| Author | Message | ||
| T. W. Mayheart
New member Username: wookinpanub Post Number: 9 Registered: 05-2009 |
I'm just getting into poetry, so I have read some basic authors. I joined here looking for some recommendations based on what I have enjoyed the most. I have liked Mary Oliver, Billy Collins and later Charles Bukowski. I haven't found much Allen Ginsberg, Charles Simic, or pre-moden poetry to my taste. I will probably check out each recommendation online and I buy books, so thank you. | ||
| M
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 34350 Registered: 11-1998 |
Welcome to Wild, T.W. Congrats on joining those who enjoy poetry. As to recommendations, you might want to take a stroll through our BookShop: WPF Bookshop We've compiled a basic list of many great poets in there, no matter what your tastes. I also often recommend poetry books. You can find them in the WPF Library forum under "Admin's Five-Star Book Picks": NATUROPATHY, Recommended Reads and Views That should get you started. I'm sure others will be along to make further recommendations on their favorite poets. Best, M (Administrator) | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 6194 Registered: 05-2006 |
Philip Levine. Kim Addonizio. Denise Duhamel. YOUR FOOTNOTE ADVERTISEMENT HERE. Call 1-555-555-5555 and ask for Fred. 10% discount if you mention Wild Poetry Forum. | ||
| Dan Tompsett
Intermediate Member Username: db_tompsett Post Number: 611 Registered: 07-2007 |
The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower by Dylan Thomas The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. The force that drives the water through the rocks Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams Turns mine to wax. And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. The hand that whirls the water in the pool Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangman's lime. The lips of time leech to the fountain head; Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores. And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind How time has ticked a heaven round the stars. And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm. ---------------------------------- All All And All The Dry Worlds Lever, by Dylan Thomas I All all and all the dry worlds lever, Stage of the ice, the solid ocean, All from the oil, the pound of lava. City of spring, the governed flower, Turns in the earth that turns the ashen Towns around on a wheel of fire. How now my flesh, my naked fellow, Dug of the sea, the glanded morrow, Worm in the scalp, the staked and fallow. All all and all, the corpse's lover, Skinny as sin, the foaming marrow, All of the flesh, the dry worlds lever. II Fear not the waking world, my mortal, Fear not the flat, synthetic blood, Nor the heart in the ribbing metal. Fear not the tread, the seeded milling, The trigger and scythe, the bridal blade, Nor the flint in the lover's mauling. Man of my flesh, the jawbone riven, Know now the flesh's lock and vice, And the cage for the scythe-eyed raver. Know, O my bone, the jointed lever, Fear not the screws that turn the voice, And the face to the driven lover. III All all and all the dry worlds couple, Ghost with her ghost, contagious man With the womb of his shapeless people. All that shapes from the caul and suckle, Stroke of mechanical flesh on mine, Square in these worlds the mortal circle. Flower, flower the people's fusion, O light in zenith, the coupled bud, And the flame in the flesh's vision. Out of the sea, the drive of oil, Socket and grave, the brassy blood, Flower, flower, all all and all. Dylan Thomas (Message edited by db_tompsett on June 03, 2009) "People who believe a lot of crap are better off." Charles Bukowski | ||
| Dan Tompsett
Intermediate Member Username: db_tompsett Post Number: 612 Registered: 07-2007 |
Underwater Autumn, by Richard Hugo Now the summer perch flips twice and glides a lateral fathom at the first cold rain, the surface near to silver from a frosty hill. Along the weed and grain of log he slides his tail. Nervously the trout (his stream-toned heart locked in the lake, his poise and nerve disgraced) above the stirring catfish, curves in bluegill dreams and curves beyond the sudden thrust of bass. Surface calm and calm act mask the detonating fear, the moving crayfish claw, the stare of sunfish hovering above the cloud-stained sand, a sucker nudging cans, the grinning maskinonge. How do carp resolve the eel and terror here? They face so many times this brown-ribbed fall of leaves predicting weather foreign as a shark or prawn and floating still above them in the paling sun. Richard Hugo "People who believe a lot of crap are better off." Charles Bukowski | ||
| Dan Tompsett
Intermediate Member Username: db_tompsett Post Number: 613 Registered: 07-2007 |
Danse Russe, by William Carlos Williams If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,— if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: "I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,— Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household? William Carlos Williams "People who believe a lot of crap are better off." Charles Bukowski | ||
| Dan Tompsett
Intermediate Member Username: db_tompsett Post Number: 614 Registered: 07-2007 |
The Friend, by Marge Piercy We sat across the table. he said, cut off your hands. they are always poking at things. they might touch me. I said yes. Food grew cold on the table. he said, burn your body. it is not clean and smells like sex. it rubs my mind sore. I said yes. I love you, I said. That's very nice, he said I like to be loved, that makes me happy. Have you cut off your hands yet? Marge Piercy "People who believe a lot of crap are better off." Charles Bukowski | ||
| Judy Thompson
Advanced Member Username: judyt54 Post Number: 1611 Registered: 11-2007 |
Jack Gilbert Anne Sexton "Love Poems' Yeats W.S. Merwin Richard Jackson Albert Goldbarth (the last two can be found, samples, at least, on google) Afraid of the Dark | ||
| W.F. Roby
Intermediate Member Username: wfroby Post Number: 800 Registered: 03-2008 |
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. Eliot Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question . . . Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-- [They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-- [They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all:-- Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? . . . . . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, (5) Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet--and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"-- If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: "That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all." And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-- And this, and so much more?-- It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: "That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all." . . . . . No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-- Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old . . .I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. --------- Teaching the Ape to Write Poems James Tate They didn't have much trouble teaching the ape to write poems: first they strapped him into the chair, then tied the pencil around his hand (the paper had already been nailed down). Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder and whispered into his ear: "You look like a god sitting there. Why don't you try writing something?" --------------- from Leaves of Grass Walt Whitman (by the way, this great American poem was self published, for those of you who boohoo Xerox poets) A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. | ||
| Dan Tompsett
Intermediate Member Username: db_tompsett Post Number: 617 Registered: 07-2007 |
The Black Swan, by James Merrill Black on flat water past jonquil lawns Riding, the black swan draws A private chaos warbling in its wake, Assuming, like a fourth dimension, splendor That calls the child with white ideas of swans Nearer to that green lake Where every paradox means wonder. Although the black neck arches not unlike A question mark on the lake, The swan outlaws all easy questioning: A thing in its self, equivocal, foreknown, Like pain, or women singing as we wake; And the swan song it sings Is the huge silence of the swan. Illusion: the black swan knows how to break Through expectation, beak Aimed now at its own breast, now at its image, And move across our lives, if the lake is life, And by the gentlest turning of its neck Transform, in time, time's damage; To less than a black plume, time's grief. Enchanter: the black swan has learned to enter Sorrow's lost secret center Where, like a May fete, separate tragedies Are wound in ribbons round the pole to share A hollowness, a marrow of pure winter That does not change but is Always brilliant ice and air. Always the black swan moves on the lake. Always The moment comes to gaze As the tall emblem pivots and rides out To the opposite side, always. The blond child on The bank, hands full of difficult marvels, stays Now in bliss, now in doubt. His lips move: I love the black swan. "People who believe a lot of crap are better off." Charles Bukowski | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 28309 Registered: 07-2001 |
William Carlos Williams HD Frost Dame Edith Sitwell Wallace The Poet's Companion A good antho for the first 60 years of the 20th C and for English prior to that an Eastern antho a volume of outlaw poetry Good luck. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| Zefuyn
Advanced Member Username: zefuyn Post Number: 1236 Registered: 12-2006 |
Philip Salom: The Rome Air, Naked Billy Jones: Wren Lines Tess Gallagher: Moon Crossing Bridge Charles Simic: That Little Something Sylvia Plath: Ariel Catie Rosemurgy: My Favorite Apocalypse David Malouf: Selected Poems Tess Gallagher: Dear Ghosts Ted Hughes: Moortown Diary MTC Cronin: the flower, the thing and anything Octavio Paz. and pretty much anything released by Grey Wolf Press or Salt Publishing. Melanie Melanie G. Firth, 2009 Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats. H. L. Mencken | ||
| Meriall Blackwood
New member Username: merblackwood Post Number: 11 Registered: 05-2009 |
Emily Dickinson. Byron. Shakespeare. William Blake. The Romantic poets. William Morris' Sigurd the Volsung. G.K. Chesterton's The Ballad of the White Horse. Gerald Manley Hopkins. (Message edited by merblackwood on June 07, 2009) Fantasy Poetry | ||
| Jennifer VanBuren
Valued Member Username: jkvanburen Post Number: 254 Registered: 04-2009 |
www.mannequinenvy.com "To be without some of the things you want is an indispensable part of happiness." Bertrand Russell |
