I am posting the first two great poems that came to my head, that I love:
First: Why I am not a Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well.
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
‘Sit down and have a drink’he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. ‘You have SARDINES in it.’
‘Yes, it needed something there.’
‘Oh.’ I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. ‘Where’s SARDINES?’
All that’s left is just
letters, ‘It was too much,’ Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
Frank O’Hara. (1926-1966)
Then this…I just love poetry written in dialect. You have to read this one out loud to really get it. Go on, read it aloud now.
from Unrelated Incidents
its thi lang-
wij a thi
guhtr thaht hi
said its thi
ter ur but
luv n science
n thaht naw
said thi lang-
wij a thi intill-
then whin thi
oapn hi raised
his hat geen
mi a fare-
well nod flung
oot his right
fit boldly n
Tom Leonard. (1944-)
Don’t get me wrong, I love old poetry too, but these two guys probably aren’t as well known, and they’re awesome.