Favourite Poem(s) Ever

[Crocefisso]

I thought about making this thread since seeing the similarly themed one about favourite characters, and decided that sharing poems would be a good thing for people to do. To begin with I've selected a few of my favourite poems, followed by a short explanation of why I like the poem.

 

The first three are by 17th century Japanese poet Matsuo Basho, whose verse has undoubtedly been the solace of my life. These are rather unique and, in my opinion, good quality translations by Stryk. The refined simplicity and enduringly cheerful tone of Basho always puts me in a good frame of mind, and the linking, required in orthodox haiku, is masterful and delicate.

 

[spoiler=Basho poems]Sound of rapids -

silent yellow petals

of the mountain rose.

 

Octopus traps -

summer's moonspun dreams,

soon ended.

 

Friends part

forever - wild geese

lost in cloud.

 

 

Following on from this, I also wish to express admiration for the Arab poet Al-Mutannabi for embodying the inverse of Basho. The latter wrote poetry that focussed on a gentle recreation of little moments snatched from time; Al-Mutannabi, on the other hand, writes powerful and virile panegyrics, full of rich symbolism and, in Arabic, clever wordplay. Even in translation, the force of his verse is notable. This is his most famous poem. The lines represent one line in Arabic.

 

[spoiler=Al-Mutannabi]Resolutions are measured against those who make them; generosity in accordance with the giver.

Littleness is magnified by small men, while grandeur is deprecated by the great.

Sayf al-Dawla imposes upon the army his will, yet seasoned armies cannot achieve it.

He asks from men all that he has in himself, though even lions would not claim to match that.

 

Does al-Haddath know of its red colour? Or which of the two pourers was a cloud?

White streaked clouds had watered al-Hadath before his arrival; when he approached, it was inundated with skulls.

The enemy came at you, hauling their weapons as if they travelled on legless horses.

When their ranks caught the light, their swords remained unseen, since their shirts and turbans were also made from steel.

You stayed where you were, when doing so meant certain death: as if perdition itself slept while you stood in its eyelid.

 

Wounded and fleeing, heroes passed you by, while your face remained bright and your lips, smiling.

You surpassed the bounds of courage and understanding, until people claimed that you knew the unseen.

To you belongs the praise for these pearls I pronounce: you are the giver, I the arranger.

Oh, Sword never sheathed, whom none can doubt and from whom there is no refuge,

Blessed are warfare, glory and eminence; blessed are your subjects and all of Islam, for you are safe!

 

 

I think this is enough to start the thread with. :mrgreen:

[MonkeyChee]

I have always been quite interested in WW1 poetry, there are many that I like but I will post a couple from Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon.

 

'Futility' - Wilfred Owen

 

[hide]Move him into the sun -

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

 

Think how it wakes the seeds, -

Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,

Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?[/hide]

 

'Dulce et Decorum Est' - Wilfred Owen

 

[hide]Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

 

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

 

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

 

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.[/hide]

 

'They' - Siegfried Sassoon

 

[hide]THE Bishop tells us: When the boys come back

They will not be the same; for theyll have fought

In a just cause: they lead the last attack

On Anti-Christ; their comrades blood has bought

New right to breed an honourable race,

They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.

 

Were none of us the same! the boys reply.

For George lost both his legs; and Bills stone blind;

Poor Jims shot through the lungs and like to die;

And Berts gone syphilitic: youll not find

A chap whos served that hasnt found some change.

And the Bishop said: The ways of God are strange! [/hide]

 

'Glory of Women' - Siegfried Sassoon

 

[hide]You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,

Or wounded in a mentionable place.

You worship decorations; you believe

That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.

You make us shells. You listen with delight,

By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.

 

You crown our distant ardours while we fight,

And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.

You can't believe that British troops "retire"

When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,

Trampling the terrible corpses - blind with blood.

 

O German mother dreaming by the fire,

While you are knitting socks to send your son

His face is trodden deeper in the mud.[/hide]

 

 

I'm not really sure what draws me to these poems, perhaps their ability to convey the powerful, often confused, emotions of the poet as they write. I suppose such poems were how they dealt with the atrocities surrounding them.