Poetry

[John Travolta]

There really hasn't been a thread about poetry yet? I'm not into poetry at all but upon listening to this by Bukowski (http://www.i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=32881) I found myself wanting to read and learn about it. I'm guessing that many of you know a lot about poetry and would know a website or a book or an author, something to give me a bit of poetry to read up on. The good stuff, not any of the old English shit that Shakespeare would write. I'm pretty open to suggestions of any sorts, authors, works, you name it.

[Hawke]

Poetry sucks dick cock ass imo. I hate it, because you just can't be good at it. Unless you intentionally write a shitty poem, there's no way to fail at it. Sure there's complicated shit, but all of those poems you read in the english textbooks that are from those people that died after writing 1000 poems and only got famous for finding such 'brilliant' poems in their closet years after their death.


Flowers are like a dream come true
Flowers are as beautiful as the sky is blue
Flowers are everything to me
Flowers


There, I Just wrote a poem. It takes no effort to write poems, and the only good poems are poems that people don't care about.

[John Travolta]

You're a fucking retard, I can't reiterate this enough.

[Tweek]

Poetry is about mastery of language and incorporation of poetic devices, rhyme and flow into a piece in a way that invokes appealing visual and auditory imagery.

I'm not into poetry much, although I could be if the right stuff came along.

I really like this quote from the English poet Lord Byron. I am not sure where it is from, though.

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye

[Antisaint]

Poetry seems like a better way of expressing emotions than any other form of writing. I guess that's why so many emo kids try it. I love me some Robert Frost and Edgar Allan Poe.

[Haggis McSpud]

I love poetry, I tried writing some of my own once but it turned into a pile of emo crap so I gave up. I still like to read and learn about it though, doing metaphysical poetry for A - Level English and I must say I'm rather enjoying it! John Doone kicks ass.

[GCBC]

I am a huge fan of classic romantic poetry. Some of it is old English shit, but still good:


She Walks In Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!



i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)


I also love Chaucer- Canterbury Tales. Good stuff.


For a little more humor, I like "A Modest Proposal"
I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout.

And finally, since this is turning accidentally into a wall of text ... Shel Silverstein is a fucking genius.

Hope that helped a bit.

[Ercoledi]

Wait, A Modest Proposal was poetry? I didn't think it was any more than satire.

I love studying poetry in that it's not too taxing a task, but one really has to wonder whether the poet intentionally adds all this crap in, or are we reading too far into it? Surely, one doesn't sit down and say: "the alliteration used here, in the context of the prevalent image, allows me to dutifully and fluidly convey the overarching theme of Aboriginal Australian cultural identity. The repetitious tone coupled with the use of unstressed syllables gives a crisp, earthern tone to the piece".

And it's the same with the interpretation of art. Who knows, Jackson Pollock may have just painted a few blue poles and there's no goddamned fish in there.

[timbot]

I love studying poetry in that it's not too taxing a task, but one really has to wonder whether the poet intentionally adds all this crap in, or are we reading too far into it? Surely, one doesn't sit down and say: "the alliteration used here, in the context of the prevalent image, allows me to dutifully and fluidly convey the overarching theme of Aboriginal Australian cultural identity. The repetitious tone coupled with the use of unstressed syllables gives a crisp, earthern tone to the piece".


Actually, I think some poets do actually sit down and think that way. Perhaps not at one sitting and quite that succinctly, but, I think the best do say what they say in the way they say it to get a certain point across. Unless, of course, they're just trying to say something that sounds pretty. But, even then, your own personal philosophies and thoughts will go into the poem whether you're conscious of it or not. The author may not think of everything before/as he's writing the poem, but that doesn't mean that you can't look at the poem and use it to learn something about the author and what drove him to write what he did. A good example, and one that annoys/intrigues me is The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

It seems simple, and just kind of pretty. But search it on Wiki and you'll find a bunch of analysis on it.

As far as suggesting poets/poetry, well, William Carlos Williams is interesting. I'd also suggest looking at the beat poets. I got a collection of their work that was interesting, though hit and miss for me. But, that's a good way to figure out what you like.

[RotO]

I have recently, within the past month, have started to look into poets/poetry. I always hated it when you ask people about poetry they give you the same poets over and over again - cummings, Shakespear, Byron, Angelou, Dickenson...etc. Not that those poets are bad, obviously they're very good writers, but they're a bit out-dated.

Well, so-far I've been only looking into one poet, Sylvia Plath. She's from the 50's and her poems are very interesting, very matter-of-fact. I've only read one book, The Colossus, and I haven't yet totally submersed myself in it yet.
My favorite is The Eye-Mote:

The Eye-Mote
Blameless as daylight I stood looking
At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
Tails streaming against the green
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
White chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves

Steadily rooted though they were all flowing
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark. Then I was seeing
A melding of shapes in a hot rain:
Horses warped on the altering green,

Outlandish as double-humped camels or unicorns,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome,
Beasts of oasis, a better time.
Abrading my lid, the small grain burns:
Red cinder around which I myself,
Horses, planets and spires revolve.

Neither tears nor the easing flush
Of eyebaths can unseat the speck:
It sticks, and it has stuck a week:
I wear the present itch for flesh,
Blind to what will be and what was.
I dream that I am Oedipus.

What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.

Next I'm going to look into Ted Hughes, he was Plath's husband and had a lot of fame during his lifetime.

[asphysciated_emus]

I write poetry. Most of its shit, but I helps me feel better. I've been reading it since the fourth grade, 'cause I'm creative and whatnot.
I like Emily Dickinson, mostly, and some Edgar Allen Poe.
I've loved Shel Silverstien since ever.
Originally Posted by Emily Dickinson
What if I say I shall not wait?
What if I burst the fleshly gate
And pass, escaped, to thee?

What if I file this mortal off,
See where it hurt me,-that's enough,
And wade in liberty?

They cannot take us anymore!-
Dungeons may call, and guns implore,
Unmeaning, now, to me;
As laughter was an hour ago,
Or laces, or a travelling show,
Or who died yesterday!
As you can see, what Emily has to say isn't ALL outdated. Makes sense to me.

[timbot]

I still don't understand why so many people like Emily Dickenson so much. The poem above this is actually not bad, but so many of hers just seem dumb. "I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died"? Ugh...she just seems like a whining, death-obsessed hermit. Plus, you can sing all of her songs to the tune of The Yellow Rose of Texas and some other song, but I forget which one now.
But, as far as older poets being outdated, I don't really believe that. Not in a general sense at least. Most of the ideas, the feelings and emotions are pretty timeless, even if a few of the words or images may be a bit old.

[colche]

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[colche]

http://http://i157.photobucket.com/albums/t79/colombogringo/untitled.jpg

[colche]

http://i157.photobucket.com/albums/t79/colombogringo/untitled.jpg

USER WAS PUT IN TIMEOUT FOR THIS POST. (http://forums.explosm.net/eventlog.php)
Reason: Did you really just fail to post a terrible comic in a poetry thread?

[Benjaman]

Did you really just fail to post a terrible comic in a poetry thread?

[afroman9898]

The problem with poetry is its a thing that either girls, gays, or bitches do. Could you see Hulk Hogan or some other steroid hyped man sitting down and writing a poem to some chick.

[john_salinger]

Anybody who believes poetry “sucks” is intellectually challenged, in my opinion. What a stupid statement.

I’m a fan of romantic poetry. I have a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s poems, along with his short stories. I enjoy Robert Burns. I’m not too big on modernism. I can’t begin to describe how pretentious that is.

[docmartens]

I can’t begin to describe how pretentious that is.

No, neither can I.

[timbot]

Anybody who believes poetry “sucks” is intellectually challenged, in my opinion. What a stupid statement.

I’m a fan of romantic poetry. I have a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s poems, along with his short stories. I enjoy Robert Burns. I’m not too big on modernism. I can’t begin to describe how pretentious that is.

I have to say I'm rather confused by this post. What statement is stupid? Do you mean the one you just made about people being intellectually challenged because they think poetry "sucks"? Or did you mean the statement: poetry sucks.
Also, what do you find indescribably pretentious? Modernism? Or are you talking about your own description of poetry haters, or their description of poetry?

[afroman9898]

Anybody who believes poetry “sucks” is intellectually challenged, in my opinion. What a stupid statement.

I’m a fan of romantic poetry. I have a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s poems, along with his short stories. I enjoy Robert Burns. I’m not too big on modernism. I can’t begin to describe how pretentious that is.

Do you know how gay you sound right now. Poetry sucks, get over it.

[docmartens]

OH SHIT!
timbot, when did you get back? We still have to finish our conversation on objectivism.

[timbot]

Yeah, I took a hiatus, but now I'm here again.
Is there any objectivist poetry? If anyone knows of any let me know.

[docmartens]

What would that even sound like?

[PineappleHead]

Have to agree with who ever that was up there, I love me some Sylvia Plath. She writes in such different styles. I love how sometimes she just injects a perfectly clear image of anything she'd like you to see, one of my favorites is...

The Applicant

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,


Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit -

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.


Also one of my favorites, because of the imagery is...


Gold mouths cry

Gold mouths cry with the green young
certainty of the bronze boy
remembering a thousand autumns
and how a hundred thousand leaves
came sliding down his shoulder blades
persuaded by his bronze heroic reason.
We ignore the coming doom of gold
and we are glad in this bright metal season.
Even the dead laugh among the goldenrod.

The bronze boy stands kneedeep in centuries,
and never grieves,
remembering a thousand autumns,
with sunlight of a thousand years upon his lips
and his eyes gone blind with leaves.

Anyone that would like to read more of her poetry, almost every poem she's ever written is on this website.
http://www.stanford.edu/class/engl187/docs/plathpoem.html

[Haggis McSpud]

I still don't understand why so many people like Emily Dickenson so much. The poem above this is actually not bad, but so many of hers just seem dumb. "I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died"? Ugh...she just seems like a whining, death-obsessed hermit. Plus, you can sing all of her songs to the tune of The Yellow Rose of Texas and some other song, but I forget which one now.
But, as far as older poets being outdated, I don't really believe that. Not in a general sense at least. Most of the ideas, the feelings and emotions are pretty timeless, even if a few of the words or images may be a bit old.

I agree, of all the poetry I have studied in school, Emily Dickinson was my least favorite. Her poetry is just too eccentric and somewhat childlike for my tastes (I've only really looked at one of her poems so I shouldn't be so quick to judge, but it's interesting that other people share my views) . Anyway, the poem I studied was called "A Bird Came Down The Walk". Have a look and see what you all think.

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.

[Vin]

I'm not gonna bore with a massive post of copied poems, try reading some Philip Larkin (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Larkin) (a librarian and arrogant twat), he writes some nice poems covering some very depressing themes such as loneliness, unhappiness, isolation and jazz music. The Whitsun Weddings is a fine read.

[heatherfeather]

Robert Frost is an amazing poet

[asphysciated_emus]

Well, what about Walt Whitman?
Most people can recall 'O Pioneers', but my favorite by him is 'I Sing the Body Electric', even though it's fairly long, I love it because it's written like something a bard would sing.

[hoopymo]

Try some of jim morrisons poetry.

[Scribble]

I love works by Bukowski, Jack Kerouac, e.e. cummings, etc. I know this poem is really common but it has to be one of the best poems ever written so I just had to mention it, anyone else with me?


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.

[Mr. Wink]

I am a fan of Spike Milligan. Don't judge me.

[The Muffin Man]

I am not a huge fan of poetry. I really find it rather stupid. I think a great writer far outdoes a great poet. I enjoy some poems, I mean there are always exceptions. I do like Poe. Shel Silverstein is also pretty skilled. I don't give a shit if you think his stuff is kiddy or whatever, I find it both amusing and intelligent.

I guess I like good poetry but there is just so much crap out there to wade through before you get to it.

Oh, before I hit the Post Quick Reply button I wanted to say that long ass poems suck. The length just ruins it.

[koots]

Kentucky Belle- ? It's about the civil war and Morgan and his raiders I believe, I only like it because my grandma liked it, terrible reason but oh well.

Annabelle Leigh- Edgar Allen Poe I absolutly love this poem, I used to have it memorised, when I read it I have such a vivid picture of it and get pulled in so far.

Emily Dickenson.

I like a lot of modernist literature, it's so much more romantic than post modernist.

And Shakespeare, I find it to so easy to read.

[Kutan]

Kentucky Belle- ? It's about the civil war and Morgan and his raiders I believe, I only like it because my grandma liked it, terrible reason but oh well.

Annabelle Leigh- Edgar Allen Poe I absolutly love this poem, I used to have it memorised, when I read it I have such a vivid picture of it and get pulled in so far.

Emily Dickenson.

I like a lot of modernist literature, it's so much more romantic than post modernist.

And Shakespeare, I find it to so easy to read.

Whats really interesting is that I was discussing this with a friend and thinking about it quite a bit. I believe that the majority of people write about their immediate surroundings or about experiences. I have been trying to steer away form that. Sometimes, embellishing certain details or changing some memories are the best way to get your message across.one of my friends has found a source that not only makes your work known but the members there add a touch of creativity to it. The community members combine the poems with audio, music, motion graphics and other elements to make your poem a visual poem (http://poetryvisualized.com/) . It is a different thing and I hope that you would love that.

[koots]

Whats really interesting is that I was discussing this with a friend and thinking about it quite a bit. I believe that the majority of people write about their immediate surroundings or about experiences. I have been trying to steer away form that. Sometimes, embellishing certain details or changing some memories are the best way to get your message across.one of my friends has found a source that not only makes your work known but the members there add a touch of creativity to it. The community members combine the poems with audio, music, motion graphics and other elements to make your poem a visual poem (http://poetryvisualized.com/) . It is a different thing and I hope that you would love that.

I'm sorry, but I really have to ask; why did you quote what I had to say.

I'm in a English Literature course right now and absolutly love it because of all the poetry we have to interpret. Another poet I just remebered I liked is EE Cummings.

[docmartens]

The lead singer from Smashing Pumpkins writes poetry. It's actually pretty decent.

[Bayview05]

This poem is just amazing. I absolutely love it, and anyone who likes poetry probably likes it too.


The Raven

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 some one 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 named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

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 that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 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 somewhat 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 thy 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 above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the 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.'

This 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 lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

[LiberateTheIlliterate]

That poem is just incredible, Poe is a master.

Keats is also brilliant, I am currently in love with his 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', at the moment.

[timbot]

I'm not a big poetry person, but one I do enjoy and remember is "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes. I won't post it here because of the length, but I suggest reading it. Here's a link: http://www.potw.org/archive/potw85.html
Another good one is "Kubla Khan." Though, being a literature nerd of sorts, a lot of my enjoyment comes from the stories behind the poem and it's writing and editing. Still a fun read, though.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.