Poetry day

It’s Montana poetry day.

What’s your favourite poem and why?

That question is too hard for me to answer – I have a long list of favourites starting with the one I learned at kindy:

Miss Polly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick/ She called for the doctor to come quci/quick/ He picked up his bag and he picked up his hat/ and knocked on the door with a rat a tat a tat.

He looked at the dolly and he shook his head/ and said Miss Polly put her straight to bed/ I’ll write a prescription for a pill, pill, pill and be back in the mornign with my bill/ bill/ bill.

The list does develop from doggeral like this and show a little more maturity but picking a favourite from those favourites depends on lots of variables including  mood, occasion and purpose.

2 Responses to Poetry day

  1. Paul Corrigan says:

    Soliloquy in a Spanish Cloister, Robert Browning.
    (1) for the word Scrofulous.
    (2) because I understood it — about the only poem I’ve ever understood and liked. (And what is the point of poetry anyway, and why do its devotees become such snobs about it).
    (3) About fear and loathing and hypocrisy in a monastery. The narrator is a bastard — he’s as bad as all those he’s pointing fingers at for their sins/failures.
    (4) Studied in the ’60s at high school. Forgot the name for over 30 years — discovered it again via the internet.
    – Paul

    Like

  2. JC says:

    Far too many to prioritise, but the one that first popped into my head was this:

    The Destruction of Sennacherib

    The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
    And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
    And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
    When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

    Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
    That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
    Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
    That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

    For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
    And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
    And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
    And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

    And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
    But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
    And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
    And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

    And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
    With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
    And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
    The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

    And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
    And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
    And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
    Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

    — George Gordon, Lord Byron

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