What's your favorite poem?

[ltdiver 3]

Quote

desiderata

drenaline. You hit a nerve there. That's one of my very good friend's favorite poems that he shared with me last year. Very deep and moving to read it again. Thanks.
ltdiver
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[MarkF 0]

In my view Lawson and Paterson just can't be beat...:-)
The Man from Snowy River
Banjo Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump --
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
Ooroo
Mark F...

[MarkF 0]

And one of my favourites from Henry Lawson.
The glass on the bar.
Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
And one of them called for the drinks with a grin;
They’d only returned from a trip to the North,
And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth.
He absently poured out a glass of Three Star,
And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.
"There, that is for Harry," he said, "and it’s queer,
’Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year;
His name’s on the glass, you can read it like print,
He scratched it himself with an old bit of flint;
I remember his drink – it was always Three Star" –
And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.
He looked at the horses, and counted but three:
"You were always together – where’s Harry?" cried he.
Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said,
"You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;"
But one, gazing out o’er the ridges afar,
Said, "We owe him a shout – leave the glass on the bar."
They thought of the far-away grave on the plain,
They thought of the comrade who came not again,
They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:
"We drink to the name of the mate who is dead."
And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star
Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.
And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,
It stands by the clock, always polished and clean;
And often the strangers will read as they pass
The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;
And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,
That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.
Ooroo
Mark F...

[prepheckt 0]

This was written by a student of a friend of mine who he JM'ed for
August 2001…FREEFALL
All hands to the center
united as one
Our dreams strung together
our journey begun
Each one of us striving
to conquer our fears
Find a place in our minds
where all angst disappears
With a silent guitar riff
to our minds we retreat
An inspiring tune
hides all thoughts of defeat
Our eyes are telltale
as the altitude climbs
Focused gazes of uncertainty
windows to our minds
Now the door is pulled open
our goggles are down
I glance through the doorway
and stare at the ground
Suddenly a gust
of sharp wind hits my face
As the first of my comrades
is sucked into space
I take a deep breath
and prepare to take flight
As one by one
falls away out of sight
The jumpmaster points
as my heart skips a beat
Shouts "stand in the door"
as I rise to my feet
Emerging from shelter
as if by thunder I'm struck
To the winds which attack me
I plead for my luck
I hold on for dear life
to the plane's narrow wall
Automatic response
to that heart stopping call
Cannot hear myself speak
as I release my iron grip
Step into the whirlwind
as it cracks like a whip
Yet I strangely don't fall
as I plummet from sight
As from heaven to earth
like an angel I fly
I soar through the sky
like an eagle in flight
Against the tearing
winds I fight
The smallest twitch
a crooked breath
Present a seemingly
insurmountable test
Endless barrel rolls
flips and turns
I instinctively resort
to that which I've learned
I arch for dear life
as earthbound I fly
Struggling to catch onto
a piece of the sky
I search for the ripcord
pull with all of my might
One last moment of freedom
as I save my own life
And then opening shock
jerks my mind back to earth
As I gaze at the sky
watch the canopy unfurl
As I drift back to earth
and the ground's coming near
My soul in invincible
forgetting all fear
For if my soul should die
before my body land
I will have known the touch
of God's gentle hand
For to soar through the sky
like an eagle in flight
Is to test faith and courage
and conquer all fright
My heart now knows freedom
my soul knows no fear
I have flown with the angels
into heaven I've peered.

[drenaline 0]

Desiderata was the only good thing that I learned from my literature teacher. I hated that subject. "Life is full of danger, so why be afraid?"
drenaline

[ltdiver 3]

Quote

literature... I hated that subject

And I ended up taking 2 years of English Lit. just to get out of taking one year of Spanish!
Here's a fav from one of my lit classes.
Kind of reminds me of the 'fever' we all get about weekends and our favorite dropzones.
Sea Fever
John Masefield
I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
All I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trip's over.
ltdiver
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