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Author: Subject: Name Your Favorite, Just One, Memorized Poem.
Carlos
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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 02:23 PM
Name Your Favorite, Just One, Memorized Poem.


Have you memorized your all-time favorite poem? If so, tell us the poem and post it (or post a link to it). Thank!


Quote:

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends upon
a red wheel barrow
glazed with rain water
beside the white chickens.


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Thomas Forthe (Tom)
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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 03:40 PM


God in his wisdom created the fly
and then forgot to tell us why.

Ogden Nash




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RobertArend
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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 04:55 PM


My favorite?

Ode to a Woman

A wall
Is a wall,
Afterall

__a poem by The Robert




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Lindsay M
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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 05:28 PM


Ocean Surf
I'm lying on my ocean surf
No one yet bothers me and my turf
"Neigh, neigh," the horse doth say,
"Hee, hee," the donkey doth bray.
But what is this?
A gentle kiss,
Of cold on this warm day?
That is what I heard them say
On that gentle summer's day.

(I wrote that when I was 12. Not a clue what it meant, but it's still stuck in my head.)






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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 05:47 PM


The first poem I ever memorized...I wanted to grow up to play baseball at the time (I think I was 8).

Casey at the Bat
By Ernest Lawrence Thayer
Taken From the San Francisco Examiner - June 3, 1888



The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.




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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 08:00 PM


I've been a huge fan of Shel Silverstein since the age of 7, when I memorized this poem. :)

Boa Constrictor
By Shel Silverstein
From Where the Sidewalk Ends

Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff...




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Carlos
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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 08:13 PM


Way back in the stone age when I attended grade school, my Social Studies teacher forced us memorize the Preamble to the United States Constitution:

Quote:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.


Later, in high school, my English teacher forced us to memorized William Shakespeare's act three, scene one of Hamlet:

Quote:

To be or not to be– that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep No more – and by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to – ‘tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th’ oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.—Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered.


I can't remember memorizing anything else...not at my age. Those are my top three memory feats. Yes, only ONE is a poem.

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[Edited on 6/29/2010 by aquablue]
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[*] posted on 6/28/2010 at 10:48 PM


The lady that taught me this poem also taught me short hand, which I've long forgot, and examined my hand writing, for which she said I would be a business professional.

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
But, he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn’t," but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle it in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "couldn’t be done," and you’ll do it.

from Collected Verse of Edgar Guest
NY:Buccaneer Books, 1976, pg. 285
(copy and pasted from http://www.appleseeds.org/guest_couldntbedone.htm) :lol:couldn't remember it all now




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[*] posted on 6/29/2010 at 04:58 AM


With my situation right now, Invictus by William Ernest Henley, is very fitting, especially the last lines:

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

(I have to look it up to see if it's accurate. Not exactly, but close. lol)

The poem lines I really remember is not my favorite because it's too gloomy:

This is the way the world's end,
This is the way the world's end,
This is the way the world's end,
Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Guess who wrote that. :)




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[*] posted on 6/29/2010 at 05:23 AM


There once was a woman from Glasgow,

Who liked to be touched on the .....bwahahahaha




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[*] posted on 6/29/2010 at 11:46 AM


I'm with Ditchdoc on this. My favs are bawdy limericks.

Guess I'll go with Silverstien-

Woulda Coulda Shoulda
by Shel Silverstein

All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
Layin' in the sun,
Talkin' bout the things
They woulda-coulda-shoulda done...
But those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
All ran away and hid
From one little did.
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[*] posted on 6/29/2010 at 11:57 AM


I forgot about Woulda Coulda Shoulda, Jules. I always like that one. :)



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[*] posted on 6/29/2010 at 02:14 PM


Quote: Originally posted by Morecoffee  
I forgot about Woulda Coulda Shoulda, Jules. I always like that one. :)


:)
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[*] posted on 6/29/2010 at 05:27 PM


I can never pick a "favorite" anything... poems included. But I really like:

He drew a circle that shut us out,
rebel, heretic, a thing to flout.
But love and I had the wit to win,
We drew a circle that took him in.

But then there is Longfellow's "A Psalm of Life"

(you can call me simplistic and naive if you want, but I believe this stuff)

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real ! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle
Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

(I probably didn't get the punctuation right.)




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[*] posted on 7/12/2010 at 12:13 PM


my favorite is Dorothy Parker's Inscriptions for the ceiling of a bedroom
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[*] posted on 7/29/2016 at 07:04 AM


Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda is my favorite poem.

The Spanish version is better than the translation...




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