• ✍️ WORDS ✍️

    Welcome Guest!

  • Words Moderators: Shambles

Favourite poet and poem

Papa1

Bluelighter
Joined
Oct 16, 2008
Messages
467
I find it hard to stumble on poets that I like or that click with me. That said, a bluelighter's recent suggestion of Les Murray was wonderful, which got me thinking. Since you guys seem to have such sterling taste, I thought starting a thread asking for people's current favourite poet + favourite poem might be a great way to peruse what's out there in poetry land. Any and all suggestions welcome.

Here's a start. "Late Fragment" by Raymond Carver

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
 
"Kubla Kahn" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge is my favorite poem of all time. It's about the glory of imagination (and opium visions ;) ).

But the fun doesn't stop there. Having read lots of the poetry in the Words forum, I MUST recommend to everyone a poet by the name of Jeffrey McDaniel. He's the kind of poet I would want to go out for some beers with.

Also, aside from McDaniel, here are some other poets I adore, both canonical and contemporary:

-Denis Johnson (!!!)
-Richard Hugo
-Mark Doty
-Rilke (!!!)
-W.C.W. (!!!)
-James Wright
-Wallace Stevens
-Tony Hoagland (!!!)
-Sylvia Plath
-Neruda
-Dickinson
-Mark Levine
-Ross Gay
-Philip Levine
-William Stafford
-Shakespeare (!!!)
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge (!!!)
-Wordsworth
-John Keats
 
Last edited:
Some great suggestions there, leiphos. Keats, (early) Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Coleridge, Dickinson, Stevens, Williams and Rilke are essential. I love some of Neruda's work too (especially some of the poems in 'Residence on Earth'), and Plath's Ariel (her original manuscript, not the Ted Hughes edit) is an incredible collection.

Some of my favourite poems would include (off the top of my head): Blake’s ‘London’, Keats’ Odes and 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', Wordsworth's 'The World is Too Much With Us', Shelley’s ‘Ozymandias’, Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’, Rilke’s Eighth Duino Elegy, Yeats' 'Second Coming', Lorca’s ‘New York: Office and Denunciation’, Ted Berrigan’s Sonnets. I’d probably have to list Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ too, for the impact it had upon me as a younger poet, and the possibilities it opened up.

Others poets I would nominate (aside from those already mentioned):
Homer, Sappho, Catullus, Martial, Ovid, Chaucer, Donne, Milton, Byron, Holderlin, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Reverdy, Apollinaire, Cavafy, Vallejo, Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Auden, Olson, Pound, Yeats, Cummings, Berryman, George Oppen, Louis Zukofsky, Gertrude Stein, Lorinne Niedecker, Jack Spicer, Peter Reading, Jeremy Prynne, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Creeley, Frank O'Hara, John Ashbery, James Schuyler, Ron Padgett, Alice Notley, David Antin, Charles Bernstein, Ron Silliman, Lyn Hejinian, Rae Armantrout, Rachel Blau Du Plessis.

Some Australian poets: Kenneth Slessor, 'Ern Malley', Bruce Beaver, Judith Wright, Michael Dransfield, John Forbes, Ken Bolton, Laurie Duggan, Joanne Burns, Pam Brown, John Tranter, Dorothy Porter, Gig Ryan, Jennifer Maiden, John Kinsella, Lionel Fogarty, Martin Harrison, Jill Jones, Paul Hardacre, Michael Farrell, Ted Nielsen, Sam Wagan Watson.

Not an exhaustive list, but not a bad start.

I also have a bit of an obsession with Philip Larkin. Larkin has been the source of much ‘anxiety of influence’ amongst English poets. In a way I feel he represents my origins: Humberside isn’t far from Lincolnshire (where I lived until I was 9). I believe the political and psychological tendencies of Larkin's poetry (traditionalist, conservative, isolative, chauvinist, misanthropic, xenophobic) are things to be worked through and overcome, since for better or worse they are part of my heritage.
 
Last edited:
i like this a lot:

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil by Sarah Williams

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles!

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.


the last two lines in particular give me goosebumps.

also, i have always loved this:

this be the verse by philip larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


alasdair
 
I'm not well versed on poetry, extent wise, I have and have read complete Whitman, Frost and a lot of Browning in High School. I really prefer novels though enjoy poetry to a certain extent. I'm pretty in love with poetry that Ron Hitler Barassi from the Aussie band TISM has written. It's endemic, very Australian, relevant to my personal experiences, extremely literate, yet bogan as fuck at the same time. Hearing him read the poems out is definitely a high light, but they're fun to read as well:

Julius Seizure (act Iii, Scene Ii, Verse 73-118)

Second Plebian: Peace! Let us hear what Anthony can say.

Anthony: You gentle Romans-

All: Peace, ho! Let us hear him.

Anthony: I come to praise, not to bury, the shoddy and the rooted -
To lament for the passing of those men, Safari suited,
Who'd flatten you with mindless glee when they got really newted.

Behind the bottleshop you'd see the roughest justice done:
Yeah, it was assault and battery - but with a sense of fun,
And a drink together after, when the ambulance had come.

Who would have thought you'd ever miss the barmaid's brutal snarl
And guys looking at you strange while she says, "What's yours, darl?"
"Wanna go?" is all you recall, before the blow and grand mal.

"You gotta fucking mouth on ya," those moustached yobs would say
Back when being literate was something to hide away
And being mediocre meant you played in the V.F.A.

But now everyone is talking, and it's oh so tres witty:
All those fucking D.J's and their flashy repartee -
It's always breakfast down in Hell, and radio compulsory.

From McGuiness to McGuire to Douglas fucking Aiton
There's a whole new type of person that's takin' over this damn nation:
And I'm not talkin' some racist crap about Asian immigration -

If you're a yobbo now, you're rooted; no one says, "I'll 'ave ya, pal" -
Listen to Adrian Martin, Jon Casimir, et al:
Excellence is demanded, or the critics give you hell.

Everyone's got a fucking voice - there's personae right and left:
They must learn this stuff in school: I mean, what fucking next?
Even the E.G cadets crap on, then move to the London desk.

Who needs another columnist to point out that the thing
'Bout living in the suburbs is that it ain't like Berlin? -
Just in case all of you in Melton were ever wondering.

I tell you what can get fucked, and that's fucking them for starters:
If there's one thing we just don't need, it's another mouthy smartarse
Slagging off the guys who wear footy shorts and zappatas.

You know who we've swapped them for? People who say "rad"
And blokes who go round reading books on being a modern dad -
Why, everything's so cool these days, I can't even understand Telstra ads.

Excellence surrounds us like a fucking voodoo curse:
There's Helen Garner's sister's book; there's all of modern verse;
There's world's best practice, and business men talking terse

On mobile phones on a mobile net that reaches round the earth;
Everything is excellent: nowadays, there's nothing worse
Than saying "I don't give a shit": you'd be in a fucking hearse

Driven by some consultant git who's analyzed your system
And wants to fully integrate you into modern wisdom:
He's gonna take you by the balls and flush you down the cistern.

You know what killed the Anzacs? It weren't the fucking Turks,
It was the Australians coming after them talking up the perks
Of fucking multi-skilling and how the Internet fucking works.

So give me back the good old days, though I know they really stank,
When everyone could seem to tell when you were talking wank,
And we didn't all have to go around pretending to be Yanks.

Give us back those great ideas that made this nation free,
Like the end of season footy trip, and inefficiency,
And if they aren't part of freedom - well, who gives a fuck? Not me.

Why find voice now at this stage, when silence was just fine?
Why learn to talk in coffee shops? It's a fucking wank, for mine.
Coathanger one of these effete guys, next thing you know he's cryin'.

The one thing good 'bout dumbing down is you're not so fucking smart;
I thought Australia was the country that had a silent heart -
It's time we just shutfuckingup. I know what. I'll start.
 
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

the last two lines in particular give me goosebumps.

Yeah, me too.

I studied the history of astronomy as an elective at uni. Fascinating stuff.
 
seconding those Aus poets: gig ryan, dorothy porter, slessor, forbes, etc!

(jill jones is my prose teacher, too)
 
Allen Ginsberg
America

NSFW:
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black ni**ers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
 
Lorca
Blake
Sappho
Robert Graves
T.S. Eliot

Love song for J.Alfred Prufrock isn't my favourite, but could be

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
 
seconding those Aus poets: gig ryan, dorothy porter, slessor, forbes, etc!

(jill jones is my prose teacher, too)

Really? I met Jill in Newcastle last month. She and I were on a panel together about the experimental in contemporary Aus poetry. I'm sure she'd be a fantastic teacher.

Allen Ginsberg
America

"Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb." Possibly my favourite Ginsberg piece.

Great choices, Kenickie!
 
Top