The Literary Blog Hop is hosted by The Blue Bookcase. This week's question comes from Gary at Parrish Lantern:
What is your favorite poem and why?
The first poet I came to love (and still do) is none other than Dr. Suess! He taught me how to read, how to love books and fueled my desire to devour every book I could get my hands on. My mum used to get me to read a book to her every morning and Dr. Suess was one of my favourites. I still enjoy his rhymes.
I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind.
Some come from ahead and some come from behind.
But I’ve bought a big bat. I’m all ready you see.
Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!
~Dr. Seuss
When I was a teenage I went through a Sylvia Plath stage. I was angsty and Plath was good company. I think she is probably the best friend of a lot of teenage girls. Although I still have a respect for Plath, I no longer hold her in the same regard I once did. Which is kind of sad but understandable. It's been years since I have read anything by her though.
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
~ from Elm by Sylvia Plath
In my senior year of school I had the most fantastic English teacher. He is part of the reason why I decided to become a teacher myself. He was so passionate about literature and poetry. His favourite poet was Coleridge, so we studied him closely. This guy loved Coleridge so much, he named his first son Samuel (that is true love!). His enthusiasm was infectious and I grew to love Coleridge too.
And it would work ém woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
~ from Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge
Edgar Allen Poe has been a long time favourite of mine. I love horror stories and the macabre, so Poe is right up my alley. My mum has a big book of stories and poems by Poe and she used to read them to me when I was young. I especially remember her reading his most famous poem, The Raven. I have fond memories of Poe and he is a poet I will continue to read.
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."
~ from The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
For the past few years I have been enthralled with the beat poets. Allen Ginsberg and Charles Bukowsi are amazing. I love my big book of collected poems by Ginsberg.. every now and again I will pick it up and read a few poems. They make me smile, frown, think and laugh.
I believe that all poetry is best read out aloud. So here is a video of Ginsberg reading the first part of Howl. I always felt Howl should be read a bit faster, more breathless.. almost manic.. he nearly gets there.
Bukowski... I have conflicting feelings about Bukowski. In one respect his poetry is just amazing. It is so raw and honest. I love the way he writes. On the other hand, I was watching an interview with him once, and his girlfriend said something he didn't like so he called her horrible names and started kicking her really hard. It was disgusting.. I DO NOT agree with, or condone physical violence against women (or anyone for that matter).. so for a while there, I could not bring myself to read anymore Bukowski.. but regardless of his obvious flaws as a human being, he is a genius.
I guess his flaws and the hard life he lived acted as a breeding ground for his creativity. I have come to the conclusion that I can love his poetry, but that has nothing to do with how I feel about him as a person. What he is like as a person is really irrelevant I guess.. although sometimes it's hard to differentiate because he more than likely wouldn't have written such brilliant poems if he was not that way he was. It certainly gives me something to ponder.
I think that about covers my favourite poets. There have been others I have studied, read, taught and enjoyed but these guys have influenced me the most. So I will leave you with one of my favourite poems by Bukowski. Enjoy.
Blasted apart with the first breath
running out of days
as the banister glints
in the early morning sun.
there will be no rest
even in our dreams.
now, all there is to do is
reset
broken moments.
when even to exist seems a
victory
then surely our luck has
run thin
thinner than a bloody stream
toward death.
life is a sad song:
we have heard too many
voices
seen too many
faces
too many
bodies
worst have been the faces:
a dirty joke that no one
can understand.
barbaric, senseless days total
in your skull;
reality is a juiceless
orange.
there is no plan
no out
no divinity
no sparrow of
joy.
we can’t compare life to
anything—-that’s
too dreary a
prospect.
relatively speaking,
we were never short on
courage
but, at best, the odds
remained long
and
at worst,
unchangeable.
and what was worst:
not that we wasted
it
but that it was
wasted
on us:
coming out of
the Womb
trapped
in light and
darkness
stricken and numbed
alone in the temperate zone of
dumb agony
now
running out of days
as the banister glints
in the early morning sun.
~Charles Bukowski
