THE NATTY HAT COMPETITION.
The Literary Giveaway Blog Hop is an amazing event taking place from Saturday June 25th and running until Wednesday June 29th (Inclusive), and it is being hosted by Judith (Leeswammes' Blog). The idea is that “If you’ve been wanting to give away a book to your readers, maybe to show your appreciation or because you have a special celebration, this is your chance to join up with others”. Now I’ve been blogging for just over a year now and during that time I have entered 10,0000000000000000000000000000000000 giveaways, hmm that might be a slight exaggeration, but a lot and I’ve even won a few. So of late I have been feeling a little guilty, feeling that I should be contributing not just take, take, take. So here goes, now, if you just lightly peruse this site, you may notice my love of poetry and, in that spirit, anyone who leaves a favourite poem - just the name & writer (although if you want to poetry spam me with a complete poem, I will love you forever) - will be entered into a natty hat, juggled in a convincing manner & one will be picked by my able & glamorous (so she tells me) assistant (My 10 year old daughter). So to kick this giveaway off, I will post a poem by one of my favourite poets……..
Green Man.
Four small nouns I put to pasture,
Lambs of cloud on a green paper.
My love leans like a beadle at her book,
Her smile washes the seven cities.
.
I am the spring’s greenest publicity,
And my poem is all wrist and elbow
O I am not daedal and need wings,
My oracle kisses a black wand.
.
One great verb I dip in ink
For the tortoise who carries the earth:
A grammar of fate like the map of china,
Or as wrinkles sit in the palm of a girl.
.
I enter my poem like a son’s house.
The ancient thought is: nothing will change,
But the nouns are back in the bottle,
I ache and she is warm, was warm, is warm.
Lawrence Durrell.
So now it’s over to you, just introduce me to your favourite Poem & its writer, to gain your place in the Natty Hat (pictured above).
Just because this is one of my current favourites
Amour
SHE SAID I was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Not true.
I was a lamb, in armour.
Brian Patten.
- And the give away is “Being Human” published by Bloodaxe Poetry this is the latest in what has been a fantastic collection of Anthologies, that started with “Staying Alive” and was followed up by “Being Alive”
The range of poetry here complements that of the first two anthologies: hundreds of thoughtful and passionate poems about living in the modern world; poems that touch the heart, stir the mind and fire the spirit; poems about being human, about love and loss, fear and longing, hurt and wonder. There are more great poems from the 20th century as well as many recent poems of rare imaginative power from the first decade of the 21st century. But this book is also rare in reflecting the concerns of readers from all walks of life. Such has been the appeal of Staying Alive and Being Alive that many people have written not only to express their appreciation of these books, but also to share poems which have been important in their own lives. Being Human draws on this highly unusual publisher's mailbag.
Here are a few opinions on the two previous anthologies
‘These poems distil the human heart as nothing else… Staying Alive celebrates the point of poetry. It’s invigorating and makes me proud of being human’ – Jane Campion
‘Truly startling and powerful poems’ – Mia Farrow
‘Staying Alive is a magnificent anthology. The last time I was so excited, engaged and enthralled by a collection of poems was when I first encountered The Rattle Bag. I can’t think of any other anthology that casts its net so widely, or one that has introduced me to so many vivid and memorable poems’ –Philip Pullman
‘Usually if you say a book is “inspirational” that means it’s New Agey and soft at the centre. This astonishingly rich anthology, by contrast, shows that what is edgy, authentic and provocative can also awaken the spirit and make its readers quick with consciousness. In these pages I discovered many new writers, and I’ve decided I’m now in love with our troublesome epoch if it can produce poems of such genius’ – Edmund White
‘A vibrant, brilliantly diverse anthology of poems to delight the mind, heart and soul. A book for people who know they love poetry, and for people who think they don’t’ – Helen Dunmore
‘This is a book to make you fall in love with poetry…Go out and buy it for everyone you love’ – Christina Patterson, Independent
‘Anyone who has the faintest glimmer of interest in modern poetry must buy it. If I were master of the universe or held the lottery’s purse strings, there would be a copy of it in every school, public library and hotel bedroom in the land. On page after page I found myself laughing, crying, wondering, rejoicing, reliving, wishing, envying. It is a book full of hope and high art which restores your faith in poetry’ –Alan Taylor, Sunday Herald
‘The book is without equal as a handbook for students and readers’ – Sian Hughes, Times Educational Supplement
‘I don’t often read poetry, so Staying Alive was a revelation’ –Ian Rankin, Sunday Telegraph(Books of the Year)
‘A book that travels everywhere with me… It is full of beautiful writing that can blow your mind’ –Beth Orton, The Times.
‘I love Staying Alive and keep going back to it. Being Alive is just as vivid… But this new book feels even more alive – I think it has a heartbeat’ – Meryl Streep
pomes ALL SIZES
Some Sources of Inspiration.
See & Hear(Griffin Poetry Prize Site)
Poets. Org( From the Academy of American Poets)
A Link To My Fellow Bookfiends & Bloggers.
The first poem, I will leave you, Parrish, is one which always delights my class (and if truth were known, me):
ReplyDeleteHomework! Oh, Homework!
I hate you! You stink!
I wish I could wash you away in the sink,
if only a bomb
would explode you to bits.
Homework! Oh, homework!
You're giving me fits.
I'd rather take baths
with a man-eating shark,
or wrestle a lion
alone in the dark,
eat spinach and liver,
pet ten porcupines,
than tackle the homework,
my teacher assigns.
Homework! Oh, homework!
you're last on my list,
I simple can't see
why you even exist,
if you just disappeared
it would tickle me pink.
Homework! Oh, homework!
I hate you! You stink!
Jack Prelutsky
but, I also dearly love this sweet, little thing by Carl Sandburg:
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Those are the two I have for you now, but I will peruse my Dorothy Parker, etc. for more. You always inspire me in poetry, Parrish, and that's no lie.
I love poetry. I read it on a regular basis. I will spam you with one of MY poems. (yes, I am a poet)
ReplyDeletefrom one room to another
from one room to another
I walk miles
in the inner sanction of my mind
you lock me in your pendant
I am outside with my words.
which reverberate the time
from the tiny window
I see the life force
locked in your horns
trapped inside a vacuum
"let me create melody from meaningless sounds"
gautami.tripathy[at]gmail.com
How about...
ReplyDeleteThe 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;
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
Very true...
I'd go for Dannie Abse's paradoy of Adlestrop - Not Adlestrop
ReplyDeleteNot Adlestrop, no - besides the name
hardly matters. Nor did I languish in June heat.
Simply, I stood, too early, on the empty platform,
and the wrong train came in slowly, surprised, stopped.
Directly facing me, from a window,
a very, very pretty girl leaned out.
When I, all instinct,
stared at her, she, all instinct, inclined her head away
as if she'd divined the much married life in me,
or as if she might spot, up platform,
some unlikely familiar.
For my part, under the clock, I continued
my scrutiny with unmitigated pleasure.
And she knew it, she certainly knew it, and would
not glance at me in the silence of not Adlestrop.
Only when the train heaved noisily, only
when it jolted, when it slid away, only then,
daring and secure, she smiled back at my smile,
and I, daring and secure, waved back at her waving.
And so it was, all the way down the hurrying platform
as the train gathered atrocious speed
towards Oxfordshire or Gloucestshire.
Hi Bellezza loving the poems you've spammed me with but both are unknown to me so could you send the titles. Thanks & for new inspiration, Follow @pomesallsizes on twitter, It's The Parrish Lantern's Anthology & is updated daily. Thanks again Parrish.
ReplyDeleteThe moon shines brigh. In such a night as this,
ReplyDeleteWhen the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
and they did make no noise, in such a night.
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
and sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents,
wgere ressid lay that night.
As noted above, it's 'The Road Not Taken', and it's by Robert Frost :)
ReplyDeleteMy favourite poem is probably Howl, but I can't really post all of that here, can I?! So I'll just give you this, by Emily Dickinson instead:
ReplyDeleteBecause I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
I hope you like!
I have something from The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry but originally from Cronopios and Famas.
ReplyDeleteTheme For A Tapestry
by Julio Cortázar
The general has only eight men, and the enemy five thousand. In his tent the general curses and weeps. Then he writes an inspired proclamation and homing pigeons shower copies over the enemy camp. Two hundred foot desert to the general. There follows a skirmish which the general wins easily, and two regiments come over to his side. Three days later, the enemy has only eighty men and the general five thousand. Then the general writes another proclamation and seventy-nine men join up with him. Only one enemy is left, surrounded by the army of the general who waits in silence. The night passes and the enemy has not come over to his side. The general curses and weeps in his tent. At dawn the enemy slowly unsheathes his sword and advances on the general's tent. He goes in and looks at him. The army of the general disbands. The sun rises.
Translated from the Spanish by Paul Blackburn
Here's Rossetti reflecting on life without his muse and mine.
ReplyDeleteWITHOUT HER
What of her glass without her? The blank gray
There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.
Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place
Without her? Tears, ah me! for love’s good grace,
And cold forgetfulness of night or day.
What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,
Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart,
Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.
My favourite poem is Byron's 'She Walks in Beauty'. I think it's probably the only poem I can recite by heart without even thinking about it. So sweet and romantic! I won't write out the whole thing, I'll just swoon quietly to myself for a moment instead...
ReplyDeleteEllie @ Musings of a Bookshop Girl
emp501(at)hotmail(dot)co(dot)uk
I'm almost embarrassed to send you such drivel, but of course, I'll give you the names. The first is by Jack Prelutsky (a favorite children's poet in the States, always writes hilarious poetry that the children love, and he has several anthologies out now). It's called "Oh, Homework!" and boy did I get in trouble when it was my class' turn to read something over the intercom for Poetry Week.
ReplyDeleteThe other is "The Fog" by Carl Sandbur, a poet who quite reminds me of Robert Frost. Both of whom I love.
But, my knowledge of poetry is quite limited as you can see.
A final name I'll toss you is Billy Colllins. Many of my friends love his work, too.
Oh, and of course you know of Basho, right? The ancient Japanese haiku writer? I'm sure you do. XO
This is the best giveaway system ever! And I didn't know that there was a pardoy of Adlestrop, which is one of my favorite poems. Here is one that I've enjoyed lately.
ReplyDeleteLOVE AFTER LOVE
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.
-Derek Walcott
My favorite poem is John Donne's Valediction Forbidding Mourning. I can't say if it's the beautiful content, the smashing use of the word "sublunary," or the crush I had on the English teacher that first read it to me, but I love it just the same.
ReplyDeleteAs virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"The breath goes now," and some say, "No,"
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of the earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we, by a love so much refined
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion.
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two:
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do;
And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like the other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
Please enter me in the giveaway: cuc15 at psu dot edu
I'm crazy about poetry. My favorite (currently) is "Orange".
ReplyDeleteThank you for this wonderful giveaway!
My mom has been sick, so I never got around to signing up to participate in the Literary Giveaway Blog Hop. I have a June Giveaway going on this month at my blog, and I'd love to invite you to stop by and throw your name in the hat for this book! It's a US giveaway only this month, but next month, I'll be offering an international giveaway for an Amazon card.
I love your hat idea! My favorite poem is Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda.
ReplyDeleteI do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
If you have a chance visit my blog to see my original poems. Cheers!
Very cool idea! I might have to do something similar next time.
ReplyDeleteO Captain! My Captain!
By Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
My 10 yr old daughter will also be assisting with my draw - maybe we'll look for a suitable hat too!
ReplyDeleteThe poem my daughter read in her school's poetry comp recently was...
The Microbe by Hilaire Belloc
THE MICROBE is so very small
You cannot make him out at all,
But many sanguine people hope
To see him through a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tails with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots,
On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen--
But Scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us that is must be so...
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!
Ah, poetry! I'd love for a chance to win, thank you so so much. One of my best-loved poets, E.E. Cummings, and his "here's to opening and upward,to leaf and to sap":
ReplyDeletehere's to opening and upward,to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and
let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
Parrish, what a great idea to be spammed with poetry. Unfortunately I am not a poetry person so I think your anthology is better off with someone who appreciates it more.
ReplyDeleteI can remember being excited about a Worthsword poem (but this was a few decennia ago), because he described a place in Wales that I'd been to, Tintern Abbey.
Alone
ReplyDeleteEdgar Allan Poe
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
quixoticdreamer(at)hotmail(dot)com
I'm not a Poetry person, but I do know when something appeals to me. Can't even think of a poem I really like right now. Enjoy the hop!
ReplyDeleteFirst one that came to mind. I loved it as a kid and still do!
ReplyDeleteThe Swing
By Robert Louis Stevenson
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
shannonjean14(at)gmail(dot)com
Hi Parrish,
ReplyDeleteHere is a poem of mine, which I tried to translate into English. I hope it makes any sense.
SOMEWHERE
Somewhere on the edge
between yearning and longing
to the future from the past
I see the horizon
Where clouds go back
to the sea and waves
warm up to the clouds
there is my past
and there was my future,
which is now and so different
then ever dreamt
and which is to vague
as the line on the horizon
where clouds and waves
dissolve
to make the present
as far away as the future
and the past.
Karin
Love,
Karin
i Dreamed That I was Old
ReplyDeleteI dreamed that I was old: in stale declension
Fallen from my prime, when company
Was mine, cat nimbleness, and green invention,
Before time took my leafy hours away.
My wisdom, ripe with body's ruin, found
Itself tart recompense for what was lost
In false exchange: since wisdom is the ground
Has no apocalypse or pentecost.
I wept for my youth, sweet passionate young thought,
And cozy women dead that by my side
Once lay: I wept with bitter longing, not
Remembering how in my youth I
cried.
--Stanley Kunitz
I too am rather lacking in my poetry knowledge but I have a few favourites. One is by Dorothy Parker's Résumé:
ReplyDeleteRazors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
The other is by Frieda Hughes which I read in The Times when she had a poetry column but I can't recall what it was called. Something to do with life and work and trying.
Hi this is a general comment to anyone visiting, if you're stuck for an answer(it doesn't have to be a whole poem, can be poets name & title)There is a whole selection of links where you can check out some poems.Also if you've a twitter account & you like the idea of poetry delivered to you daily from around the world then Follow @pomesallsizes
ReplyDeleteat the moment it has about 120 poems but will increase daily.
I love Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass
ReplyDeleteBest wishes and thank for a chance to win this fantabulous giveaway!
Chanticlear1(at)gmail(dot)com
Ciao Bellezza & who ever said you wasn't into poetry had never glanced at your soul, loving both in fact are going straight on the the anthology thanks + a special thanks from my daughter for the homework one. PS. thanks also for the collins link & the mention of Basho.
ReplyDeleteHi,gautami, yes I've read your poetry before I believe & thanks for your personal contribution from another poetry lover.
Hi Tony Thanks it's going straight on @pomesallsizes, love the idea behind it.
Hi Tom, love the parody another poem, check out Kinna's comment below, thanks.
Hello Becca. A, does this have a title,, if so can you let me know , thank you.
Hi Laura, if you don't mind typing it or can cut & paste it you can place Ginsberg's great poem here, although was more of a Ferlinghetti fan myself. great 2nd choice anyway, thanks.
Hello Rise, That's a book I'll be checking out. Thanks great poetry.
HI Lizzy, Rossetti's a fantastic poet,so thanks for your contribution to this wonderful collection of poetry that I'm accumulating.
Hello Ellie, loving the idea of swooning to such a poet - She walks in beauty, like the night
of cloudless climes and starry skies
and all that's best of dark and night
meet in her aspect and her eyes. such beautiful words.
Hi Kinna, I'm also a fan of Derek Walcott, posted recently on his prize winning book White Egrets, also there's Omeros a fantastic epic, thanks for this one.
Hi,Col,Donnes a great poet & love the way certain words roll around & have a definite mouth feel & your teacher crush reminds of a poem by Christy Brown - The History Teacher
How shall I ever Face her--
How can I disguise
The longing to embrace her,
The unwise knowledge of my eyes?
To burrow in mouldy, old books
Devised for the minds high learning
when I can't forget her good looks
And the heart in me that's burning
O strength! Let me be able
To master my amorous seizure
while Cleopatra sits at my table
And talks on and on about Caesar..
Hi & thanks for visiting Deb, is the Orange poem the Brian Patten one or another, thanks again.
ReplyDeleteHello Deborah, that Neruda poem is also a favourite of mine thanks, also been & visited and left a little ditty of mine own.
Hi Adam & thanks, Whitman's a whole universe unto himself, everything happens in his poetry.
Hi Brittany,Thanks for the Poe, another fantastic writer, love the way he pulls you through the poem.
Hello J.L. Campbell, thanks for visiting, if you come up with one, feel free to pop back.
Hi IandSsmom, those poems that have been knocking around in your head for years are always the best.
Hello Karin Thanks for the Personal poem & the fact that you translated it into English.
Hi Leeswamme, this is a small snippet of it.
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 soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That 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.
Hello Jennifer, a great poem thank you, love the phrase "in stale Declension".
Hi sakura(Chasingbawa)have always liked that one, though not that up on Frieda Hughes, so that's one for me to check thanks.
Hello Janelle, Whitman's just a fantastic poet & love Leaves of grass, thanks.
Hi gaskella, I'm a big fan of Belloc, so thanks for the poem & hope your daughter enjoys her involvement as much as mine does.
ReplyDeleteThese are some really great poets. Wow. I had been looking for poetry blogs and couldn't find any that were up to date. So this is a great find for me. I am dedicating July as poetry month on my blog with Nikki Giovanni interviews. So if you like, I'm looking for some new poets to display along with some of Ms. Giovanni's poems. Kinda old school meets new school.
ReplyDeleteAlso, thanks for stopping by my blog for the giveaway hop, I am happy you found me and I'm happy I found you. :-) Have a great weekend.
Do you have any Basho books?
ReplyDeleteThanks for the giveaway! It seems I follow mainstream poetry more than new modern poetry. Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss aside,my favorite poet is Edgar Allen Poe, and my favorite piece by him his 'The Raven'
ReplyDeleteMy all-time favorite poem is The Odyssey by Homer, unless you do not count epic poems.
Thanks again for the giveaway!
supergirlsana@hotmail.com
Hello Kissacloud,I'm a great fan of Cummings one of my favourites is Buffalo Bill's'
ReplyDeleteBuffalo Bill's
defunct
Who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
Stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what I want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death.
Hi & Thanks Lena, always interested in places that promote poetry whether old or new so am interested in your poetry month, also I post a poem here once a month under the heading pomesallsizes & on twitter at @pomesallsizes where I post a poem (any, doesn't have to be a published poet.) at least once a day.Thanks Again.
Hey Bellezza il mio amico (hope that's right) have some Basho in other books but not solely.
Hello Sana Saboowala, There's nothing wrong with Poe or the rest, if you like Homer's Odyssey,check out Derek Walcott a Caribbean poet who wrote Omeros an epic poem based on Homer's. Also there's nothing wrong with Suess here's a link to a post I did on thye good Dr.
http://parrishlantern.blogspot.com/search/label/Dr%20Suess
Hi Marybelle I'm a great fan of Hardy whether it's his novels (fav' Jude) or his poetry. Thanks.
Hi Rad Hall,thanks for my first Shaky in this comp and it's a brilliant sonnet with the way he deflates the idea of comparing his mistress to all that's deemed beautiful & yet "I think my love as rare
ReplyDeleteAs any she belied with false compare". slightly different note have you read Anthony Burgess's book Nothing Like the Sun.
thanks for this awesome giveaway!!
ReplyDeletemy favourite poem is having a coke with you by frank o'hara:
Having A Coke With You
is even more fun than going top San Sebastain, Irun, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluoresent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I'm with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasently definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o'clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the "Polish Rider" occasionally and anyway it's in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven't gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the "Nude Descending a Staircase" or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michaelangleo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn't pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
Frank O'Hara
justjanhvi at gmail dot com
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
ReplyDeleteYou may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
aikychien at yahoo dot com
Richard Cory by E. A. Robinson
ReplyDeleteWhenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean-favoured and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good Morning!" and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine -- we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.
rickimc[at]aol[dot]com
Hello I would recommend the fantastic medieval welsh poet Dafydd ap Gwilym. His poetry is translated from Welsh online at the University of Swansea. This is just an extract of one of many of his poems..
ReplyDeleteThe Wind
Sky-wind, unhindered course,
mighty commotion passing yonder,
you are a harsh-sounding minstrel,
world's fool without foot or wing.
It's amazing how wondrously you were sent
from the pantry of the sky without any feet,
and how swiftly you run
now across the hilltop on high.
This is a great giveaway idea!
ReplyDeleteThis is a poem we used in our wedding. I like the atmosphere it conveys that is both very real but also a little magical about it. It also doesn't take itself too seriously.
Touch the Air Softly
Now touch the air softly, step gently, one, two ...
I'll love you 'til roses are robin's egg blue;
I'll love you 'til gravel is eaten for bread,
And lemons are orange, and lavender's red.
Now touch the air softly, swing gently the broom.
I'll love you 'til windows are all of a room;
And the table is laid, And the table is bare,
And the ceiling reposes on bottomless air.
I'll love you 'til heaven rips the stars from his coat,
And the moon rows away in a glass-bottomed boat;
And Orion steps down like a river below,
And earth is ablaze, and oceans aglow.
So touch the air softly, and swing the broom high.
We will dust the grey mountains, and sweep the blue sky:
And I'll love you as long as the furrow the plough,
As however is ever, and ever is now.
William Jay Smith
Hi janhvi, like this especially "and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism" amazing line & sentiment, thanks.
ReplyDeleteHello Aik, thanks for this poem. Maya Angelou is someone I'm aware of but don't know much about, so thanks for cracking the shell of my ignorance & allowing me a glimpse of her work.
Hi Ricki,thank you for the poem, I'm realising how much poetry is out there & that it's a lot more popular than I first thought. so fantastic.
Hi Ceri, had some fun checking this poem out, but in the spirit of this event & as a thanks for the introduction.
Constant hymn, tell me your destination,
you north wind of the valley.
You fly the length and breadth of the world,
hilltop weather, be on high tonight,
oh man, and go to Uwch Aeron
nice and gently, a clear song.
Don't wait, don't restrain yourself,
don't be afraid despite Bwa Bach,
[he who] serves a malicious accusatory complaint.
The land and its nurture is closed to me.
[One who] steals nests, though you winnow leaves
no one indicts you, you are not restrained
by any swift troop, nor officer's hand,
nor blue blade nor flood nor rain.
No mother's son can kill you (false expression),
fire won't burn you, deceit won't weaken you.
You won't drown, you've been forewarned,
you won't get entangled, you are smooth.
There's no need for any swift horse beneath you,
or bridge over estuary, nor boat.
No official or retinue will arrest you
to bring you to judgement, winnower of treetop foliage.
No eyesight can see you, huge open lair,
thousands hear you, nest of the great rain.
You are God's blessing over all the earth,
roaring, fierce shattering of oaktree tops,
swift-natured notary of the sky,
fine leaper over many barren lands.
Dry nature, powerful creature,
trampler of the sky, immense journey,
shooter on snowfields up above,
noisy disperser of chaff-heaps,
storm agitating the sea,
high-spirited lad on beach waves,
you are a fine author of an awdl who scatters snow,
you are a scatterer, a pursuer of leaves,
free laugher [on] hilltop,
thruster of the wild-masted white-breasted sea.
Woe is me that I placed deep love
on Morfudd, my golden girl.
A maiden made me an exile,
run on high to her father's house.
Knock on the door, make it open
to my messenger before daybreak,
and seek a way to her, if there be one,
and sing the voice of my sigh.
You come from the splendid stars,
say this to my noble faithful maid:
as long as I be in the world,
I am a true servant.
Woeful is my face without her,
if it is true that she is not untrue.
Go up on high, you will see the fair girl,
go down below, sky's favourite.
Go to fair-haired Morfudd Llwyd,
come back safely, you are the sky's treasure.
Hi thebookstop,Loving the personal touch & am fascinated by connections people have poems & although as you say this whilst not taking itself seriously says everything it needed to say, thanks.
Hi Parrish Glad you liked Dafydd ap Gwilym. Sorry to make you search for the link I should have left it here!! Here it is if you didn't manage to find the full collection - www.dafyddapgwilym.net
ReplyDeleteCeri
Thanks Ceri, but found it & sad though it may sound checking out poetry & links kinda floats my boat, my aim is to eventually have a page with such links on so thanks.
ReplyDeleteHiiii! my favorite poem is A White Rose by John Boyle O'Reilly
ReplyDeleteTHE red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips
I love this one so so much and everytime I see a white rose with a flush on its petal I always remember this
ilepachequin(at)hotmail(dot)com
Here's one written in the style of a ghazal:
ReplyDeleteIt is not for you to say Hafiz
That the Rose is one of God's creations
However heavenly it smells
You have to think of the time
When you are both dead and gone
And people are interested only in your successors
neerrr(at)gmail(dot)com
Heres one of my favourites
ReplyDeleteReligion
after Bonfire Night
I find christ in the fields:
the burst canister
its incense heavy
in the coloured cadrboard tube:
asperged, bright with dew
I have no fav poem and poet yet...I am still new in this area.
ReplyDeleteI will leave you with something I wrote, I thought it wasn't a poem but people said it is a poem
Forgotten Memory
Why can’t I speak?
Why don’t they create me with voices of my own?
If I only I can speak…
I am old now
I used to be young and loved
I remembered when she used to take me everywhere
She would clean me of any dirt
She would keep me in warm when winter came
I know I was loved back then
I let her put anything on me as my gratitude to her
I tried not to get sick to lessen her problems
Those were great times
But I am old now
I am rusty and forgotten
I am nothing but an old metal
Frozen in time
I wrote that after seeing this picture http://bokunosekai.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/forgotten-memory/
I am at work and so do not have access to my volumes of poetry at home, so I will have to go with a poem I memorized in elementary school (it's only the first verse, and I don't know the author; if anyone knows, please let me know):
ReplyDeleteIf I were a pilgrim child
Dressed in white or gray
I'd catch a turkey wild
For Thanksgiving Day.
I would eat my cranberries
Fresh from out a bog,
Make a table of a stump
And sit upon a log.
I hope this will suffice to enter me into the giveaway!
the lesson of the moth
ReplyDeleteBy Don Marquis, in "archy and mehitabel," 1927
i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires
why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense
plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves
and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity
but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself
archy
Forgetfulness by Billy Collins
ReplyDeleteThe name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
---------
I hope you liked it! It is completely awesome that you are giving away a book of poems!
-Elisquared
eliweibley AT gmail DOT com
Hi Gisselle & thanks for the poem, this whole giveaway is opening my eyes to not only how much poetry is out there, but how much it's loved.
ReplyDeleteHello Neer, thanks to the introduction to a style I was not familiar with, will investigate more, have you any suggestions where to start.
hello & thanks tom, have you the name of the writer.
Hi Novroz, thanks & yes that's definitely a poem, liking the lines -"I am nothing but an old metal
Frozen in time"
Hi Mae thanks & no I don't know the writer, if anyone does, please let us know.
Hi Alex, thank you for the poem another addition to this growing collection.
Hi Eli, thanks for the Billy Collins poem, loving the last 2 lines
OK so after much searching, I found a poem/poet who *I* need to read. So I will share with you the first line from The Three Oddest Words By Wislawa Szymborska, Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh:
ReplyDeleteWhen I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
-The rest of the poem found here: http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1996/poems-3-e.html
-but also, WS has a newish book out from HMH which I've seen many-a-time in the bookshop but have walked past because it was poetry. (http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780547364612)
Hoe cool that you're doing POETRY in this giveaway blog hop! No need to enter me though ;)
ReplyDeleteThe Natty Hat Competition is now closed. Thank you for your interest & for your contributions.
ReplyDeleteThanks. Parrish