Your Favourite Poem

[summerisle]

Adlestrop

by Edward Thomas



Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

 

[tim gabbott]

First .. No that's not a poem

 

[GwladysStreetHero]

Roses are red
My name is Dave
This poem makes no sense
Microwave

 

[SpurtingLesbian]

Kevin's was always a cracker.​

 

[Toby the Rhymedog]

The answer, well, I oughta know it,
As I sit here, swishing my Moët,
I can honestly say,
Though Yeats was okay,
I am my own favourite poet

 

[admirschleck]

My nookie days are over
My pilot light is out
What used to be my sex appeal
Is now my water spout.

Time was when, on its own accord
From my trousers it would spring
But now I've got a full-time job
To find the blasted thing.

It used to be embarrassing
The way it would behave
For every single morning
It would stand and watch me shave.

Now as old age approaches
It sure gives me the blues
To see it hang its little head
And watch me tie my shoes.

 

[Elong]

It would be spiteful
To put jellyfish in a trifle

 

[muddy mudguard]

I wish I was our Sammy
Our Sammy's nearly ten.
He's got two worms and a catapult
An' he's built a underground den.
But I'm not allowed to go in there,
I have to stay near the gate,
'Cos me Mam says I'm only seven,
But I'm not, I'm nearly eight!

I sometimes hate our Sammy,
He robbed me toy car y' know,
Now the wheels are missin' an' the top's broke off,
An' the bleedin' thing won' go.
An' he said when he took it, it was just like that,
But it wasn't, it went dead straight,
But y' can't say nott'n when they think y' seven
An' y' not, y' nearly eight.

I wish I was our Sammy,
Y' wanna see him spit,
Straight in y' eye from twenty yards
An' every time a hit.
He's allowed to play with matches,
And he goes to bed dead late,
And I have to go at seven,
Even though I'm nearly eight.

Y' know our Sammy,
He draws nudey women,
Without arms, or legs, or even heads
In the baths, when he goes swimmin'.
But I'm not allowed to go to the baths,
Me Mam says I have to wait,
'Cos I might get drowned, cos I'm only seven,
But I'm not, I'm nearly eight.

Y' know our Sammy,
Y' know what he sometimes does?
He wees straight through the letter box
Of the house next door to us.
I tried to do it one night,
But I had to stand on a crate,
'Cos I couldn't reach the letter box
But I will by the time I'm eight.

 

[wm02]

Bei Hennef- D.H. Lawrence

 

[tonyhorne]

Halfway down the stairs
is a stair
where i sit.
there isn't any
other stair
quite like
it.
i'm not at the bottom,
i'm not at the top;
so this is the stair
where
I always
stop.

Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head.
It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!

AA Milne

 

[Lids1978]

Once a Blue
Now a Red
In our hearts you are dead

 

[ilikecheese]

The answer, well, I oughta know it,
As I sit here, swishing my Moët,
I can honestly say,
Though Yeats was okay,
I am my own favourite poet

IT'S ALIVE!

 

[orly]

The answer, well, I oughta know it,
As I sit here, swishing my Moët,
I can honestly say,
Though Yeats was okay,
I am my own favourite poet

Brendan?

 

[mitchell1996]

Wayne's poem that hes worked on for months is my favourite.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Chicken dippers

 

[davmaher]

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes once had and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with a love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

W B Yeats