Post Your Favorite Poem!

amother

Lilac

Mon, Apr 23 2018, 11:22 pm

I read this when I was younger, and it left an impression

It Couldn't Be Done
Edgar Guest, 1881 - 1959

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it”;
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

Eta. Just saw that InnerMe also had a poem by Guest Smile

DREAMING ↓

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 12:18 am

Mother to Son
BY LANGSTON HUGHES
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

↑ DREAMING

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 12:22 am

I always liked this poem but never knew who wrote it until I looked it up for this thread.

Your Family Name
by Nelle A. Williams
You got it from your father
It was all he had to give
So it's yours to use and cherish
For as long as you may live

If you lost the watch he gave you
It can always be replaced;
But a black mark on your name
Can never be erased

It was clean the day you took it
And a worthy name to bear
When he got it from his father
There was no dishonor there

So make sure you guard it wisely
After all is said and done
You'll be glad the name is spotless
When you give it to your son

↑ InnerMe ↓

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 10:57 am

Such great poems here! Dreaming- "Mother to Son" is one of my favorites.
And the two Emily Dickinson poems posted up thread are also beautiful.

This poem speaks of that delicious paradise where the sidewalk ends and the street begins.

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

amother

↑ Lemon ↓

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 12:35 pm

enneamom wrote:

Lemon, it's very powerful. Your brother must have had a uniquely spiritual soul.

Thanks all you wonderful Imomothers for your hugs.. I don't want to hijack this thread, though I am tempted to because it feels so good to receive hugs and share part of my brother's life.

My brother had a very, very difficult life, but he never seemed to think so. He pushed himself up everytime he fell, and never gave up hope.

These poems are all so touching to read. I loved the Dr. Suess one, and the ones by Edgar Guest. I also really enjoyed the one by Sora Rosenblatt that spoke of her "saplings"..
Keep them coming!

amother

↑ Lemon ↓

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 12:49 pm

Here is a favourite poem of mine. I found it in an old scrapbook I had as a teen..

There are two seas in Palestine"
One is fresh, and there are fish in it.
Splashes of green adorn it's banks.
Trees spread their branches over it and
stretch out their thirsty roots to sip of it's healing waters.

The River Jordan makes this sea with sparkling water from the hills.
So it laughs in the sunshine.
And men build their houses near it,
and birds their nests,
and every kind of life is happier because it is there.

The River Jordan flows on South into another sea.
Here is no splash of fish, no fluttering leaf,
no songs of birds, no children's laughter.
Travelers choose another route,
unless on urgent business.
The air hangs heavy above it's water,
and neither man nor beast nor fowl will drink.

What makes this mighty difference
in these neighbour seas?
Not the RIver Jordan.
It empties the same water into both.
Not the soil in which they lie;
Not in the country round about.

This is the difference.
The sea of Galilee recieves but does not keep the Jordan.
For every drop that flows into it,
another drop flows out.
The giving and receiving go on in equal measure.

The other sea is shrewder,
hoarding it's income jealously.
It will not be tempted into any generous impulse.
Every drop it gets,
it keeps.

The seaq of Galilee gives and lives.
This other sea gives nothing.
It is named The Dead.

There are two kinds of people in this world.
There are two seas in Palestine.

By Bruce Barton

↑ InnerMe ↓

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 12:51 pm

amother wrote:

Please do start a spinoff! I would love to hear about your brothers life... It seems he was something special.

amother

↑ Lemon ↓

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 12:57 pm

Another great, great poem that really resonates with me.

After A While

- By Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.

After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so ypu plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn
that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
With every goodbye, you learn.

↑ mom_13

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 2:29 pm

amother wrote:

How touching! I love how poems are a medium of expressing thoughts and concepts that would be hard to explain otherwise. Thanks!

↑ InnerMe

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 3:03 pm

You can touch the feelings in this one:
When loneliness becomes your lover- Unknown

I remember
when I was little,
my dad checking for monsters
under my bed,
assuring,
reassuring,
that I was safe.
He could never
see
you.

I remember,
you in
middle school
looking pretty,
like the night,
exactly like I wanted
you to,
and the laughter of
the others.
They said I
was crazy,
they said,
your seat,
was always empty.

I remember,
the long walks home
from college, every day
and how much
I appreciated you
for being there
by my side,
and how the ignorant people
kept glancing at us,
as if we were
breaking the 4th wall.

I remember,
on graduation,
my mom and dad
being too busy
and you being the only one
in the sea of murmurs,
whom I
could call
my own.

I remember,
all those nights
when the world
ceased to matter,
and us,
just us,
hiding in my closet
because the lights
were too darn bright
for you
and I couldn’t see
you, suffering.

Now,
they’ve sent me,
to a doctor.
She wears silly ear rings,
and a perfume
that sucks my blood dry.
She, with her
pretty equipment,
checks my eyes
and my speech
and my soul.

She tells me,
that I need
to make friends,
to be more social,
dress better, maybe
because I’m losing me,
inside myself.

I smile,
but never tell her
about you.
Like I never told
my dad,
checking under my bed
all those years ago,
that one could
never
see
Loneliness.

And sometimes,
within the walls
of the mind,
it becomes
your lover.

↑ DVOM ↓

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 7:36 pm

amother wrote:

One of my all time faves! I haven't read it in a while... thanks for posting it!

↑ DVOM

Tue, Apr 24 2018, 7:46 pm

OK, here goes nothing!

This is one of my all time absolute favorite poems. I don't know why, I feel a little bit shy about posting it. Probably because it feels like a part of who I am. There are certain very beautiful spots in Israel that never fail to make me think of this poem. I posted only the very beginning, because it is a very long poem.

LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door...

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

William Wordsworth