Your favorite poet/artist

Christina Rossetti <3

Specifically her rhyming poem "Goblin Market". There are a number of different interpretations of its meaning, but I primarily just enjoy it for its whimsical, childlike tone.

I love the dead poet "Rabindranth Tagore" a lot. He was the winner of Nobel Prize. All his written books and poetry really amazed me a lot.

my favorite is Edagar Allan Poe one of my favorite poems by him is The Raven in fact when I was in high school for part of my drama club we had to recite a poem by any poet we wanted as part of an audition for one of the school plays my drama coach told us about it before school got out for the summer this way we could figure it out during summer vacation and have it ready for when the new school year started for it was the play for JR and SR class members to be doing so I spent all summer learning The Raven I had it down perfectly by the time school had started and it was time for auditions it was a lot of fun I was cast as the female lead for the play sadly though a week before the play our principle decided to read the play we were doing and told us we couldn't do it so we were all upset about it with how we worked really hard on the play

If we're being serious, then Shane Koyczan is definitely my favourite at the moment. But I did see this thing on the internet of a bathroom wall where there was paint obviously trying to cover up vandalism and I'm guessing the same person who wrote on it before wrote:

"They paint these walls to hide my pen
But the $#%^ house poet strikes again"

And I have no idea why but this is the funniest thing in the world to me. It may not be this super serious poetry but that doesn't mean it's not one of my favourites. Might seem kinda stupid to some people but it makes me laugh and makes me appreciate little things.

One of my favorites:

Joyce Kilmer (1886–1918)

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

-- Sat Oct 14, 2017 9:01 pm --

Another favorite:

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I like Carver's poems, because they're not too "poetic".


Prosser



In winter two kinds of fields on the hills
outside Prosser: fields of new green wheat, the slips
rising overnight out of the plowed ground,
and waiting,
and then rising again, and budding.
Geese love this green wheat.
I ate some of it once too, to see.

And wheat stubble-fields that reach to the river.
These are the fields that have lost everything.
At night they try to recall their youth,
but their breathing is slow and irregular as
their life sinks into dark furrows.
Geese love this shattered wheat also.
They will die for it.

But everything is forgotten, nearly everything,
and sooner rather than later, please God—
fathers, friends, they pass
into your life and out again, a few women stay
a while, then go, and the fields
turn their backs, disappear in rain.
Everything goes, but Prosser.

Those nights driving back through miles of wheat fields—
headlamps raking the fields on the curves—
Prosser, that town, shining as we break over hills,
heater rattling, tired through to bone,
the smell of gunpowder on our fingers still:
I can barely see him, my father, squinting
through the windshield of that cab, saying, Prosser.

I have always been my favorite. Possible trigger warning.

I am famous. I am a man. I have bitch tits. Work on my tan. Check out my website. I have a plan. I'm going places. I am a man.

Famous is the name. ######6 Famous. Reality is the game. ######6 Nameless. Identifying is the joke. Puff of smoke. Objectifying is the flame. ######6 Priceless.

Choke on your appetite for entirety, advance liberty; withdraw causality, make me the enemy. Because I'm dying to be free, from you all. Departing soon, habitually. Keep on building your walls.

I'll climb over, I'll dig under. You can't trap me in. I was born to sin. You can't always win. I am living proof that this a blunder.

Us, under a canopy. Let me out, just leave me be. So what if I want to live inside a tree? Will you cut it down? Why would you want to do a thing like that to me?

Take my hand. Leave my arm. Let me keep my shoulder. It's getting to my head. The chipper spits out red. My heart's already bled enough. Kick me, I'm down. You always were so ######6 tough.

Guy with a sense of authority, back the ###$ up, off and out of me. Fly with a propensity for being squished. My serving dished. My body fished out of a corporation's little reservoir. Their slice of pie. Get your hooks out of me, I'm not your ######6 whore.

I am your ######6 little whore. I lose. I'm kicking down the god damn ######6 door painted on a brick wall. I am so ######6 small. That, or you're just so ######6 tall. Say ######6 one more time, I dare you. ###$ you all. I am slipping through the cracks.

Flap jacks in fat stacks. Guzzled lies and black facts. Wanting eyes in maggot infested surplus. Dwindling supplies. Buy now.

But you never taught me how to care about not caring about caring to not care about the caring part. See, I've been shopping smart. You have been ripping me apart. Feeding me to. Beating me, you. Are cheating me. Defeating me.

I have nothing left to give. You've even taken my will to live inside your pinball machine. Just another quarter, that's all I really mean to you. Isn't it true? You take the food from my mouth, and then you blow it out your ass.

I just registered in this forum,and i feel like crying right now,because i'm just so happy this forum has a section for poems and poets.It just feels good to know this forum is not only about psychology,but also has a section for one of my other fave subjects^^
BTW I have many favorite artists/poets that I cant choose between, but today I feel like reading "Rumi's" poems.
Be Lost in the Call
Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?

Reality replied: O prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you've never seen the face.

Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.

Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.

My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?

We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn't want a crown or robe from God's grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.

Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass, my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ass?
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.

Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.

This is a translated version of one of his poems.

My favorite <3

Listen!

Listen!
if the stars are lit,
then someone must need them, of course?
then someone must want them to be there,
calling those droplets of spittle pearls?

And wheezing,
in the blizzards of midday dust,
he rushes to God,
fearing he’s out of time
and sobbing,
he kisses God’s sinewy hands,
tells Him that it’s important,
pleads to Him that the star must shine!
vowing
that he won’t survive the starless torment!
And later,
he wanders, worried,
though seemingly calm and fit,
and tells somebody:
“Finally, nothing can
frighten you,
right?!”
Listen!
if the stars are lit,
then someone must really need them?
then it is essential
that at least one star
alights
over the rooftops each night?!

1914

By Vladimir Mayakovsky

Does anybody else here know other russian poets?

Howl (Pt I)

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
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