your favorite poem?

[Layladay]

at the bottom is one of my favorite ppoem, and no i didnt write it.
if you want to, post your favorite, yes it could be yours, or not.


A teenage girl's first crush is . . . well, crushing.
Her body isn't hers, nor is her mind.
She finds herself shivering, shaking, blushing,
Weak, tormented, sick, and going blind.
And why? Because some guy might look her way,
Then cast his eyes as quickly to the ground;
Some special one, for reasons she can't say,
Whose voice makes her feel faint when he's around.
But now my crush on you has been returned,
And so the two of us stand on some brink:
It can't be love so young, and yet we've learned
Love does its will, no matter what we think.
Slowly, slowly now--we mustn't rush:
Let's enjoy this first sweet teenage crush.

[banditcom]

At first I thought the title said porn instead of poem... :(

[JurseyRider734]

I went to a birthday party
but I remembered what you said.
You told me not to drink at all,
so I had a Sprite instead.
I felt proud of myself,
the way you said I would,
that I didn't choose to drink and drive,
though some friends said I should.
I knew I made a healthy choice and
your advice to me was right
as the party finally ended
and the kids drove out of site.
I got into my own car,
sure to get home in one piece,
never knowing what was coming,
something I expected least.
Now I'm lying on the pavement.
I can hear the policeman say,
"The kid that caused this wreck was drunk."
His voice seems far away.
My own blood is all around me,
as I try hard not to cry.
I can hear the paramedic say,
"This girl is going to die."
I'm sure the guy had no idea,
while he was flying high,
because he chose to drink and drive
that I would have to die.
So why do people do it,
knowing that it ruins lives?
But now the pain is cutting me
like a hundred stabbing knives.
Tell my sister not to be afraid,
tell Daddy to be brave,
and when I go to heaven to
put "Daddy's Girl" on my grave.
Someone should have taught him
that it's wrong to drink and drive.
Maybe if his mom and dad had,
I'd still be alive.
My breath is getting shorter,
I'm getting really scared.
These are my final moments,
and I'm so unprepared.
I wish that you could hold me, Mom,
as I lie here and die.
I wish that I could say
I love you and good-bye.


It used to make me cry, but i'm not an emo 7th grader anymore. It's still my favorite poem thing because it gives a good STRONG MESSAGE.

[Layladay]

wow thats good jurs. i love poems, especially the one i got, that "teenage crush" girl reminds me a lot of myself :) lol

and i typed it wrong because my 5 year old cousin was playing around with the keyboard.

[GuidoHunter]

At first I thought the title said porn instead of poem... :(

You, too? Anyway, here're mine:

When you get what you want for your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn't your father or mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass.
But the fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.

You may be like Jack Horner and chisel a plum
And think you're a wonderful guy.
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

He's the fellow to please; Never mind all the rest.
For he's with you clear up to the end.
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of tears
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.
--Unknown
-----

"The Hopping Poem" by Ethan Coen

Fuck
Fuck
Fuck
Fuck

That
Hurt
Fuck
Fuck
-----

Whoops, never actually looked at my post. Thanks, tny.

--Guido

http://andy.mikee385.com

[tnyhwk900]

"The Hopping Poem" by Ethan Coen

Fuck
Fuck
Fuck
Fuck

That
Hurt
Fuck
Fuck
fix'd 4 u

And I don't have a favorite poem.

[Layladay]

ur stupid.
People, please use comdoms and birth control.
It works.

[Moogy]

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By Emily Dickenson

[Privateer]

Whoa. Jurs, a girl memorized that poem and recited it to our English class last year. She cried as she was reciting it.

[GuidoHunter]

ur stupid.
People, please use comdoms and birth control.
It works.

Man, I love how I post a poem that someone doesn't like and I turn into an advertisement for birth control.

--Guido

http://andy.mikee385.com

[Afrobean]

I wonder if I could fit all of Romeo and Juliet (http://www.shakespeare-literature.com/Romeo_and_Juliet/index.html) in this one post...

Don't worry, I'm not evil. Just be sure to check out Romeo and Juliet if you have time.

PS don't any of you say that R+J isn't poetry. It's far more poetic than a lot of your fancy pants poems.

EDIT: PPS For those interested, the "balcony scene" is act 2 scene 2.

[Piroteknix]

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By Emily Dickenson

Heh heh. Ok, my favorite poem...

There once was a man from Peru
Who dreamed he was eating a shoe
He awoke with a fright
In the middle of the nigh
To find that his dream had come true

....damnit, a lymric! I don't really have a favorite poem :/

[GuidoHunter]

PS don't any of you say that R+J isn't poetry. It's far more poetic than a lot of your fancy pants poems.

I don't believe in poetry too much. Take The Hopping Poem. Do I think it's really poetry? No, but the author said it was a poem, so I'll take his word for it.

Plus, somebody (I really wish I knew who) said "Art is anything well-placed." That poem was in a book of poetry, so it's a poem. If "The Garden of the Sun" weren't in front of an art museum, it would be considered scrap metal.

Do I consider Shakespeare poetry? I don't think so. It's got meter, but no rhyme scheme. I don't like expressive poetry, so I have very stringent guidelines on what fits into that category in my mind. Regardless, I do realize how EXTREMELY difficult it would be to write like Shakespeare, so I will give him many many awesome points, despite the fact that I don't enjoy reading him too much.

--Guido

http://andy.mikee385.com

[SpookG]

"Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats.. I've written two papers on it already..


My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?

[87x]

Here is mine.. I found it like 3 years ago, in my english book at school.. and I have loved it ever since...


"Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?"
"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren't good for a little child."

"But, mother, I won't be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free."

"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.

But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children's choir."

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know that her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.

For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
"O, here's the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?"

[TACODUDE]

Not my favorite, but I like it...

Only in a glance may I say I love you. People say I am much too young to be in love. But then what is that feeling I get when I sit next to you & my knee touches yours & you don't decline when you know it's there? Why is it that when we talk I make you laugh & you make me too? How do I always seem to get lost in your gorgeous eyes? Why is it that when we stand near each other it hurts because I can't put my arm around your amazing self & lay my hands upon your beautiful skin? You're like love or at least what I believe it to be. Love is something you can feel but you can't grasp. I can feel you here in my heart but I can't grasp you in my arms. So only in a glance may I say I love you & hopefully one day may our eyes lock together.

[suicidalmuskrat]

87x, i enjoyed yours quite a bit...i don't really have a favorite, as poems appeal to emotion, and i can't say one emotion is my favorite, if that makes sense...these are both edgar allan poe, the first is entitled "The Lake", and i enjoy this because of all the people who assume that i'm unhappy or lonely because i enjoy doing things by myself...

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then–ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love–although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

THE END


and the second is entitled "Alone", and this is up on my list of favorites, mainly just because i relate to it...as i'm sure many of us can.

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then–in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life–was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

THE END

[Kenzya]

Sorry, it's long.

The Raven
Edgar Allen Poe

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 visitor,' 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 named 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor 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 darkness 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 above 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 further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he 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 sad soul 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, 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 violet 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 angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!

If I screwed this up in anyway just tell me and I'll fix it.

[bertj]

i memorized the raven in my 10th grade english class...so when i was 16 or something...and i'm now 19, and i think i still have most of it memorized, so that seems pretty much free of screw ups kenzya

[suicidalmuskrat]

once upon a midnight dreary, while i pr0n surfed, weak and weary, over many a strange and spurious site of ' hot xxx galore'. While i clicked my fav'rite bookmark, suddenly there came a warning, and my heart was filled with mourning, mourning for my dear amour, " 'Tis not possible!", i muttered, " give me back my free hardcore!"..... quoth the server, 404.

taken from bash.org

[JurseyRider734]

that was so inspirational. I read that in 7th grade. I mean, the real one, not muskrat's super duper good one.