lighght
because it messes with my brain just righght
this post was submitted on 07 Jun 2024
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It's a tie tbh.
Between "the bells" for sheer joyous onomatopoeia, and "oh captain, my captain" because of the flow of it.
Both of them are poems I read out loud to myself, and there's not many of those. They both resonate inside me in different ways, and both are associated with my initial exploration of poetry.
I've never been able to pick one over the other.
And yeah, they're pretty basic poems rather than some more deeply personal things. It isn't an emotional connection to them, it's more of a sensory thing, if that makes sense (pun intended).
But, they both represent the way words can affect us, move our minds. They're an experience when you hear them. They're immersive and fulfilling, though in different ways.
Baudelaire- la beauté
It's a beautifully worded sonnet on the nature of beauty, but meta as in how the poet is swayed by it and how he both loves that and is annoyed by the ease with with he's enthralled
Schiller's song of the Bell is his longest poem, a 430 stanza epic about building a church bell that describes the process in technical detail and uses it as a metaphor for society. Here's an English translation:
https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=wu.89081025074&seq=13
My favorite poem is the condensed version. Loosely translated:
dig a hole
pour bronze in
bell is done
ding dong ding
"The Chaos"
Because English will fuck you up.
I like these two a lot. Mainly because they're the only two that stuck with me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L(a
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Love_Song_of_J._Alfred_Prufrock
So wie die Ordnung stets in Chaos geht,
wenn keine Kraft dagegen steht,
so herrscht das Chaos nie allein:
Es braucht die Ordnung, um zu sein.
Das Chaos, das sich selbst bezwingt,
indem es langsam Ordnung bringt,
gebiert aus Dunkelheit und Dreck
schön langsam, aber stetig, Form und Zweck,
kurz: Leben, das sich selbst erhält,
und auch im Sturme Kraft behält,
um nach dem Regen neu zu blühn,
so wie auch wir es alle tun.
London
By William Blake
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
Billy Connolly's "Mary Rose"
Mary Rose
Sat on a pin
Mary rose
How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
How much shit could a dipshit dip if a dipshit could dip shit.
There was a young lady from Venus, Whose body was shaped like a - DATA!
-Star Trek TNG & Picard
Here I sit, same as ever. Took a dump, pulled the lever. The toilet clogged. The water flowed. Look out world, it's a motherload!.
Why is it my favorite? I have no idea... Probably because I'm awful.