Category Archives: Favorite Poem

Invictus
by William Ernest Henley

Caroline Blackwood
Technical Writer
Cupertino

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley
(1849-1903)

The Rain Stick
by Seamus Heaney

Erica Goss
50 years old, Poet
Los Gatos

The Rain Stick

Up-end the rain stick and what happens next
Is a music that you never would have known
To listen for. In a cactus stalk

Downpour, sluice-rash, spillage and backwash
Come flowing through. You stand there like a pipe
Being played by water, you shake it again lightly

And diminuendo runs through all its scales
Like a gutter stopping trickling. And now here comes
a sprinkle of drops out of the freshened leaves,

Then subtle little wets off grass and daisies;
Then glitter-drizzle, almost-breaths of air.
Up-end the stick again. What happens next

Is undiminished for having happened once,
Twice, ten, a thousand time before.
Who care if all the music that transpires

Is the fall of grit or dry seeds through a cactus?
You are like a rich man entering heaven
Through the ear of a raindrop. Listen now again.

Seamus Heaney

Untitled
by Hanshan, Tang Dynasty poet

Lisa Tam
Age 53, Poet
San José

Untitled

Man, living in the dust,
Is like a bug trapped in a bowl.
Alll day he scrabbles round and round,
But never escapes from the bowl that holds him.
The immortals are beyond his reach,
His cravings have no end,
While months and years flow by like a river
Until, in an instant, he has grown old.

Hanshan
(translated from the Chinese by Burton Watson)

The Barracuda
by John Gardner

Kelly Harrison
Instructor, SJSU
San José

The Barracuda

Slowly, slowly, he cruises
And slowly, slowly, he chooses
Which kind of fish he prefers to take this morning;
Then without warning
The Barracuda opens his jaws, teeth flashing,
And with a horrible, horrible grinding and gnashing,
Devours a hundred poor creatures and feels no remorse.
It’s no wonder, of course,
That he really ought, perhaps, to change his ways.
“But,” (as he says
With an evil grin)
“It’s actually not my fault, you see:
I’ve nothing to do with the tragedy;
I open my mouth for a yawn and —ah me!—
They all
swim
in.”

John Gardner

The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

Felicia Larson
Associate Certified Coach, Speaker, & Writer
Los Gatos

* * *

This poem describes my life and the decisions I’ve had to make. The more I grow, the more decisions I need to make for myself and sometimes I panic and wonder if I made the right one, if I took the right road. During elementary school I had to memorize this poem and ever since then it stuck with me, and as I grew up I found it described my growing up perfectly. The end of the poem is what I love the most, because the decision I have made “has made all the difference.” So much is said with this poem, definitely a favorite of mine.

Beverly Perez
Student
San Jose State University

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Angelique Mabanglo, 21
Student
San Jose

* * *

I first read this poem in middle school, from the classic novel “The Outsiders”, a bildungsroman story detailing a young boy’s transition from childhood to adolescence. I am aware of the biblical allusions and the intricate analysis of synecdoche in this poem, yet to me it simply symbolizes how youth, success, or goodness never last forever. This poem encompassed the reality of growing up for me, and my bitter parting from Disney happily-ever-afters, the tooth fairy, princess themed birthday parties, and ultimately, my naivety. Although I am still young, my pure innocence is nevertheless my “hardest hue to hold” (Frost).

Moniyka Sachar
High School Student
Fremont

(Note from Poet Laureate: Though Moniyka resides just outside our county, I’m including her comments to this County submission to support High School students anywhere as readers of poetry. Thanks, Moniyka)

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Journey of the Magi
by T.S. Eliot

Stephanie Pressman
Poet, Graphic Designer and small press publisher
Cupertino

Journey of the Magi

‘A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For the journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.’
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death,
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

T.S. Eliot

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot

Sophia Zohdi
20 years old; Student SJSU
German and English Literature
Morgan Hill

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea. Continue reading →

Poem #236
by Emily Dickinson

Tiffany Garcia
22 years old; Student and Senior Library Page, SJSU
Santa Clara

Poem #236

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church —
I keep it, staying at Home —
With a Bobolink for a Chorister —
And an Orchard, for a Dome —

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice —
I just wear my Wings —
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton — sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman —
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at least —
I’m going, all along.

Emily Dickinson

Poem #35
by Emily Dickinson

Angela Langone
22 years old; Student SJSU
Morgan Hill

Poem #35

Nobody knows this little Rose —
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it —
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey —
On its breast to lie —
Only a Bird will wonder —
Only a Breeze will sigh —
Ah Little Rose — how easy
For such as thee to die!

Emily Dickinson