Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire Who are your favorite poets?

I do like ‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost. The road "less traveled" symbolizes the path of nonconformity.

Meeting at Night
BY ROBERT BROWNING

The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.


Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

E. E. Cummings, hands down.

Or perhaps
e.

(e. (cumm)
ing

s)



Was introduced to this one in 11th grade, I thought it was the coolest and most nihilistic poem I'd ever read:

[Buffalo Bill 's]
By E. E. Cummings
Buffalo 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 blue-eyed boy
Mister Death

I'm surprised that John Milton hasn't been mentioned yet.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
"Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death. Rode the six hundred."

and Bob Nolan
"Old Dan and I with throats burned dry
And souls that cry for water"

ETA: Dang, I almost forgot Homer

Longfellow for one, as he is a distant relative and his poem the blacksmith was about another relative.

Yeats, The Second Coming. T.S. Elliot. Some Wallace Stevens and Dylan Thomas.

Jim Harrison

Charles Bukowski

Her panties
My soul
A bit of [bleep] on each

Robert Frost was no real poet. But he was popularized for some reason.

Lol, Charles Manson

A Poem About An Old Prison Man

Waiting on Death Row
People coming in overalls
Taking me to the gas chamber
Scuffling of feet
They took him down the hallway
Feeling everyone's heartbeat
The central control of the soul
Batons and retro-tons
Ingrown toenails
One time all around you
All round you, bump-bump
Save my air, save my air
My air, my air
Air, water, trees
Machines eating the night
Energy moving
Nuclear fires
Burning reactors on my gate
Fires of hell are burning
Come home
Can you see
Can you say
That you say
That you really love this place?

I have tried to read poetry a few times. It just isn't enjoyable at all. I don't like any poets.

any rumi or rubaiyat khayyam fans?

Dave Mustaine

prophetic poetry from '88


A cockroach in the concrete, courthouse tan and beady eyes
A slouch with fallen arches, purging truths into great lies
A little man with a big eraser, changing history
Procedures that he's programmed to, all he hears and sees
Altering the facts and figures, events and every issue
Make a person disappear, and no one will ever miss you
Rewrites every story, every poem that ever was
Eliminates incompetence, and those who break the laws
Follow the instructions of the New Ways' Evil Book of Rules
Replacing rights with wrongs, the files and records in the schools
You say you've got the answers, well who asked you anyway?
Ever think maybe it was meant to be this way?
Don't try to fool us, we know the worst is yet to come
And I believe my kingdom will come

'The world is God's pure mirror,
To eyes when free within ...'

Rumi

I think I remember that one------how does the rest of it go ??

Nikki Finney

I don't often either.

In High School, about 1972, several of us would gather in our Library and listen to EA Poe on vinyl. We were intrigued at the time, being all of fifteen years old.

Recently I picked up "The complete works of Poe". OMG, what in the hell was wrong with our adolescent selves. That schitt sucks donkey balls.

Morbid and depressing does not begin to describe Poe's writing.

Here I sit,
all broken hearted.

Paid a dime............

My maternal grandfather passed when I was eleven. But the thing I remember he bequeathed to me was an introduction to Robert W. Service, Jack London, and Rudyard Kipling.


Grin

If you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about —
Grin.
If you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt —
Grin.

Don't let him see you're funking, let him know with every clout,
Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout;
Just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out —
And grin.

This life's a bally battle, and the same advice holds true
Of grin.
If you're up against it badly, then it's only one on you,
So grin.

If the future's black as thunder, don't let people see you're blue;
Just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through;
If they call you "Little Sunshine", wish that THEY'D no troubles, too —
You may — grin.

Rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough,
You'll grin.
Sink to sleep at midnight, and although you're feeling tough,
Yet grin.

There's nothing gained by whining, and you're not that kind of stuff;
You're a fighter from away back, and you WON'T take a rebuff;
Your trouble is that you don't know when you have had enough —
Don't give in.

If Fate should down you, just get up and take another cuff;
You may bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff,
And grin.


ya!

GWB

And one that will stand any young/old man in good stead!

If, by Rudyard Kipling....

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

ya!

GWB