as far as I can remember off by heart, but it's a great poem!!


~KayJuran~

your choose alright kayjuran did spell that right by the way

Guy who wrote The Green Eye of Little Yellow God

There's a one eyed yellow idol to the north of Kadmandu,
and a little marbel cross below the town.
While a broken hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
While the yellow god forever gazes down.

woah nice by the way you can use your own poems just to really annoy people

I thought poetry was a complete waste of time - song lyrics 'till I die! - until a couple of years ago, when I got lucky and read this in my GCSE Poetry course book.

I never looked back.

Ulysses
by Alfred Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads- you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Well there are a few I really like.
Carl Sandburg, escpecially "I am the People, the Mob" which goes a little something like this:
I AM the people -- the mob--the crowd--the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the
world's food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
come from me and the Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand
for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.
I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.
I forget. Everything but death comes to me and
makes me work and give up what I have. And I
forget.
Sometimes I grows, shake myself and spatter a few red
drops for history to remember. Then--I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the
People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer
forget who robbed me last year, who played me for
a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world
say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a
sneer in his voice or any far off smile of derision.
The mob--the crowd--the mass--will arrive then.
As well as "Chicago"
HOG Butcher for the World,
2 Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
3 Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight
Handler;
4 Stormy, husky, brawling,
5 City of the Big Shoulders:

6They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
7And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
8And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
9And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
10Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cun-
ning.
11Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;
12Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
13 Bareheaded,
14 Shoveling,
15 Wrecking,
16 Planning,
17 Building, breaking, rebuilding,
18Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
19Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
20Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
21Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse,
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
22 Laughing!
23Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

I also like some of Hemmingway's stuff. I also actually REALLY liked Backgroundbob's "For You I'll Speak French", and while it may seem egotistical and pretentious, I really liked "Let My People Stay" by Moi.

while it may seem egotistical and pretentious

It doesn't. It's worth liking, and taking pride in.

E gads! Do I have to pick one... I'll list a few, plus a favorite poem or two. And Font, kudos for the Green Eye of the Yellow God, that's a good poem, and it's by J. Milton Hayes. And Kay, did you know Blake only started writing poems to go with his carvings (wood blocks) which was his profession?

in no apparent order...

1. Edgar Allen Poe
2. Alfred Tennyson
3. Robert Service
4. Isobel Dixon
5. Sylvia Plath
6. Elizabeth Barrett Browning
7. W.B Yeats
8. Rudyard Kipling
9. Percy Shelley
10. John Keats
11. EE Cummings
12. Walt Whitman
13. Gregory Corso
14. EE Cummings

poems...

"She Lies Within an Icy Vault..." by Robert Service

(From "Sunshine")

She lies within an icy vault;
It glitters like a cave of salt.
All marble-pure and angel-sweet
With candles at her head and feet,
Under the ermine robe she lies.
I kiss her hands, I kiss her eyes:
“Come back, come back, O Love, I pray,
Into the house, the house of clay!
Answer my kisses soft and warm,
Nestle again within my arm.
Come! for I know that your are near;
Open your eyes and look, my dear.
Just for a moment break the mesh;
Back from the spirit leap to flesh.
Weary I wait; the night is back;
Love of my life, come back, come back!”

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

from Walt Whitman's Song of Myself

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.



and for my favorite poem of all time, for some unknown reason, Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

Dan, I made your poem posts easier to read...

I am the People, the Mob by Carl Sandburg

I AM the people--the mob--the crowd--the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is
done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the
world's food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And
then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand
for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.
I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.
I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and
makes me work and give up what I have. And I
forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red
drops for history to remember. Then--I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the
People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer
forget who robbed me last year, who played me for
a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world
say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a
sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob--the crowd--the mass--will arrive then.

Chicago

HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

Oi, KayJuran, I like Tyger, Tyger as well.

As for me-favourite poet?None in particular.

My favourite poem, however, would have to be, Why The Man In The Moon Came Down Too Soon, by Tolkien. And it goes like this:

Why the Man in the Moon
came down too soon

The Man in the Moon had silver shoon
And his beard was of silver thread;
He was girt with pale gold and inaureoled
With gold about his head.
Clad in silken robe in his great white globe
He opened an ivory door
With a crystal key, and in secrecy
He stole o'er a shadowy floor;

Down a filigree stair of spidery hair
He slipped in gleaming haste,
And laughing with glee to be merry and free
He swiftly earthward raced.
He was tired of his pearls and diamond twirls;
Of his pallid minaret
Dizzy and white in its lunar height
In a world of silver set;

And adventured this peril for ruby and beryl
And emerald and sapphire,
And all lustrous gems for new diadems,
Or to blazon his pale attire.
He was lonely too with nothing to do
But to stare at the golden world,
Or strain for the hum that woulld distantly come
As it gaily past him whirled;

And at plenilune in his argent moon
He had wearily longed for Fire-
Not the limpid lights of wan selenites,
But a red terrestrial pyre
With impurpurate glows of crimson and rose
And leaping orange tongue;
For great seas of blues and the passionate hues
When a dancing dawn is young;

For the meadowy ways like chrysoprase
By winding Yare and Nen.
How he longed for the mirth of the populous Earth
And the sanguine blood of men;
And coveted song and laughter lon
And viands hot and wine,
Eating pearly cakes of light snowflakes
And drinking thin moonshine.

He twinkled his feet as he thought of the meat,
Of the punch and the peppery brew,
Till he tripped unaware on his slanting stair,
And fell like meteors do;
As the whickering sparks in splashing arcs
Of stars blown down like rain
From his laddery path took a foaming bath
In the Ocean of Almain;

And began to think, lest he melt and sink,
What in the moon to do,
When a Yarmouth boat found him far afloat,
To the mazement of the crew
Caught in their net all shimmering wet
In a phosphorescent sheen
Of bluey whites and opal lights
And delicate liquid green.

With the morning fish - 'twas his regal wish -
They packed him to Norwhich town,
To get warm on gin in Norfolk inn,
And dry his watery gown.
Though Saint Peter's knell waked many a bell
In the city's ringing towers
To shout the news of his lunatic cruise
In the early morning hours,

No hearths were laid, not a breakfeast made,
And no one would sell him gems;
He found ashes for fire, and his gay desire
For chorus and brave anthems
Met snores instead with all Norfolk abed,
And his round heart nearly broke,
More empty and cold than above of old,
Till he bartered his fairy cloak

With a half-waked cook for a kitchen nook,
And his belt of gold for a smile,
And a priceless jewel for a bowl of gruel,
A sample cold and vile
Of the proud plum-porridge of Anglian Norwich -
He arrived so much too soon
For unusual guests on adventurous quests
From the Mountains of the Moon.

To me, the poem is a comedy. This poor old man, stuck in his moon, who wishes to enjoy the wonders of Earth, arrives only to his dissapointment. It's easy, catchy, and funny

backgroundbob wrote:

while it may seem egotistical and pretentious

It doesn't. It's worth liking, and taking pride in.

Really? Did you read it? Did you like it?

Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats!

Adonais and Alastor by Percy
Ode to a Nightingale and Ode on a Grecian Urn by John

Well, I like Poe, but he is soooo doom and gloom.

Poet: Allen Ginsberg. Poem: "Howl."

Very long poem, visit http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage/writers/ginsberg.html#howl if you're interested.