Who is your favorite author of poetry?. fell free to write a few lines .?

Answer 1

Oh i love Emily Dickinson's poetry. We did for our leaving cert english (ireland high school final exam) and it just has just stuck in my mind ever since. My favourite one is
'hope is the thing with feathers'

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

I don't know why but I think it's the most beautiful ever. I also like Robert Frost's poetry 'Tuft of Flowers' 'The Road Not Taken'

The Tuft of Flowers


I WENT to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees; 5
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’ 10

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a ’wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round, 15
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; 20

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name, 25
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. 30

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own; 35
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. 40

‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

1. The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20

They both have a really nice feel to them. I could keep going with all the poetry but I think I've taken up enough space already.

Answer 2

This is by far my favourite poem:

Stop all the Clocks, Cut Off the Telephone
By W. H. Auden (1936)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let the aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message, “He is dead”,
Put the crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My moon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing can ever come to any good.

Answer 3

I am my favorite author of poetry!! I love writing it- and do all the time.

Dignity as his captive
Blanketed
In his breath of persistance

In the blink of an eye
He beholds the
Thrust of destiny's resistance
As he cradles the path
Of isolated dreams


Another poem of mine...

"Living In A Monopoly World"


Paper money
Plastic lies
The roll of a dice
Can change your life

We're living in a monopoly world
And the pieces
Are starting to get lost

Playing a game
Living a lie
What happens when you realize

That plastic breaks
Boards can bust
And in the end
No matter how you roll the dice
Only you
can control

if you win or lose

Answer 4

TS Eliot "Old Possum's Book of Practial Cats" (the basis for the Lloyd Webber show) or that poem "O Captain! My Captain" in Dead Poet's Society (can't remember the poet). Also like "Silent Complicity" by Andrina Lejon.

Answer 5

Rumi is hands down best.
A friend of mine has a cool poetry book that is simple but speaks nicely to young women - so I'll pitch it for her. :) "Female Life in Poetry" - it's in English & Spanish from Amazon.

Answer 6

Carol Ann Duffy is brilliant.

"VALENTINE

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife."

Answer 7

There are so many! Shakespeare, Keats, The one that always stuck in my mind was by Rudyard Kipling. My Father used to recite it to me, when I was a child, and I suppose it just stuck.
"Now in India's sunny 'clime, where I used to spend my time,
A serving of 'er majesty the Queen.
Of all the black faced crew, the finest man I knew,
Was our regimental beastie, Gunga Din" Etc.

Answer 8

Classical:Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (Japanese poet; 6-th century)
Contemporary:Derek Walcott (born 1933; Nobel Prize laureate in 1992)
Romanian (just like me); Nichita Stanescu (1933-1983)
You will find poems by all of them, in English, if you google them.

Answer 9

I wanna wander away from my existence in specific situations sit down on the component and watch the international is going via I wanna wander away at evening and dream for awhile merely sit down interior a depressing room and dream

Answer 10

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.'