Thoughts on Poetry

I'm a huge fan of Edgar Allen Poe, William Shakespeare, Langston Hughes, and Emily Dickson. http://www.poestories.com/ , A website where, i read all Edgar Allen Poe's poems and stories. But i want to hear different poets, Go ahead and write your opinions, poems, etc.
http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/
http://www.poemhunter.com/

Other websites with poetry.

For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for the!

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore!

Dr. Seus is the WIN as well!!

Fishing4Karma wrote:For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for the!

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore!

Dr. Seus is the WIN as well!!

lol XD Dr.Suess... Will you eat Green eggs and ham with a mouse in a house?

No I do not like them in a box.
I do not like them with a fox.
I do not like them in a house.
I do not like them with a mouse.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere.
I do not like green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Karm I am

( I have a book filled with all the dr suess books XD)

A train! A train!
A train! A train!
Could you, would you,
on a train?

I'd do somethings on a train, heh heh heh.
O_o
no idea what that means.
I'll have to post here more often.

Well, I'd post some of mine, but my only "postable" one is about Harry Potter, not Teen Titans...

Do yourself a favour and pick up "Said the Shotgun to the Head" by Saul Williams.

Or, you know, any book by him. He's one of the best poets of our time.

THE BIG TICKET wrote:I'd do somethings on a train, heh heh heh.
O_o
no idea what that means.
I'll have to post here more often.

...... O_O xD

Possessions never meant anything to me,
I'm not crazy,
That's not true I've got a bed,
And a guitar and a dog named bob who pisses on my floor.
And I've got pockets full of kleenex and lint and holes,
Where everything important to me falls down my leg and right onto the floor,
My closest friend linoleum,
Linoleum.
Supports my head,
Gives me something to believe.
That's me on the beach side covered in sand,
Metal meter in my hand,
Sporting a pocket full of change.
That's me with a violin under my chin,
Playing with a grin,
Singing gibberish.
That's me,
In the back,
Of the bus,
That's me,
In the cell.
That's me inside your head,
That's me inside your head.

Poetry is pretentious non-literature that takes itself far too seriously.

...-_-... Snake ur to much of a downer...

I like Edgar Allen Poe's poem The Raven,and others but not sure of the names. I post some of my poems on WicthWay.com.

i really love William Blake. amazing poet. especially with Death of a Bird, so descriptive and frightening at the same time

The Snow Man
Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is.

The Writer
Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how, for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished for you before, but harder.