Favourite Poems Options

[Diamandis]

Although personally I'm not a huge fan of poetry, there are a few that get to me.

My signature, for example is a poem called 'I Do Not Weep' by Mary E Fry. I heard it on a episode of Desperate Housewives once and I fell in love with it. Seeing as it's the anniversary of my nan's passing today, the poem always makes me think of her.

My siggy is a shortened version, but the full version is:

"Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight.
I am in the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in everything.

Do not stand at my grave & cry,
I am not there, I did not die."

Do you guys have any poems, even ones written by yourself or others, that you'd like to share?

[Diamandis]

Another old favorite from my favorite poet, Wilfred Owen.

We studied Wilfred Owen back in college. He was a soldier during WWI, and the majority of his poetry reflects that.

Here is my absolute favorite of his; Dulce Et Decorum Est. It's about a soldier suffering from the effects of 'mustard gas' during his time in the trenches. Wonderfully written.

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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.