Ola,

Let's see the poems that you read. And reread. And again because they somehow spoke to you. Here is one I've read and enjoyed countless times.

What Came to Me
-by Jane Kenyon

I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel.
It was your gravy boat,
with a hard, brown
drop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip.
I grieved for you then
as I never had before.

dyam, I feel like crying every time I finish this poem.
mG.

Awww....Mindgames!!! Thanks for posting "The Highwayman." It made my day.

This too, a new one for me.

Silver
by Walter de la Mare (1873-1956) ,

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

--------------------
oh the poetry of life...the power of google!

heyyyyy thanx to u mindgames ,to have googled and bought before us such lovely and great poems !!!!:P

Ola,

memories of all these poems and the memory of the first time I stumbled through the thick words and understood whatever I did at the time. I remember reading "Stopping on the Woods on the Snowy Evening" in school in Nepal. I did not understand much but I was enchanted by the vision of snow and a horse with harness bells - a totally new world to me. I have reread the poem many times since then and each time I have understood it in a different light.

I once read an article on "Reader's Digest" written by an English instructor who taught the poem to his class of immigrants who are just learning English and the ways of America. Th author then recounts how when some years later he met one of his students from his class on a busy street in New York. The student had started to work and desperately trying to hold on to his American dream by hard work. As they parted the student said: "I have miles to go before I sleep!" That made the poem very personal to me.

On my first semester English composition class I again read the poem. It spoke to me in a different tone than the simple amazement that I had felt before. It was a war song, a song of hope and freedom and the enduring testimony to human will. I too had miles to go before I slept. I too had promises to keep.

Now I read it again and I am amazed by the beauty of the language. This is a manifestation of words as magic. That is the reason why I like poems better than songs (ala the pervasive "the reason" by hoobastank). You do not get fed up with poems. With poems you make your own music and when you change the poem changes, when you grow the poem grows with you.

--------
mG.

here is another of my favourite poem...a very poignant one by walt whitman.
o captain my captain our fearful trip is done.....................................................................walk the deck my captain lies,fallen cold and dead.

MG,

Dherai dherai dhanyabad for taking the trouble to find" Silver" and post it here. :D:D

Below is a a poem taken from the movie Antwone Fisher:

Who will cry for the little boy
Lost and all alone
Who will cry for the little boy
Abandoned and on his own
Who will cry for the little boy
He cries himself to sleep
Who will cry for the little boy
Who never have his keeps
Who will cry for the little boy
Who walked the burning sands
Who will cry for the little boy
The boy inside the man
Who will cry for the little boy
Who knew hurt and pain
Who will cry for the little boy
A good boy he tried to be
Who will cry for the little boy
Who cries inside of me!!

Aren't those beautiful words?? Then the shrink goes, "Who cries for the little boy Antwone?" and Antwone replies, "I will, I always do!" Boy those lines made me cry !

That was a great movie too. I believe it was Denzel W.'s first stint at directing. But anyway, back to poems......

mg, while u r at it..how about "vanity of earthly greatness" :)

On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness

The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
And I don't feel so well myself.

-- Arthur Guiterman


oys_chill, you cool, you remember all the forgotten gems.

Great thread guys...........and here is my contribution to the thread, this poem gives me chills every time i read it


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 one 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.

mutu ta dukheko cha
ghau dekhidaina
maan ta royeko nai cha
tara aankha mah
aashu dekhidaina


yb

Thanx MindGames.....

Actually i used to remember the "gems" much more profoundly. But ever since quarter life crisis has hit, i have tended to be a lil slow. :)

I hope u can find "land of storybooks". I recited it when i was in grade 2 :). But the mass tended to know "charge of the light brigade" very well.

The Land Of Storybooks


by Robert Louis Stevenson

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Storybooks.
------

oys_chill, you read this in 2nd grade? in second grade i was still playing guchha and reading my english book which said: Mr.Tamang is a farmer.

Good choice, princeofdarkness.
good read, yb.
let the discussion/posting continue by the kirpa of pashupatinath!

The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.


4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.


5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.


6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.



Copied from Poems of Alfred Tennyson,
J. E. Tilton and Company, Boston, 1870

----

guys, for the sake of modern poems from living poets who are still kicking and screaming here is:

We Real Cool
by- Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

----
From The Bean Eaters by Gwendolyn Brooks, published by Harpers. ý 1960 by Gwendolyn Brooks.


It's all about the line breaks. The poem would be completely mundane if she used the traditional linebreaks. We all need to improvise and change the language to suit our needs and the need for music. Love this little poem!

eheh mindgames....actually, marble mania had gripped me as well in those years. It jus happened that i had to recite that poem in an elocution contest..the only line i remember now is "with my little gun i crawl" phew.......ancient times it seems.

post more poems from gulmohar book :P i think i have forgotten most of them.

Okay, as long as we are talking about old poems, I guess we can also talk about old books/novels. One of my favorites when I was fourteen or fifteen was "The Catcher in the Rye." I don't remember the exact words of the quote, but it goes something like this:

Holden (the main character) looks at the wall and finds f-words written all over it. He thinks to himself that no matter how hard you try, you can never erase all the f-words written on walls everywhere.

I instantly understood what he was trying to say, and yet surprisingly, to this day, I can't really spell out my understanding of that sentence in words. Sometimes, great literature is only to be felt, not to be explained, I guess...

harip harip threadd..

this is one of my fav poem,

and its by Sir, WIlliam Henry Davies

and its called

LEISURE


What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.