Who is your favorite...?

Question

poet? And what poem from them do you like best?

Answer 1

Whitman....O captain my captain.

Answer 2

The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

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;

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,

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.

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.


this poem means alot to me. it keeps me going and dares me to be different

Answer 3

One poet? One poem?

That's an impossible question for anyone who truly loves poetry.

So I choose three:

William Blake: Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau reflects Blake’s dissatisfaction with the Enlightenment or Age of Reason and its scientific “advances." The desert sands represent the materialism that "blinds the mocking eye" of Blake's modern Europe but the visionary life shining "in the path" and “Israel’s tents” are the visionary gleam of "a gem reflected in the beams divine." Masterpiece of allusion and a mystic's statement of absolute faith.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Kublai Khan contrasts the "commanding genius" (i.e., tyrannical rulers like Napoleon) with the "creative genius" of poets like his friend Wordsworth and himself. Both aspire to a paradise on earth, but for the commanding genius it will always be imperfect (a chasm, woman wailing for her demon lover) and impermanent ("ancestral voices prophesying war"). For the creative genius it will be an ideal of the imagination, of the arts (a damsel with a dulcimer, her symphony and song), always available to the willing receiver (deep delight, I would build again that sunny dome), but earning the artist a reputation as a strange mystic (he on honey dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise).

John Keats: Ode on a Grecian Urn is perhaps the most carefully constructed ode in the English language, bringing to consciousness the Dionysian and Apollonian festivals of the two sides of the urn, raising the majesty of the imagination and of the arts ("heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter"), concluding with the message of the urn:

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.


The sands and the wind of Blake (matter and spirit), the two Paradises of Coleridge (tyrannical power and creative imagination), and the two sides of the urn (erotic and liturgical) captured in art and the imagination -- these are what great poetry, in one way or another, is always about.

Answer 4

I, too, have to say Frost, but my favorite is "Nothing Gold Can Stay". I fell in love with that b/c of the Outsiders in sixth grade, and have been a fan ever since. His nature poems are so nice. I also Emily Dickenson, especially "Hope is a thing with feathers.."

Answer 5

My favorite poem is "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost. Ever since I read "The Outsiders" I loved it.

Answer 6

Favorite poet is Tennyson, but he is a little wordy. Favorite poem is by Leigh Hunt:

Jenny kiss'd me when we met
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief,
Who loves to put
Sweets onto your list - put that in!
Say I'm weary,
Say I'm sad.
Say health and wealth have missed me.
Say I'm growing old - but add
Jenny kiss'd me!

Isn't that cute?!!!!

Answer 7

At this moment? Maybe William Wenthe, or Mark Strand, or Denis Johnson.

Favorite poems? Uh, maybe Wenthe's "The Mysteries", or Strand's "Reasons for Moving" or Johnson's "Nude."

Answer 8

Oscar Wilde; a tie between Requiescat and Ballad of Reading Gaol.

Answer 9

i like Neruda's Ode to the Sea, Browning's Prospice, Rossetti's Song,

and ee cummings's:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

Answer 10

I cannot remember the author, but the poem is: 'The Ballad of Sam Magee'.

Answer 11

CRADLE SONG

by: William Blake (1757-1827)

SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.