Some Favorite Poems

This is by e. e. cummings. He wanted to prove that you don't always have to follow the rules for good poetry!

maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and  maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

millie befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea.


Like it?

Here's another poem. It's by  Noel Coward.


The Boy Actor


I can remember, I can remember
The months of November and December
Were filled for me with peculiar joys
So different from those of other boys.
For other boys would be counting the days
Until end of term and holiday time;
But I was acting in Christmas plays
While they were taken to pantomimes.
I didn't envy their new suits,
Their children's dances and Christmas trees;
My life had wonderful substitutes
For such conventional treats as these.
I didn't envy their country larks,
Their organized games in paneled halls,
While they made snowmen in stately parks,
I was counting the curtain calls.

I remember the auditions, the nerve-racking auditions,
Darkened auditorium, and empty, dusty stage;
Little girls in ballet dresses practicing positions,
Gentlemen with pince-nez asking you your age.
Hopefulness and nervousness struggling within you,
Dreading that familiar phrase: "Thank you dear, no more."
Straining every muscle, every tendon, every sinew,
To do your dance much better than you'd ever done before.
Think of your performance! Never mind the others,
Never mind the pianist; talent must prevail;
Never mind the baleful eyes of other children's mothers
Glaring from the corners, and willing you to fail.

I can remember, I can remember,
The months of November and December
Were more significant to me
than other months could ever be.
For they were the months of high romance
When destiny waited on tip toe
When every boy actor stood a chance
Of getting into a Christmas show.
Not for me the dubious heaven
of being some prefect's protege;
Not for me the second eleven;
For me, two performances a day.

Ah, those first rehearsals! Only very few lines,
Rushing home to Mother, learning them by heart,
'Enter left, through window.' Dots to mark the cue lines.
'Exit with the others.' Still, it WAS a part.
Opening performance, legs a bit unsteady,
Dedicated tension shivers down my spine;
Powder, grease and eye black, sticks of makeup ready,
Leichner number three and number five and number nine.
World of strange enchantment! Magic for a small boy
Dreaming of the future, reaching for the crown,
Rigid in the dressingroom, listening for the call-boy:
'Overture, beginners! Everybody down!'

I can remember, I can remember,
The months of November and December
Although climatically cold and damp
Meant more to me than Aladdin's lamp.
I see myself, having got a job
Walking on wings along the Strand;
Uncertain whether to laugh or sob,
And clutching tightly my mother's hand.
I never cared who scored the goal,
Or which side won the silver cup;
I never learned to bat or bowl,
But I heard the curtain going up.

It's long, but it's a GREAT poem!!!!!!