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11 December 2008 @ 12:53 pm
Ferlinghetti - Coney Island of the Mind  

 

Tell me, what is your favourite poem?

 
 
 
I AM JACKIE KENNEDY.__fangoria on December 11th, 2008 06:00 pm (UTC)
It's a tie for me between Genius of The Crowd and Bluebird by Charles bukowski.His poems are some of the first I read outside of high school freshamn english,and they really struck a chord with me.
I AM JACKIE KENNEDY.__fangoria on December 11th, 2008 06:00 pm (UTC)
*Bukowski
(no subject) - __fangoria on December 11th, 2008 06:01 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - chimneysmoke on December 11th, 2008 06:07 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - __fangoria on December 11th, 2008 06:18 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - backbones on December 11th, 2008 08:10 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(Deleted comment)
famousdeathsfamousdeaths on December 11th, 2008 06:05 pm (UTC)
Re: My love of : ee cummings means I cant decide
The second cummings poem is also one of my favorites. It's just sexy. First time I read it I let out this huge sigh, hah.
Re: My love of : ee cummings means I cant decide - 571893 on December 11th, 2008 09:49 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: My love of : ee cummings means I cant decide - idfightghandi on December 12th, 2008 01:25 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: My love of : ee cummings means I cant decide - junoskillet on December 15th, 2008 12:07 am (UTC) (Expand)
famousdeathsfamousdeaths on December 11th, 2008 06:03 pm (UTC)
MARITA
PLEASE FIND ME
I AM ALMOST 30
-- Leonard Cohen
yulia.likeantelope on December 12th, 2008 06:53 am (UTC)
yesss.
you are the best.
famousdeathsfamousdeaths on December 11th, 2008 06:04 pm (UTC)
Oh, and this one:

LIFE SENTENCE

Those sufferings are over.
No crying anymore. In an old album
you look at the face of a Jewish child
fifteen minutes before it dies.
Your eyes are dry. You put the kettle on,
drink tea, eat an apple.
You'll live.
-- Adam Zagajewski.
thunderclap newman: eyes: christmashannahkarina on December 11th, 2008 06:06 pm (UTC)
all my poetry books are two floors above me and I am very lazy :(

I will add a better comment later haha
angelocracyangelocracy on December 11th, 2008 06:06 pm (UTC)
Morning Song
by Sara Teasdale

A diamond of a morning
Waked me an hour too soon;
Dawn had taken in the stars
And left the faint white moon.

O white moon, you are lonely,
It is the same with me,
But we have the world to roam over,
Only the lonely are free.
sar_chasmmsar_chasmm on December 12th, 2008 05:05 am (UTC)
WASHINGTONN!
KATE I AM: actor - john krasinski (warm)chimneysmoke on December 11th, 2008 06:06 pm (UTC)
Death and Company by Sylvia Plath (normally I hate her stuff)
Literally anything by this man, Hal Sirowitz ((former?) poet laureate of Queens)

and...
What we Want by Linda Pastan
What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names--
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don't remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.
amandaletsdisappear on December 11th, 2008 06:06 pm (UTC)
desiderata by max ehrmann
everyone loves it but it really means something to me.

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
boatsandsails on December 13th, 2008 12:22 am (UTC)
Re: desiderata by max ehrmann
agreed
sar_chasmmsar_chasmm on December 11th, 2008 06:09 pm (UTC)
One:
Once I spoke the language of the flowers
once I understood each word the caterpillar said
once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings
and shared a conversation with the housefly in my bed
Once I heard and answered all the questions of the crickets
and joined the crying of each falling dying flake of snow
Once I spoke the language of the flowers
How did it go? How did it go?

memorywillrustmemorywillrust on December 12th, 2008 01:06 am (UTC)
shel?
(no subject) - sar_chasmm on December 12th, 2008 05:05 am (UTC) (Expand)
Calypso: ameliehelethmiel on December 11th, 2008 06:09 pm (UTC)
Currently:

All Answers to the Same Question
1. The Union Negotiator

I have a deal for you:
tonight when I sleep I'll think of you.
Of red rocks, of bull pens and spurs,
Kansas Turnpike, of Missouri,
how you'll meet me there,
a continental divide, the places where two ends meet.
My legs will make a circle around you, your waist;
my lips will have secrets to slip over yours like a paper bag.


2. The Cartographer

I am land-locked. I am Paraguay at sunset, something swallowing
the sun beyond banana trees. I heard it once drop like a bomb
into clay; no one made a sound while the echo had its way
with ears across a jungle. I am land-locked here.
There are roads out in all directions; veins, but no seaways.
I will find you in water,
I will be the way you breathe.


3. The Neurologist

How you connect these gaps between cities:
electrical charges, phone lines. I am with you in an instant
and back again, the other side of a world, a coin.
A pulse felt in fingers; you are alive, burrowed beneath folds
of flesh. The way flesh folds you inside,
the way the brain cuts corners at all costs.


4. The Performance Artist

A cup of tea
on a saucer
on the west edge of a round table.
You are the tea,
I am sipping you, I might be
the scone.


5. The Tailor

I wrapped parts of you around me for warmth
and it worked: your arm as a stole, the barrel of your chest
a place for my lips to hide, your legs as leather belt.
I drew chalk doodles on the bedsheets, you said, What for?
I said, I will stitch a knock-off from your sweat.


6. The Demolitionist

There is a moment between plunge and blast, where I live,
these seconds. Where there is perfect and quiet calm,
an exhale and a resignation, I will crumble.
This wreckage is a series of broken bricks;
remember what it was, that moment:
the world pressing in. I am a window on the fourteenth floor,
I see where the city ends, the roads failing into dust.


7. The Palm Reader

Your hand sliding down my back knows omens
when it sees them. The patterns change, but all these lines
were once people the way you and I were once people.
This compass its own rose, all directions lead back to the center,
back to your cheek, your earlobe. This palm
knows your face, where it belongs: resting there.

Charles Jensen

Melissashechoselove on December 11th, 2008 07:15 pm (UTC)
YES
(no subject) - likeantelope on December 12th, 2008 07:07 am (UTC) (Expand)
Kathryngrammaire on December 11th, 2008 06:10 pm (UTC)
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 will easily 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 color 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



I also love "America" by Allen Ginsberg.
Elizabethsubstanccce on December 11th, 2008 11:25 pm (UTC)
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
thunderclap newman: eyes: christmashannahkarina on December 11th, 2008 06:11 pm (UTC)
Tulips by Sylvia Plath

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.


thunderclap newman: eyes: christmashannahkarina on December 11th, 2008 06:11 pm (UTC)
And this one

Letter To N.Y.

For Louise Crane


In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road gose round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,

and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,

and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so teribly late,

and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.

--Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.




Gosh I can't remember the titles or authors of my two other favourites
thunderclap newman: eyes: christmashannahkarina on December 11th, 2008 06:12 pm (UTC)
sorry that one is by Elizabeth Bishop
(no subject) - bel_ebat on December 11th, 2008 08:39 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Nicole: lost in translationi_luff_coffee on December 11th, 2008 06:11 pm (UTC)
Peterpeter_venkman on December 11th, 2008 06:15 pm (UTC)
i LOVE LOVE LOVE this poem
(no subject) - les_fleursdumal on December 11th, 2008 06:16 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - bohonato on December 11th, 2008 06:29 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - goldthroat on December 11th, 2008 08:01 pm (UTC) (Expand)
tiffany;;: misc//rapturesizzlepopsizzle on December 11th, 2008 06:11 pm (UTC)
I don't have favorite poems but, rather, favorite poets. Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, Robert Frost, and TS Eliot.

However, I do love The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson. If I had to pick a favorite, it would be that.