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Florine asked in Arts & HumanitiesPoetry · 3 months ago

What's your favorite poem?


I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was against the rules. :(

24 Answers

  • 2 weeks ago

    Poem Title: The Greatest Fears Lies Within

    In The Night

    If Ever I Might

    Think Of My Fears

    Which Brings Me Tears

    The Things I See In My sight

    Gives Me Quite A Fright

    The Horror Makes Me Shiver

    Or Should I Say Quiver

    Do you ever wonder

    What makes you Ponder?

    The Greatest One Of All

    Lies In The Art Gallery Hall

    The Cats Yes The Cats!

    They go around prawling

    And they Also Like Yawning

    Late At Night When The Moon Is Out

    No one dares to roam the town

    Because You know It's Going Down

    When the clock strikes thrice

    The Witching hour Begins

    And The Nightmare hour begins

    It is true what they say that there is No God In Sight

    And The World Will Put Up A Fight

    The Youths rebel For They Are Right

    The Enemy Lies Within You Forever More

    And only you can conquer him

    Only you can get rid of your greatest fears

    Written By: Queenstar Betty Amoah ( Ama Oforiwaa)

  • 1 month ago

    A Poem

    Tell me, if I caught you one day

    and kissed the sole of your foot,

    wouldn't you limp a little then,

    afraid to crush my kiss?…

    Nichita Stanescu

  • 2 months ago

    A few sonnets never truly leave you once you hear them. Ariana Brown's "Wolfchild" was one of those sonnets for me a year ago. Earthy colored talks on dark and earthiness with such intricacy and crudeness and effortlessness in this piece. Each opportunity I return to it I'm flabbergasted how through such shocking language she creatives something so otherworldly and clear and required in our discussions about re­imagining America and America­ness. Hella shocking, hella significant, and furthermore a phenomenal sonnet. I'm deciding in favor of this sonnet in the primaries.

  • ?
    Lv 7
    2 months ago

    Edgar Allan Poe.

    The Raven

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  • 3 months ago

    There are many, but one that I wrote recalling my RAF service still gives me quite a bit of pleasure, not that I suppose its much good, but it does rattle the bars a bit because of its personal nostalger.

  • F
    Lv 7
    3 months ago

    The night train by WH Auden.

    Special mention for The Tay Bridge  Disaster by William McGonagall. 

  • 3 months ago

    I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.

  • Anonymous
    3 months ago

    And at every drifting cloud that went 

    With sails of silver by. 

    I walked, with other souls in pain, 

    Within another ring, 

    And was wondering if the man had done 

    A great or little thing, 

    When a voice behind me whispered low, 

    "That fellow's got to swing." 

    Dear Christ! the very prison walls 

    Suddenly seemed to reel, 

    And the sky above my head became 

    Like a casque of scorching steel; 

    And, though I was a soul in pain, 

    My pain I could not feel. 

    I only knew what hunted thought 

    Quickened his step, and why 

    He looked upon the garish day 

    With such a wistful eye; 

    The man had killed the thing he loved, 

    And so he had to die. 

    Yet each man kills the thing he loves, 

    By each let this be heard, 

    Some do it with a bitter look, 

    Some with a flattering word, 

    The coward does it with a kiss, 

    The brave man with a sword! 

    Some kill their love when they are young, 

    And some when they are old; 

    Some strangle with the hands of Lust, 

    Some with the hands of Gold: 

    The kindest use a knife, because 

    The dead so soon grow cold. 

    Some love too little, some too long, 

    Some sell, and others buy; 

    Some do the deed with many tears, 

    And some without a sigh: 

    For each man kills the thing he loves, 

    Yet each man does not die. 

    He does not die a death of shame 

    On a day of dark disgrace, 

    Nor have a noose about his neck, 

    Nor a cloth upon his face, 

    Nor drop feet foremost through the floor 

    Into an empty space. 

    I know not whether Laws be right, 

    Or whether Laws be wrong; 

    All that we know who lie in gaol 

    Is that the wall is strong; 

    And that each day is like a year, 

    A year whose days are long. 

    This too I know—and wise it were 

    If each could know the same— 

    That every prison that men build 

    Is built with bricks of shame, 

    And bound with bars lest Christ should see 

    How men their brothers maim. 

    With bars they blur the gracious moon, 

    And blind the goodly sun: 

    And they do well to hide their Hell, 

    For in it things are done 

    That Son of God nor son of Man 

    Ever should look upon! 

    The vilest deeds like poison weeds 

    Bloom well in prison-air: 

    It is only what is good in Man 

    That wastes and withers there: 

    every stone we turn by day 

    Becomes one's heart by night. 

    With midnight always in one's heart, 

    And twilight in one's cell, 

    We turn the crank, or tear the rope, 

    Each in his separate Hell, 

    And the silence is more awful far 

    Than the sound of a brazen bell. 

    And never a human voice comes near 

    To speak a gentle word: 

    And the eye that watches through the door 

    Is pitiless and hard: 

    And by all forgot, we rot and rot, 

    With soul and body marred. 

    And thus we rust Life's iron chain 

    Degraded and alone: 

    And some men curse, and some men weep, 

    And some men make no moan

    Source(s): Oscar Wilde
  • Anonymous
    3 months ago

    My favorite style are limericks. Often making reference to a certain town in New England.

  • ?
    Lv 6
    3 months ago

    The Charge of the Light Brigade.

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