Anonymous
Anonymous asked in Arts & HumanitiesPoetry · 1 decade ago

What are some of your favorite poems and poets? 10 EASY points!?

I need to find some good poems and poets, something simple, yet fun to read and nothing too complicated with words.

Thanks!

8 Answers

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  • 1 decade ago
    Favorite Answer

    William Stafford

    Li-Young Lee

    Gary Snyder

    Lucille Clifton

    Seamus Heaney

    Anna Akhmatova

    Stanley Kunitz

    Yusef Komunyakaa

    Kay Ryan

    Jane Kenyon

    Yehuda Amichai

    Tony Hoagland

    William Matthews

    Emily Dickinson

    Grace Paley

    Wislawa Szymborska

    Donald Hall

    Jimmy Santiago Baca

    Bob Hicok

    Floyd Skloot

    Mary Oliver

    Ruth Stone

    Jane Mead

    Countee Cullen

    WCW

    Robert Frost

    Brendan Galvin

    Linda McCarriston

    AE Stallings

    Dylan Thoma

    Richard Wilbur

    Naomi Shihab Nye

    Ted Kooser

    Galway Kinnell

    Rita Dove

    Mary Jo Bang

    Gjertrud Schnackenberg

    Rhina Espaillat

    Allen Ginsberg

    Charles Simic

    Czeslaw Milosz

    Joy Harjo

    Eavan Boland

    Elizabeth Bishop

    Les Murray

    Federico García Lorca

    Pablo Neruda

    Daniel Hoffman

    Maxine Kumin

    Linda Paston

    Mark Doty

    Pattianne Rogers

    Stephen Dobyns

    Stephen Dunn

    Paul Muldoon

    Don Paterson

    Roddy Lumsden

    Selima Hill

    Wendy Cope

    Thomas Lux

    Lisel Mueller

    Philip Larkin

    Thom Gunn

    C. P. Cavafy

    Agnes Nemes Nagy

    Paul Celan

    Anna Swir

    Miroslav Holub

    Marin Sorescu

    Shuntaro Tanikawa

    Marge Piercy

    Carol Anne Duffy

    P. K. Page

    Raymond Carver

    Edward Hirsch

    Linda Bierds

    C. K. Williams

    Richard Howard

    Richard Hugo

    Vasko Popa

    Mark Strand

    Joseph Brodsky

    Anna Akhmatova

    Yannis Ritsos

    Adam Zagajewski

  • jpryst
    Lv 5
    1 decade ago

    Theodore Roethke - In A Dark Time, What Can I Tell My Bones, The Waking, Open House, everything else he wrote

    e.e. cummings - Somewhere I have never traveled..., The Moon's a Balloon, pretty much everything.

    Byron - So We'll Go No More A-Roving

    Coleridge - Kubla Khan, Ancient Mariner, Work Without Hope, Dejection.

    Basho - Ah, Kankadori, Deepen Thou My Lonliness

    Edna St. Vincent Millay - Those Hours When Happy Hours Were My Estate

    Yeats - Lake Isle of Inisfree, Sailing to Byzantium

    Emily Dickinson - My Life Closed Twice Before It Closed, Certain Slant of Light

    Tagore - pretty much everything he wrote

    Shakespeare - the Sonnets

    Leigh Hunt - Rondeau

    Charles Bukowski - everything he wrote

    None of these are too complicated, they're good pieces and definitely fun to read. All the best to you...............

  • Anonymous
    1 decade ago

    My favourite poems are W H Auden's Funeral Blues and W B Yeats He wishes for the cloths of heaven. Beautiful, profound,moving but simple!

    He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

    by William Butler Yeats

    Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

    Enwrought with golden and silver light,

    The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

    Of night and light and the half-light,

    I would spread the cloths under your feet:

    But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

    I have spread my dreams under your feet;

    Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

    Funeral Blues

    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

    Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

    Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.

    Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

    Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

    He was my North, my South, my East and West,

    My working week and my Sunday rest,

    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

    I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

    The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;

    For nothing now can ever come to any good.

    W.H. Auden

    Source(s): poemhunter.com
  • Erika
    Lv 4
    4 years ago

    properly considering you're no longer allowed any seen aids, i might advise narrowing your concentration to offer your presentation. Make up a catalogue of bullet factors on the bibliography on the poet. only make confident once you examine it you do no longer sound like your itemizing factors. you will might desire to rearrange it in a manner that gets to the factor, flows, and enables you to go on. The length on your presentation could be in examining the chosen sonnet, the reaction sonnet, and explicating it.

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  • 1 decade ago

    I love spike milliagan!

    I remember loads of his poems off - by - heart!

    Here is one:

    Today i saw a little worm wriggling on his belly,

    Perhaps he'd like to come inside to see what's on the telly!

    I hope this helps!

    Source(s): spike milligan
  • 1 decade ago

    Sarah Teasdale!!!

  • Val
    Lv 6
    1 decade ago

    Rod McKuen is probably my favorite. He has some wonderful writings.

  • Anonymous
    1 decade ago

    The Raven - Edgar Allen Poe.

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

    As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

    " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;

    Only this, and nothing more."

    Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.

    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,

    Nameless here forevermore.

    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

    Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

    " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.

    This it is, and nothing more."

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

    "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

    That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---

    Darkness there, and nothing more.

    Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing

    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

    Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,

    "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

    Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,

    "Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.

    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.

    Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

    " 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

    In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.

    Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,

    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

    "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

    Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.

    Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."

    Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

    Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,

    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

    With such name as "Nevermore."

    But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;

    Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;

    On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

    Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

    "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

    Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---

    Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

    Of "Never---nevermore."

    But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --

    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

    Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

    Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

    To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er

    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

    Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath

    Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

    Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and for

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