People who read poetry, could you reccommend me some poets?

anne sexton
sylvia plath
carol ann duffy
emily bronte
T S Elliot

Seamus Heaney

benjamin zephaniah

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you take your coffee black the way your mother would.

Oscar Wilde
William Butler Yeats
John Keats

e.e. cummings
H.D.

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Dylan Thomas and T.S. Elliot are the only ones i've read and liked really.

Baudelaire & William Blake are also good.

Seamus Heaney
Anne Sexton
Gillian Clarke
John Yeats

are my favourites

I like John Stammers.

Stolen Love Behaviour is a great collection.

edgar allen poe's poetry is wonderful.
baudelaire. (i dont know if that is spelt right, someone correct me)

elizabeth bishop (detatched tone, extr. well-written, deals with issues of travel, bisexuality, gender.)
marianne moore (does a lot of stuff with the words, as they appear on the page... and spacing. fun to read out loud.)
h.d. (her style varies a lot. i like trilogy the best.)
louise gluck (really good; interesting, stylistically & subject matterwise... incorperates a lot of mythology into her work. deals with topics such as writing, sex, relationships, anorexia, gardens.)
eavan boland (hits pretty hard)
sharon olds (known for being kind of "out there"...as in, she has some "gross," almost over-personal subject matter... fun to read, well-written.)

robert creeley (short poems, hard hitting.)
robinson jeffers (nature a lot)
frank o'hara (the MOST fun to read... get lunch poems; very funny and astute.)
nathaniel tarn (complicated, but really good if you have the time to read through them over and over -- relies heavily on tarn's background as an anthropologist, or something similar.)
ezra pound (you know.)
wb yeats ( " " )
richard wilbur (read "the pardon")
al purdy (read "spinning")
walt whitman (of course)
wallace stevens (" ")

John Berryman
Basil Bunting

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You deceive yourself. Suffering is amusing and may even do work in a situation where two people are connected with each other. Where there is no mutual connection it is undignified, grotesque and ugly. It is seen to be something totally pointless and unnecessary, like all the rest of the suffering human beings do every day. There is now no relationship between us and I find your contortions merely embarrassing.

Ginsberg
Bukowski

Robert Browning
"Porphyria's Lover"

THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listen'd with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And call'd me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untighten'd next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propp'd her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorn'd at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gain'd instead!
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirr'd,
And yet God has not said a word!


HOUSE FEAR

by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)

ALWAYS--I tell you this they learned--
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away
To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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.


Im Nebel (in German)
Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Einsam ist jeder Busch und Stein,
Kein Baum sieht den anderen,
Jeder ist allein.

Voll von Freunden war mir die Welt,
Als noch mein Leben Licht war,
Nun, da der Nebel fällt,
Ist keiner mehr sichtbar.

Wahrlich, keiner ist weise,
Der nicht das Dunkle kennt,
Das unentrinnbar und leise
Von allen ihn trennt.

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Leben ist einsam sein.
Kein Mensch kennt den anderen,
Jeder ist allein.

i really like jeffrey mcdaniel. his poetry is very simple and interesting.

Wystan Hugh Auden

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 in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe 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 wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The last verse is my favourite, its so sad yet beautiful.

i love this poem. it's so touching.

Edmund Spenser Spike Milligan

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Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?

i could live on this man's words

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my heart isn't black, it's just dirty from the floors