What are your fave poem/s?

H

Halawaayo

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Jabberwocky​

BY LEWIS CARROLL
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Primary school vibes :gaas3:
 

QueenofKings

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For once I thought you guys are discussing Somali poetry. Ileen it is all about Englosh sheeko baraley.

Youre welcome to share a Somali poem with us.

One of my faves translated is by Gaariye

Setting sun
You're on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon!
What are you scared of? What's the rush?
Is it the spears of light that shine
Back at you from rock and bush?
Is it the dark creeping up on you
Or bad news from the depths of night
That makes you want to hide your light?
Or is it this girl, more beautiful
Than rain in the season of drought, whose grace
Is greater by far than the subtle pace
Of a passing cloud when it's nudged by the wind?
When you and she exchanged glances just now,
It was you who grew pale, it was you who shrank
From the gleam in her eye and the glow of her smile.
Setting sun
You're on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon!
Have you gone
To warn the moon
That she must face
This greater grace?
The roll of the clouds, the furl of the waves -
A sea of cloud stained purple and red,
The swing of her arms, the swing and the sway
Of her hips as she walks is just like the way
You sway and dip and the end of the day.
Now the clouds turn their backs on you.
They only have eyes for the eyes of the girl:
Eyes that launch love-darts, darts that sink
Into the flanks of the clouds and draw
Droplets of blood that stain the sky.
Setting sun
You're on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon…
These are the lines
That seemed to fall
To hand when first
I saw the girl.
Now this is what
I most recall:
The way she reached up to gather fruit
Believing herself to be alone
Until she saw me there, wide-eyed,
As the wind read my mind and sent a gust
To part her dress and lay her breast
Bare for the space of an indrawn breath.
Ah, yes, I remember that…and the way
She caught at the cloth and fastened it,
Turning her face from mine, her eyes
Lowered, as if to say: No man
Has seen before what you saw today.
 

Halimah al-Sa'diyah

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Youre welcome to share a Somali poem with us.

One of my faves translated is by Gaariye

Setting sun
You're on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon!
What are you scared of? What's the rush?
Is it the spears of light that shine
Back at you from rock and bush?
Is it the dark creeping up on you
Or bad news from the depths of night
That makes you want to hide your light?
Or is it this girl, more beautiful
Than rain in the season of drought, whose grace
Is greater by far than the subtle pace
Of a passing cloud when it's nudged by the wind?
When you and she exchanged glances just now,
It was you who grew pale, it was you who shrank
From the gleam in her eye and the glow of her smile.
Setting sun
You're on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon!
Have you gone
To warn the moon
That she must face
This greater grace?
The roll of the clouds, the furl of the waves -
A sea of cloud stained purple and red,
The swing of her arms, the swing and the sway
Of her hips as she walks is just like the way
You sway and dip and the end of the day.
Now the clouds turn their backs on you.
They only have eyes for the eyes of the girl:
Eyes that launch love-darts, darts that sink
Into the flanks of the clouds and draw
Droplets of blood that stain the sky.
Setting sun
You're on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon…
These are the lines
That seemed to fall
To hand when first
I saw the girl.
Now this is what
I most recall:
The way she reached up to gather fruit
Believing herself to be alone
Until she saw me there, wide-eyed,
As the wind read my mind and sent a gust
To part her dress and lay her breast
Bare for the space of an indrawn breath.
Ah, yes, I remember that…and the way
She caught at the cloth and fastened it,
Turning her face from mine, her eyes
Lowered, as if to say: No man
Has seen before what you saw today.

Where did you get the translations from? I struggle to understand Somali gabays.
 

QueenofKings

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Where did you get the translations from? I struggle to understand Somali gabays.

 

Mayay

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This poem is by Langston Hughes, one of the leading African American figures during the Harlem Renaissance, which was one of the high points of Black history in America. This poem was a response to a previous poem called "I hear America singing" where it romanticized how great and hard working Americans are, and how prosperous everyone is with their own unique roles, and the poem below captivates another america, one where minorities particularly african americans then dealt with


I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.
 

QueenofKings

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This poem is by Langston Hughes, one of the leading African American figures during the Harlem Renaissance, which was one of the high points of Black history in America. This poem was a response to a previous poem called "I hear America singing" where it romanticized how great and hard working Americans are, and how prosperous everyone is with their own unique roles, and the poem below captivates another america, one where minorities particularly african americans then dealt with


I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

i did a school project once on the Harlem Renaissance art and music - but didn’t read any poems. What a transformation AA have made. From not eating at the table to helping run the country.
 

Ilwaad

Iskaashato ma kufto.
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I love a short to the point poem! I haven’t read any of Tennysons poems before - I’ve just had a quick look and is it me or are all his poems about death 👀.

I really appreciate such poems though - poems of substance that talk about universal human thoughts and emotions

He is known as the saddest English poet. He suffered from depression and there was a history of mental illness in his family.


I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

‘In Memoriam

Again about death. A tribute to a close friend of his who died at a very young age. It’s a very long poem and the last two lines are the most cited.
 

QueenofKings

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He is known as the saddest English poet. He suffered from depression and there was a history of mental illness in his family.


I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

‘In Memoriam

Again about death. A tribute to a close friend of his who died at a very young age. It’s a very long poem and the last two lines are the most cited.


Aw it’s kinda of sad lots of writers fall to depression. The cost of creativity.

He reminds me of the poet Charles Wright ( he doesn’t do sad poems alone - but is famous for 1 in particular). I love the description of unease throughout this poem. It’s very relatable I think.


It’s Saturday afternoon at the edge of the world.
White pages lift in the wind and fall.
Dust threads, cut loose, float up and fall.
Something’s off-key in my mind.
Whatever it is, it bothers me all the time.

It’s hot, and the wind blows on what I have had to say.
I’m dancing a little dance.
The crows pick up a thermal that angles away from the sea.
I’m singing a little song.
Whatever it is, it bothers me all the time.

It’s Saturday afternoon and the crows glide down,
Black pages that lift and fall.
The castor beans and the pepper plant trundle their weary heads.
Something’s off-key and unkind.
Whatever it is, it bothers me all the time.
 

Ilwaad

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Aw it’s kinda of sad lots of writers fall to depression. The cost of creativity.

He reminds me of the poet Charles Wright ( he doesn’t do sad poems alone - but is famous for 1 in particular). I love the description of unease throughout this poem. It’s very relatable I think.


It’s Saturday afternoon at the edge of the world.
White pages lift in the wind and fall.
Dust threads, cut loose, float up and fall.
Something’s off-key in my mind.
Whatever it is, it bothers me all the time.

It’s hot, and the wind blows on what I have had to say.
I’m dancing a little dance.
The crows pick up a thermal that angles away from the sea.
I’m singing a little song.
Whatever it is, it bothers me all the time.

It’s Saturday afternoon and the crows glide down,
Black pages that lift and fall.
The castor beans and the pepper plant trundle their weary heads.
Something’s off-key and unkind.
Whatever it is, it bothers me all the time.

Haven’t come across this poet or his works. You’re right though, very relatable.

Yes, a lot of them lived depression with some even succumbing to it, sadly.

I like this poem by Emily Dickinson. Her works are often melancholic but this one is positive. Hope is a beautiful thing and I like the analogy she used to describe it.


“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
 
H

Halawaayo

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Haven’t come across this poet or his works. You’re right though, very relatable.

Yes, a lot of them lived depression with some even succumbing to it, sadly.

I like this poem by Emily Dickinson. Her works are often melancholic but this one is positive. Hope is a beautiful thing and I like the analogy she used to describe it.


“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
She reminds me somewhat of Caroline Norton but Caroline seems to be more dramatic
Dreams


SURELY I heard a voice-surely my name
Was breathed in tones familiar to my heart!
I listened-and the low wind stealing came,
In darkness and in silence to depart.

Surely I saw a form, a proud bright form,
Standing beside my couch! I raised mine eyes:
'Twas but a dim cloud, herald of a storm,
That floated through the grey and twilight skies.

Surely the brightness of the summer hour
Hath suddenly burst upon the circling gloom!
I dream; 'twas but the perfume of a flower,
Which the breeze wafted through the silent room.

Surely a hand clasped mine with greetings fond!
A name is murmured by my lips with pain;
Woe for that sound-woe for love's broken bond.
I start-I wake-I am alone again!
 

QueenofKings

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Haven’t come across this poet or his works. You’re right though, very relatable.

Yes, a lot of them lived depression with some even succumbing to it, sadly.

I like this poem by Emily Dickinson. Her works are often melancholic but this one is positive. Hope is a beautiful thing and I like the analogy she used to describe it.


“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

We studied some of Emily Dickinsons poems for school, but never this one. It’s really beautifully written.

I think the 1800s was a good era for American poetry. So many gems.
 

Garanwa

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I hope I haven't already driven
past my greatest moments.

I hope there is something
beautiful on the horizon
that's just as impatient as I am.
Something so eager,
it wants to meet me halfway.
A moment that is diligently
staring at its watch, trembling with
nervousness, frustrated,
and bursting at the seams,
wondering what's taking me
so long to arrive.

Rudy Francisco - "Helium"
 
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