"I would do it, but I'm paralyzed with not caring very much." - Spike
Question #92606 posted on 09/16/2019 8:02 a.m.

Dear 100 Hour Board,

What is your favorite poem?

-My Name Here


Dear friend, 

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.

- Rumi

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. 

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done
      But he with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
      Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
      On his face - If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
      That couldn’t be done, and he did it!
Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;
      At least no one ever has done it;”
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat
      And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
      Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
      That couldn’t be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
      There are thousands to prophesy failure,
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
      The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
      Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
      That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

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

Comparing those

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.


Shel Silverstein


I just found it online, which is my favorite thing! Also Hug'O'War is there! Allow me to share that one, too:


Bill Watterson

C&H T-Rex Poem.jpg



“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

O, one might be like Socrates
And lift the hemlock up,
Pledge death with philosophic ease,
And drain the untrembling cup;—
But to be barefoot and be great,
Most in desert and least in state,
Servant of truth and lord of fate!
I own I falter at the peak
Trod daily by the steadfast Greek.
O, one might nerve himself to climb
His cross and cruelly die,
Forgiving his betrayer's crime,
With pity in his eye;—
But day by day and week by week
To feel his power and yet be meek,
Endure the curse and turn the cheek,
I scarce trust even you to be
As was the Christ of Galilee.
O, one might reach heroic heights
By one strong burst of power.
He might endure the whitest lights
Of heaven for an hour;—
But harder is the daily drag,
To smile at trials which fret and fag,
And not to murmur—nor to lag.
The test of greatness is the way
One meets the eternal Everyday.

― Edmund Vance Cooke

(source, with minor changes in the second verse) 
note: my personal favorite reading of this poem starts at minute 41 of Marion D Hank's speech "The Road to Tarshish"


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

I'd recommend.



Dear nameless,

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


Dear you,

This is just one of my favorites:

The Higher Pantheon, Lord Alfred Tennyson

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains,- 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? 
Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that which He seems? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? 
Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? 
Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why, 
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"? 
Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, 
Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendour and gloom. 
Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 
God is law, say the wise; O soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 
Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool, 
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; 
And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision-were it not He? 

Dear You,

"Invictus," by William Ernest Henley, is my all time favorite poem.

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
      I am the captain of my soul.
I also love pretty much everything by Anis Mojgani, but "Shake the Dust" and "Direct Orders" are particular favorites (even though "Direct Orders" has some language). Here are my favorite lines from "Direct Orders":
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.
P.S. You may also be interested in Board Question #85316

Dear person,

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.



Dear Here,

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.

"Pied Beauty"
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:
                                    Praise Him.

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!




Dear Question-Asker,

I really love Emily Dickinson's poem # 314 ("Hope" is the thing with feathers).

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
On a less hopeful and lovely note, I have loved "You Fit Into Me" by Margaret Atwood since I first read it in college:
You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

-Quixotic Kid

What's Happening!

How many toes does a fish have?
And how many wings on a cow?
I wonder, yup
I wonder!

-Tacky the Penguin