Dear 100 Hour Board,
What is your favorite poem?
-My Name Here
I'll give you ONE GUESS.
For the sake of reading, here it is:
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Besides The Guesthouse I actually also really like It Couldn't Be Done by Edgar Albert Guest (lol? Guest? what's going on here?) The get-to-it-ness of this poem is inspiring to me and has oft provided me the motivation needed to prove myself wrong. I love the idea of defying expectations, pushing the limits of possibility, and showing yourself what you are capable of.
Oh My Name here,
Just be a dear,
And when you ask
The highest tier,
Don't ask so hard,
For it's my fear
I most revere.
I guess then you'll
Just have to hear
My favorite few
That I hold dear.
I hope that you
Will lend your ear
As I give you
Mes meilleurs vers.
“I have wept in the night
At my shortness of sight
That to somebody’s needs made me blind,
But I never have yet
Felt a twinge of regret
For being a little too kind.”
― C.R. Gibson
The Eternal Everyday
― Edmund Vance Cooke
The Touch of the Master's Hand
Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin, but held it up with a smile;
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar"; then two!" "Only two? Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars twice; going for three.." But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin, and tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet as caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer, with a voice that was quiet and low,
Said; "What am I bid for the old violin?" And he held it up with the bow.
A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two? Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice, and going and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried, "We do not quite understand
What changed its worth." Swift came the reply: "The touch of a master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, much like the old violin,
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine; a game - and he travels on.
"He is going" once, and "going twice, He's going and almost gone."
But the Master Comes, and the foolish crowd never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought by the touch of the Master's hand.
― Myra Brooks Welch
And so you see,
My treasured friend,
They're all so great,
I don't pretend
To have just one
Recently I've been on a Carol Lynn Pearson kick. This is my favorite poem of hers:
If “A” looks up to “B”
Then by nature of the physical universe
“B” must look down on “A”
Rather like two birds
One on a tree
And one on the ground.
Or so thought Marjorie
Who had always wanted to marry
A man she could look up to
But wondered where that
Would place her
If she did.
Imagine her astonishment
When she met Michael and found
That together they stood
Physics on its head.
You could never
Draw this on paper
For it defies design
But year after year
They lived a strange
That by all known laws
Could not occur:
She looked up to him
And he looked up to her.
-guppy of doom
This is just one of my favorites:
The Higher Pantheon, Lord Alfred Tennyson
"Invictus," by William Ernest Henley, is my all time favorite poem.
You have been given a direct order to rock the [freak] out.Rock out like you'll never have to open up a textbook again.Rock out like you get paid to disturb the peace.Rock out like the plane is going down and there are 120 people onboard and 121 parachutes.Rock out like the streets and the books are all on fire and the flames can only be extinguished by doing the electric slide.Rock out like it's Saturday afternoon and Monday is a national holiday.Rock out like somebody's got a barrel pointed to your temple saying Rock out like your life depended on it fool!because it does.Rock out like you are the international Skee-ball champion of the entire universe.Rock out like you just escaped an evil orphanage to join a Russian circus.Rock out like the walls won't fall but [dang it] you're gonna die trying to make them.Rock out like the stereo's volume knob only has the figure 8 of infinity on it instead of merely numbers.Rock out like it's raining outside and you got a girl to run through it with.Rock out like you were playing football in the mud and your washing machine ain't broken.Rock out like the mangoes are in season.Rock out like the record player won't skip.Rock out like this was the last weekend,like these were the last words,like you don't ever want to forget how.
A poem by John Clarke.
There was an old man with a beard,
A funny old man with a beard
He had a big beard
A great big old beard
That amusing old man with a beard.
My sister will laugh when she reads this because this is really just one of my dad's favorite poems, but as I was looking through my running list of poems I like, this is the one that is resonating most with me right now.
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
And since no one has put any Emily Dickinson yet, here's one of my favorites of hers:
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
I really love Emily Dickinson's poem # 314 ("Hope" is the thing with feathers).
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye
How many toes does a fish have?
And how many wings on a cow?
I wonder, yup
-Tacky the Penguin