I think it's interesting how my understanding of poetry really doesn't jibe with most other people's--I have a problem grokking imagery, so a lot of what I like is a lot more... WHAM than other people's, y'know?
I really don't differentiate between "favorites" and "PERFECT", then, because I don't have time to inhale a lot of poetry, and anything that sticks in my head really... feels perfect. To me, anyway.
So, with that in mind:
Madrid by Langston Hughes--the ending stanzas basically make me cry every time.
The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara--again, last stanza. It, um. Last stanzas, man. It kills me.
The last chorus from Hellas by Percy Bysshe Shelley. It... it feels like origami, the way it folds and refrains around itself.
Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias by Federico Garcia Lorca. When I talk about imagery going WHAM upside the head, I mean this. Especially the bit 'Now the moss and the grass / open with sure fingers / the flower of his skull.' Macabre! But beautiful!
I'm sure there's more, but that's is what I have offhand.
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Date: 2010-11-10 07:47 am (UTC)I really don't differentiate between "favorites" and "PERFECT", then, because I don't have time to inhale a lot of poetry, and anything that sticks in my head really... feels perfect. To me, anyway.
So, with that in mind:
Madrid by Langston Hughes--the ending stanzas basically make me cry every time.
The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara--again, last stanza. It, um. Last stanzas, man. It kills me.
The last chorus from Hellas by Percy Bysshe Shelley. It... it feels like origami, the way it folds and refrains around itself.
Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias by Federico Garcia Lorca. When I talk about imagery going WHAM upside the head, I mean this. Especially the bit 'Now the moss and the grass / open with sure fingers / the flower of his skull.' Macabre! But beautiful!
I'm sure there's more, but that's is what I have offhand.