What is the greatest poem ever written?

You're talking about the Tennyson poem right? Even so you are definitely wrong.

Paradise Lost

tennyson would be a fair bet though. i'd go for locksley hall or idylls of the king

Unironically the Divine Comedy

nooooooooo stop CHEATING

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Por Vocación De Dado

The tiger
He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out

Bump

well he was an aspiring mystic

according to whom?? his mother??? HAHA

surprisingly this
youtube.com/watch?v=fDNCEp8Utjo

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Poema em linha reta, by Fernando Pessoa

Pale Fire

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.

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The knight in tiger’s skin by shota rustaveli

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There once was a man from Nantucket,
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.
He said with a grin,
As he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear was a cunt I would fuck it."

Kek

The Waste Land

By Tennyson you idiot

I always wondered, is the poem supposed to be good? I always found it very bland, but I don't know much about epic poetry. I also thought that Nabokov probably didn't put any effort into it or literally made it bad on purpose because it would fit the book.

The only correct answer.

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Faust.

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ode to cuckoldry

OP is a faggot
i fucked his mom
who is also his wife

Here I sit, all broken hearted:
Tried to shit but only farted.
Bryan Boyd says the same thing in the introduction to his study on PF, that when he first started teaching it in university courses in NZ he and his students would laugh at some of the passages read aloud; but that as he’s grown older and more accustomed to Nabokov’s work, he’s found a sort of sublime undercurrent in the mundane and mendacious aspects of Shade’s imagery. There’s a reason he says he’s one step behind Frost.

I came here to post this

Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Queue bashing by contrarians.

Song of Solomon

>muh peepee hard for some woymen
>lemme write a poem about it
shakespeare was a 0 iq nigger

September 1, 1939
W.H. Auden

poets.org/poem/september-1-1939

There it is

Interesting about Pale Fire, thanks.

Either The Waste Land or Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.

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Divine Comedy, no question

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Yea Forums doesn't read poetry

Paradise Lost

Eigenlijk geloof ik niets,
en twijfel ik aan alles, zelfs aan U.
Maar soms, wanneer ik denk dat Gij waarachtig leeft,
dan denk ik, dat Gij Liefde zijt, en eenzaam,
en dat, in zelfde wanhoop, Gij mij zoekt
zoals ik U.

VROOOOOM. ROOOMM *COG STARTS UP
>Generalisation of interests

Poo poo bread
What a stupid thread
Dick Fishes Maggot
Admit that you're a faggot

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?

Faerie Queene

also, Yeats was a cringey mick who hid his tin ear behing mystical woo woo

Il tramonto della luna.
And I'm not even Italian.

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"Dulce et Decorum est"

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori

Wilfred Owen

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He who smelt it, dealt it.

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Maybe not the best of all time but certainly an excellent poem

"If I pulled that of will you die?
It would be extremely painful...
You're a big guy!
... for you!"

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>If I pulled that of
k

War always looks bad from the hospital, especially when you're the victors.

"Nigger"

Poetry quickly becomes meaningless, frilly, and full of pretentious airs. The word "nigger" is about as poetic as the English language can get. It has more feeling, meaning, significance, history, and depth than anything you want to compare it to. The word itself is the highest level of poetry, every aspect of the pain, suffering, antics, crimes, atrocities, and carnality of the Negro is embodied in this one word. Every bit of hatred, conflict, strife, failure, collapse, weakness, and decay experienced by the White race with relations to the Negros and those who control them is as well contained in this word. The history and endless depth and breadth of scope of the word is what makes it so poetic when compared to other poems so limited in scope and perspective, contained and imprisoned by the words that isolate limited meaning rather than embody such an endless amount of poetry, from the largest conflicts to the smallest misfortunes, the greatest achievements to the pettiest, personal experiences as well as the experiences of those who interact with Negros, all contained within the word nigger.

Endymion

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“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Very good, as are The Canonization, The Ecstasy and the Valediction Forbidding Mourning.

>no ode to grecian urn
Wow nice thread NOT

The Iliad

calling all poetry anons

I Love Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. Ozymandias is up there too

It's not about a woman, retard.

Mug Penis Cunt
Imma go and hunt
Hunt is futile pain
I'm hunting for your brain

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That “Nothing beside remains” gets me every time.

My personal favorite, by Kipling—

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Wallace Stevens' "Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction"

Just read Last instructions to a Painter by Andrew Marvell tonight, I think it's pretty up there. Oh also Philip Sparrow is very godtier.

psalm 139

The conqueror worm

had tears in my eyes after reading this

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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.