DISCUSSION what's your fave poem?

[nikoru]

let's get poetic up in here, shall we? i'm talking all about our favorite verses, stanzas, and rhymes that make our souls swoon. whether you're a lover of the classics like shakespeare , or you prefer the raw, unfiltered emotion of modern spoken word - this is a space to celebrate the magic of poetry!

for me, i've always had a special spot in my heart for the haunting, vivid imagery of "las ruinas del corazon" but i'm also a total sucker for the tenderness and candid wisdom found in "the ballad of a mother's heart"

las ruinas del corazon (tw: grotesque imagery, cannibalism)

"Las Ruinas del Corazon" - Eric Gamalinda

Juana the Mad married the handsomest man in Spain
and that was the end of it, because when you marry a man

more beautiful than you, they said you pretty much lost control
of the situation. Did she ever listen? No. When he was away

annexing more kingdoms, she had horrible dreams
of him being cut and blown apart, or spread on the rack,

or sleeping with exotic women. She prayed to the twin guardians
of the Alhambra, Saint Ursula and Saint Susana, to send him home

and make him stay forever. And they answered her prayers
and killed Philip the Handsome at twenty-eight.

Juana the Mad was beside herself with grief, and she wrapped
his body in oil and lavender, and laid him out in a casket of lead,

and built a marble effigy of the young monarch in sleep,
and beside it her own dead figure, so he would never think

he was alone. And she kept his body beside her, and every day
for the next twenty years, as pungent potions filled the rooms,

she peeked into his coffin like a chef peeks into his pot,
and memories of his young body woke her adamant desire.

She wanted to possess him entirely, and since not even death
may oppose the queen, she found a way to merge death and life

by eating a piece of him, slowly, lovingly, until he was entirely
in her being. She cut a finger and chewed the fragrant skin,

then sliced a thick portion of his once ruddy cheeks. Then she ate
an ear, the side of a thigh, the solid muscles of his chest,

then lunged for an eye, a kidney, part of the large intestine.
Then she diced his penis and his pebble-like testicles

and washed everything down with sweet jerez.
Then she decided she was ready to die.

But before she did, she asked the poets to record these moments
in song, and the architects to carve the song in marble,

and the marble to be selected from the most secret veins
of the earth and placed where no man could see it,

because that is the nature of love, because one walks alone
through the ruins of the heart, because the young must sleep

with their eyes open, because the angels tremble
from so much beauty, because memory moves in orbits

of absence, because she holds her hands out in the rain,
and rain remembers nothing, not even how it became itself.

ballad of a mother's heart (tw: grotesque imagery)

BALLAD OF A MOTHER'S HEART BY JOSE LA VILLA TIERRA

The night was dark,
For the moon was young,
And the Stars were asleep and rare,
The clouds were thick,
Yet Youth went out,
To see his Maiden fair.

Dear one,
he pleaded as he knelt before her feet in tears.
My love is true,
Why you have kept me waiting all this years?
The maiden looked at him.
Unmoved it seemed,
And whispered low.

Persistent Youth,
You have to prove by deeds,
Your love is true.
"There's not a thing
I would not do for you, Beloved" said he.
"Then, go." said she. "To your mother dear,
And bring her heart to me.

Without another word,
Youth left and went to his mother dear.
He opened her breast and took her heart!
But he did not shed a tear.

Then back to his Maiden fair,
He run unmindful of the rain.
But his feet slipped, And he fell down,
And loud, he groaned with pain!

Still in his hand he held the prize,
That would win his Maiden's hands.
But he thought of his mother dear,
So kind,so sweet,so fond.

And then,
he heard a voice!
Not from his lips,
But all apart!

"Get up" it said.
"Were you hurt,Child?"
It was his mother's heart

but of course, we all find ourselves drawn to certain poems and poets for deeply personal reasons. maybe you luxuriate in the lush romanticism of the greats like keats, shelley, and byron. or perhaps you prefer the gritty realness and vulnerability of lang leav's bite-sized modern reflections.

heck, maybe you've even got a soft spot for comically absurd, whimsical rhymes that make you giggle - bringing out your inner mischievous child. or you're most moved by poetry that tackles heavy subjects like grief, oppression, or socio-political turmoil head-on.

regardless of your particular poetic palate, i want to hear all about the specific verses that linger with you long after reading. what's that one gut-punch of a line that never fails to stir your soul? the stunningly simple metaphor that suddenly made things click? maybe it's an entire themed collection that you return to for comfort or inspiration time and time again.

 

[Lyrikai]

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron has always been one of my absolute favorites!
Though uh... I did get a kick out of a poem called A Channel Passage by Rupert Brooke. I discovered it through an episode of MASH and had a good laugh when I learned it was a real poem. It's just a short poem about being seasick LOL

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

A Channel Passage

The damned ship lurched and slithered. Quiet and quick
My cold gorge rose; the long sea rolled; I knew
I must think hard of something, or be sick;
And could think hard of only one thing--you!
You, you alone could hold my fancy ever!
And with you memories come, sharp pain, and dole.
Now there's a choice--heartache or tortured liver!
A sea-sick body, or a you-sick soul!

Do I forget you? Retchings twist and tie me,
Old meat, good meals, brown gobbets, up I throw.
Do I remember? Acrid return and slimy,
The sobs and slobber of a last year's woe.
And still the sick ship rolls. 'Tis hard, I tell ye,
To choose 'twixt love and nausea, heart and belly.

 

[allthekingsmen]

I like a lot of poetry, but here are two of my own favorites :D

Miss you. Would like to grab that chilled tofu we love. (Gabrielle Calvocoressi)

Do not care if you bring only your light body.
Would just be so happy to sit at the table
and talk about the menu. Miss you.
Wish we could bet which chilis they'll put
on the cubes of tofu. Our favorite.
Sometimes green. Sometimes red. Roasted
we always thought. But so cold and fresh.
How did they do it? Wish you could be here
to talk about it like it was so important.
Wish you could. Watched you on the screens
as I was walking, as I was cooking. Wished you
could get out of the hospital. Can't
bring myself to order our dish and eat it
in the car. Miss you laughing. Miss
you coming in from the cold or one
too many meetings. Laughing. I'll order
already. I'll order seven helpings, some
dumplings, those cold yam noodles that you
like. You can come in your light
body or skeleton or be invisible I don't even
care. Know you have a long way to travel.
Know I don't even know if it's long
at all. Wish you could tell me. What
you're reading. If you're reading.
Miss you. I'm at the table in the back.

Calvocoressi also has "Miss you. Would like to take a walk with you." I love that one, too! Both "Miss you" poems strike a chord within me due to some personal history. It's all very comforting, in a sad way, to know that such a talented poet once had the same feelings and thoughts as I did.

Number 2:

YOU THINK YOU ARE SOMETHING LESS REAL THAN YOU ARE (Wendy Xu)

You put on some new pants. I put
on some sunlight. I put on a coyote. You
put on a bigger coyote. You put on all
of the coyotes. You put on the sand as it flies
beneath your incredible little paws. I put on
rain not reaching the desert. You put on how we
feel sad after this. You put on the sadness. You
put on methods for dealing with it. The sadness tries
to put you on but you say No! You wrestle
the sadness to the ground. You are big and need
large wings. You put on the large wings. You are still
a coyote. You put on the howling. You put on
things that howl back. There is nothing
you won't put on. You put on the darkness.
You put on some stars and even what
is between them. You put on the moon. The moon
that shines. You put on how we want
to stay here. You put on how we forget where
we were before. You put on the earth how
it cracks. You put on its face when it sees us.

I really need to read more of Xu's poetry. I really like the style of this poem, personally.

 

[FenFren]

I like anything that sounds nice at the start and quickly does a 180 into murder

Like this one!

My Last Duchess

(I wrote a response to this as the person the 'Duke' is talking to if anyone is interested…)

Orrrrr this one

Porphyria's Lover

I like Robert Browning's poems, they're nice :3

 

[SilverWisp]

It's probably Howl by Ginsberg. I'm not about to try and post it here though...that thing is LONG.

 

[Fluffy]

Alone by Edgar Allan Poe. I happen to have a section of it in my signature. xD The poem really resonates with me. Poe is describing what it's like being an outcast in our world.

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov'd—I lov'd alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

 

[RiverNotch]

I can't play favourites when it comes to poems. Better poets, but that isn't what's asked. So I'll just go with the first twelve that pop up off the top of my head.

1. "Mock Orange" by Louise Gluck. I think this is also the first Louise Gluck poem I ever read, and the one that really got me into modern poetry? I was super hyped when I heard she won a Nobel prize, and super bummed out when I heard she died.

Spoiler

It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.

I hate them.
I hate them as I hate sex,
the man's mouth
sealing my mouth, the man's
paralyzing body—

and the cry that always escapes,
the low, humiliating
premise of union—

In my mind tonight
I hear the question and pursuing answer
fused in one sound
that mounts and mounts and then
is split into the old selves,
the tired antagonisms. Do you see?
We were made fools of.
And the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.

How can I rest?
How can I be content
when there is still
that odor in the world?

2. "Lyublyu glaza tvoy, moy drug" by Fyodor Tyutchev. I can't actually apprehend Russian (although I can read it now, albeit rather slowly), so I know this by translation, especially as the song "The Dull Flame of Desire", performed by Bjork and Anohni (I haven't the foggiest who the translator is). I like how often this poem just pops up in the culture -- before Bjork, for instance, this lovely little verse was also featured in Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker.

Spoiler

I love your eyes, my dear,
their splendid, sparkling fire,
when suddenly you raise them so
to cast a swift embracing glance
like lightning flashing in the sky.

But there's a charm that is greater still
when my love's eyes are lowered,
when all is fired by passion's kiss
and through the downcast lashes
I see the dull flame of desire.

3. "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats. At the interface of the Tyutchev's romanticism and Gluck's modernism is Yeats and the folks of his era. I have mentioned before how I once counted Eliot as my favourite at the time, but Yeats would have been a close second, and Yeats' nationalism never came close to the fascism of his Anglo-American contemporary.

Spoiler

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

4. "Requiem" by Anna Akhmatova (the English version I encountered, titled the same, is the translation by Stanley Kunis and Max Hayward). I guess, having mentioned Tyutchev, I felt obliged to mentioned a more contemporary Russian poem, one whose central thrust is more timely, as it was written in response to the repressive excesses of Stalinism.

Spoiler

No foreign sky protected me,
no stranger's wing shielded my face.
I stand as witness to the common lot,
survivor of that time, that place.

Instead of a Preface
In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there):
"Can you describe this?"
And I said: "I can."
Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.

Dedication
Such grief might make the mountains stoop,
reverse the waters where they flow,
but cannot burst these ponderous bolts
that block us from the prison cells
crowded with mortal woe...
For some the wind can freshly blow,
for some the sunlight fade at ease,
but we, made partners in our dread,
hear but the grating of the keys,
and heavy-booted soldiers' tread.
As if for early mass, we rose
and each day walked the wilderness,
trudging through silent street and square,
to congregate, less live than dead.
The sun declined, the Neva blurred,
and hope sang always from afar.
Whose sentence is decreed?... That moan,
that sudden spurt of woman's tears,
shows one distinguished from the rest,
as if they'd knocked her to the ground
and wrenched the heart out of her breast,
then let her go, reeling, alone.
Where are they now, my nameless friends
from those two years I spent in hell?
What specters mock them now, amid
the fury of Siberian snows,
or in the blighted circle of the moon?
To them I cry, Hail and Farewell!

Prologue

That was a time when only the dead
could smile, delivered from their wars,
and the sign, the soul, of Leningrad
dangled outside its prison-house;
and the regiments of the condemned,
herded in the railroad-yards,
shrank from the engine's whistle-song
whose burden went, "Away, pariahs!"
The stars of death stood over us.
And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed
under the crunch of bloodstained boots,
under the wheels of Black Marias.

I
At dawn they came and took you away.
You were my dead: I walked behind.
In the dark room children cried,
the holy candle gasped for air.
Your lips were chill from the ikon's kiss,
sweat bloomed on your brow---those deathly flowers!
Like the wives of Peter's troopers in Red Square
I'll stand and howl under the Kremlin towers.

II
Quietly flows the quiet Don;
into my house slips the yellow moon.

It leaps the sill, with its cap askew,
and balks at a shadow, that yellow moon.

This woman is sick to her marrow-bone,
this woman is utterly alone,

with husband dead, with son away
in jail. Pray for me. Pray.

III
Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound.
I could never have borne it. So take the thing
that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground.
Whisk the lamps away...
Night.

IV
They should have shown you---mocker,
delight of your friends, hearts' thief,
naughtiest girl of Pushkin's town---
this picture of your fated years,
as under the glowering wall you stand,
shabby, three hundredth in the line,
clutching a parcel in your hand,
and the New Year's ice scorched by your tears.
See there the prison poplar bending!
No sound. No sound. Yet how many
innocent lives are ending...

V
For seventeen months I have cried aloud,
calling you back to your lair.
I hurled myself at the hangman's foot.
You are my son, changed into nightmare.
Confusion occupies the world,
and I am powerless to tell
somebody brute from something human,
or on what day the word spells, "Kill!"
Nothing is left but dusty flowers,
the tinkling thurible, and tracks
that lead to nowhere. Night of stone,
whose bright enormous star
stares me straight in the eyes,
promising death, ah soon!

VI
The weeks fly out of mind,
I doubt that it occurred:
how into your prison, child,
the white nights, blazing, stared;
and still, as I draw breath,
they fix their buzzard eyes
on what the high cross shows,
this body of your death.

VII
The Sentence

The word dropped like a stone
on my still living breast.
Confess: I was prepared,
am somehow ready for the test.

So much to do today:
kill memory, kill pain,
turn heart into a stone,
and yet prepare to live again.

Not quite. Hot summer's feast
brings rumors of carouse.
How long have I foreseen
this brilliant day, this empty house?

VIII
To Death

You will come in any case---so why not now?
How long I wait and wait. The bad times fall.
I have put out the light and opened the door
for you, because you are simple and magical.
Assume, then, any form that suits your wish,
take aim, and blast at me with poisoned shot,
or strangle me like an efficient mugger,
or else infect me---typhus be my lot---
or spring out of the fairytale you wrote,
the one we're sick of hearing, day and night,
where the blue hatband marches up the stairs,
led by the janitor, pale with fright.
It's all the same to me. The Yenisei swirls
the North Star shines, as it will shine forever;
and the blue lustre of my loved one's eyes
is clouded over by the final horror.

IX
Already madness lifts its wing
to cover half my soul.
That taste of opiate wine!
Lure of the dark valley!

Now everything is clear.
I admit my defeat. The tongue
of my ravings in my ear
is the tongue of a stranger.

No use to fall down on my knees
and beg for mercy's sake.
Nothing I counted mine, out of my life,
is mine to take:

not my son's terrible eyes,
not the elaborate stone flower
of grief, not the day of the storm,
not the trial of the visiting hour,

not the dear coolness of his hands,
not the lime trees' agitated shade,
not the thin cricket-sound
of consolation's parting word.

X
Crucifixion

"Do not weep for me, Mother, when I am in my grave."

1
A choir of angels glorified the hour,
the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire.
"Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?
Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me... "

2
Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed,
His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared.
His mother stood apart. No other looked
into her secret eyes. No one dared.

Epilogue

1
I have learned how faces fall to bone,
how under the eyelids terror lurks
how suffering inscribes on cheeks
the hard lines of its cuneiform texts,
how glossy black or ash-fair locks
turn overnight to tarnished silver,
how smiles fade on submissive lips,
and fear quavers in a dry titter.
And I pray not for myself alone...
for all who stood outside the jail,
in bitter cold or summer's blaze,
with me under that blind red wall.

2
Remembrance hour returns with the turning year.
I see, I hear, I touch you drawing near:

the one we tried to help to the sentry's booth,
and who no longer walks this precious earth,

and that one who would toss her pretty mane
and say, "It's just like coming home again."

I want to name the names of all that host,
but they snatched up the list, and now it's lost.

I've woven them a garment that's prepared
out of poor words, those that I overheard,

and will hold fast to every word and glance
all of my days, even in new mischance,

and if a gag should blind my tortured mouth,
through which a hundred million people shout,

then let them pray for me, as I do pray
for them, this eve of my remembrance day.

And if my country ever should assent
to casting in my name a monument,

I should be proud to have my memory graced,
but only if the monument be placed

not near the seas on which my eyes first opened---
my last link with the sea has long been broken---

nor in the Tsar's garden near the sacred stump,
where a grieved shadow hunts my body's warmth,

but here, here I endured three hundred hours
in line before the implacable iron bars.

Because even in blissful death I fear
to lose the clangor of the Black Marias,

to lose the banging of that odious gate
and the old crone howling like a wounded beast.

And from my motionless bronze-lidded sockets
may the melting snow, like teardrops, slowly trickle,

and a prison dove coo somewhere, over and over,
as the ships sail softly down the flowing Neva.

5. "In the dawn twilight..." by Basho. I once read Kenneth Yasuda's instructive book Japanese Haiku: Its Essential Nature and History which helped me understand, not just how haiku is supposed to work (Yasuda's understanding of English haiku is that it must also go 5-7-5, and that the first and last lines must rhyme! which is a touch excessive, but he nevertheless emphasizes the two undebatable aspects of actual haiku: the "turn" and the "seasonal words". This is the haiku Yasuda emphasized that seems to have really stuck with me, and unlike the Russian poems above, I can't read their original versions.

Spoiler

In the dawn twilight
There the lancelets appear
No more than an inch white.

6. "Donne ch'avete intelletto d'amore..." by Dante, from his La vita nuova (the translation I'm most familiar with is by Mark Musa). Dante has been a big influence on me in recent years, especially as it was through his work that I kinda fell into the formal study of the Italian language, so I must honour the first poem of his that I've come closest to memorizing! The whole of La vita nuova, as well as his Divina commedia of course, is especially captivating, and I must again recommend the Princeton Dante Project for a handy online resource on both poems -- indeed, on all Dante's works.

Spoiler

Ladies who have intelligence of love,
I wish to speak to you about my lady,
not thinking to complete her litany,
but to talk in order to relieve my heart.

I tell you, when I think of her perfection,
Love lets me feel the sweetness of his presence,
and if at that point I could still feel bold,
my words could make all mankind fall in love.

I do not want to choose a tone too lofty,
for fear that such ambition make me timid;
instead I shall discuss her graciousness,
defectively, to measure by her merit,
with you, ladies and maidens whom Love knows,
for such a theme is only fit for you.

The mind of God receives an angel's prayer:
"My Lord, there appears to be upon your earth
a living miracle, proceeding from
a radiant soul whose light reaches us here."
Heaven, that lacks its full perfection
only in lacking her, pleads for her to the Lord,
and every saint is begging for this favor.

Compassion for His creatures still remains,
for God, who knows they are speaking of my lady,
says: "Chosen ones, now suffer happily that she,
your hope, live her appointed time
for the sake of one down there who fears her loss,
and who shall say unto the damned in Hell:
'I have beheld the hope of Heaven's blest.'"

My lady is desired in highest Heaven.
Now let me tell you something of her power.
A lady who aspires to graciousness
should seek her company, for where she goes
Love drives a killing frost into vile hearts
that freezes and destroys what they are thinking;
should such a one insist on looking at her,
he is changed to something noble or he dies.

And if she finds one worthy to behold her,
that man will feel her power for salvation
when she accords to him her salutation,
which humbles him till he forgets all wrongs.
God has graced her with an even greater gift:
whoever speaks with her shall speak with Him.

Love says of her: "How can a mortal body
achieve such beauty and such purity?"
He looks again and swears it must be true:
God does have something new in mind for earth.
Her color is the pallor of the pearl,
a paleness perfect for a gracious lady;
she is the best that Nature can achieve
and by her mold all beauty tests itself;

her eyes, wherever she may choose to look,
send forth their spirits radiant with love
to strike the eyes of anyone they meet,
and penetrate until they find the heart.
You will see Love depicted on her face,
there where no one dares hold his gaze too long.

My song, I know that you will go and speak
to many ladies when I bid you leave,
and since I brought you up as Love's true child,
ingenuous and plain, let me advise you
to beg of anybody you may meet:
"Please help me find my way; I have been sent
to the lady with whose praise I am adorned."

And so that you may not have gone in vain,
do not waste time with any vulgar people;
do what you can to show your meaning only
to ladies, or to men who may be worthy;
they will direct you by the quickest path.
You will find Love and with him find our lady.
Speak well of me to Love, it is your duty.

7. "She should have died hereafter..." by William Shakespeare, from The Tragedy of Macbeth. Entire plays of Shakespeare could take up all the spots of this list, but I'll stick with the one speech that I've taken to heart. Shakespeare's sonnets are also how I've come to understand meter, particularly iambic pentameter, so there's that!

Spoiler

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

8. "Metamorphoses" by Leanne Hanson. This more obscure, by certain correspondence, is how I came to develop my understanding meter, among other aspects of poetry, and I must honour her (and the community to which we once belonged -- she passed away about five years ago) by mentioning my favourite work of hers.

Spoiler

When you and I were summer, and the sky
was greyer than the green that grew between
my linden and your oaken strength, serene,
eternal as the shadows passing by,
you whispered me a question; my reply
was lost upon the winds of might-have-been,
for change must come to every tranquil scene
and gifts from gods are not what they imply.

Forever is a dream lost to the dawn
and temples fall to dust beneath the years,
as roses split the stones and oceans dry;
yet boughs will bend and brave the tearing thorn
to claim the scars as treasured souvenirs,
and laugh until the summer, you and I.

9. "Hoi men ippion ztroton, hoi the pezdon..." by Sappho (did I transcribe it right? Her form of Greek is super archaic, so I'm not sure when I try to read it I can read it right. At any rate, the translation I'm familiar with is "Some men say an army of horse and some men say an army on foot..." by Anne Carson). I do recommend reading through as much Sappho as one can, because her work -- or at least her work through the eyes of Anne Carson -- is just the archetypal rendition of longing, I think, whether or not that longing is actually gay (the jury is actually out on that, from what I understand, because much of her work was written to be sung by a chorus, in order to help young women in the Mitilinian community find partners and such). The possibility of queer readings is, in fact, just the icing on the cake.

Spoiler

Some men say an army of horse and some men say an army on foot
and some men say an army of ships is the most beautiful thing
on the black earth. But I say it is
what you love.

Easy to make this understood by all.
For she who overcame everyone
in beauty (Helen)
left her fine husband

behind and went sailing to Troy.
Not for her children nor her dear parents
had she a thought, no—
]led her astray

]for
]lightly
]reminded me now of Anaktoria
who is gone.

I would rather see her lovely step
and the motion of light on her face
than chariots of Lydians or ranks
of footsoldiers in arms.

]not possible to happen
]to pray for a share
]
]
]
]
]
toward[

]
]
]
out of the unexpected.

10. Psalm 19 (LXX). I am somewhat of a religious person, in part because the particular religion I'm associated with employs such brilliant poetry for its liturgies! This is one such poem -- LXX means it was the version translated into Greek at around 200 BC; in the version most Westerners are familiar with, this is Psalm 20 -- and I cite it specifically because a particular line always makes me smile deeply, as Sappho employs the exact same poetic device in the poem of hers I cited above.

Spoiler

Unto the end, a Psalm of David.

The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble;
the Name of the God of Jacob defend thee;
Send thee help from the sanctuary,
and strengthen thee out of Zion;
Remember all thy sacrifices,
and make acceptable thy wholeburnt offering.
The Lord grant thee according to thy heart,
and fulfil all thy counsel.
We will rejoice in thy salvation,
and triumph in the Name of the Lord our God;
the Lord perform all thy petitions.
Now know I, that the Lord hath saved His Christ;
He will hear Him from His holy heaven;
the salvation of His right hand is in the Powers.
Some put their trust in chariots, and some in horses,
but we will call upon the Name of the Lord our God.
They are overthrown, and fallen,
but we are risen, and stand upright.
O Lord, save the king,
and hear us in the day when we call upon Thee.

11. "Rindu" by Isabela Banzon. I would be remiss not to mention something by my fellow Filipinos, so this one is by a local poet, who if I had any wherewithal in applying for courses could have been my professor at one point xD.

Spoiler

Last night, when you were missing love
as I was,
we were lying on a huge bed,
each with nobody beside.
I will slip under
your mosquito netting
and you may, if you wish,
find your way
into me.
Aku cinta padamu,
but it is morning
before I understand
what you say in the dark.

We can't go on meeting like this,
suspended
on wire, post
to post, through cable, under ocean,
under ground.
Fated to each other
but living without,
we rendezvous in a language not our own.
Aku ingin
mencintaimu dengan sederhana.
I want
to love you simply,
without fear, without metaphor,
but it is difficult
in English.
It is difficult to imagine how we are
together,
gecko to the other in the permeable air.
You live in me,
outside me.
Kamu hidup di dalam
dan di luar diriku.
The river rushes below.
What are we in the hands of the dalang,
emotion, our puppet master.
Kita tinda sebelum kita bertemu lagi.
We are shadows in a show not of ourselves.
Who are we
that to leave you in the island of the gods
is difficult.
We do not exist.
Di bahasa Inggris, kita tiada.

12. "Hello in There" by John Prine. I would also be remiss not to mention at least one pop song, since my understanding of poetry is deeply affected by pop music, or at least the best examples thereof. This one song has been recently stuck in my head for its lyrical poignancy...well, that, and also because I translated it for homework xD.

Spoiler

We had an apartment in the city.
Me and Loretta liked living there.
Well, it'd been years since the kids had grown
a life of their own, left us alone.

John and Linda live in Omaha
and Joe is somewhere on the road.
We lost Davy in the Korean War
and I still don't know what for—don't matter anymore.

(Refrain)
You know that old trees just grow stronger
and old rivers grow wilder
every day.
Old people just grow lonesome,
waiting for someone to say "Hello in there,
hello."

Me and Loretta, we don't talk much more.
She sits stares through the backdoor screen.
And all the news just repeats itself
like some forgotten dream that we've both seen.

Someday I'll go and call up Rudy.
We worked together at the factory.
But what could I say if he asks "What's new?"
"Nothing, what's with you? Nothing much to do."

(Refrain)

So if you're walking down the street sometime
and spot some hollow ancient eyes,
please don't just pass them by and stare
as if you didn't care. Say "Hello in there,
hello."