Good bit of crack concerning Poetry breaking out in the IFC.
I think though, that Poetry deserves it’s own thread and it should let the IFC stick to ..whatever it sticks to.
So here’s the crack…
A thread dedicated to Poetry. Post yer favourite, or not, poem here and see what happens…
I looked all over the place for this one but all I could find was an audio..
Hugh Macdiarmeds great work..
On my Fathers Grave.
The floor is open.
Slan,
D. 
oooOOOooo…this could get interesting…one of my favourites, by my favourite 
:
Symphony in Yellow
by Oscar Wilde
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
There’s a whole Forum here dedicated to this drippy sort of detritis. It’s called the Pictures of Flanges, Poems about Dental Hygiene, Recipes for Hummus Forum. Perhaps a kindly moderator would move this thread for you to where it belongs.
djm
My poem wasn’t about dental hygiene. So ppfffttttttt to you, Deej! 
Indeed..The Thames.
Makes poor little Anna Livia look like a stream.
Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
William Wordsworth
Slan,
D.
Nah.
You rock, Dale 
Most people associate Poe with horrific tales full of terror, but he also wrote some of the most beautiful poetry ever.
A Dream Within A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Fair enough. There’s a forum dedicated to the religious so they don’t get heckled. There’s a forum dedicated to poetry so it doesn’t get heckled. Anything here is fair game then, yes? 
djm
I’ve always liked how whimsical this one is:
To A Post Office Inkwell - Christopher Morley
How many humble hearts have dipped
In you, and scrawled their manuscript!
Have shared their secrets, told their cares,
Their curious and quaint affairs!
Your pool of ink, your scratchy pen,
Have moved the lives of unborn men,
And watched young people, breathing hard,
Put Heaven on a postal card.
very high on the list of poems I wish I’d written:
THE LANYARD
Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly–
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift–not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
That, FJohn, is superb.
Slan,
D. 
also, it’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) and participants are encouraged to write a poem a day for the whole month. But don’t let that stop you. If you even want to write just one poem that would be in keeping with the spirit.
I usually peter out at about day 15 when the well runs dry and the springtime calls for my labors.
It’s National Library Week next week. Dewey your community a favor go to the 800s and check-out poetry books, and don’t return them.
A nurse is giving a young medical intern a tour of the hospital.
The intern approaches one bedridden patient and asks, “Why are you here?” The
patient replies, “Wee sleket cowerin’ timrous beastie/O, what a panic is in thy breastie.”
The intern moves on to the next bed and asks the same question, “Why are you
here?” The patient answers, “O, my luv is like a red, red, rose that’s newly sprung in June.”
The intern moves on to a third bed and asks again, “Why are you here” to which
the third patient replies, “The best laid plans of mice and men, may often gang awry.”
At this the intern turns to the nurse and asks, “What ward is this anyway.” And
the nurse answers, “It’s the Burns Unit.”
It really is. Wow… 
What I love about it is it’s so accessible for anyone, even for people who say they don’t like or understand poetry. It’s readable and touches a chord in us all.
ya, liked it!
A toast, a toast! To old djm,
Who thinks that these poems will sicken him.
I think that he finds things too saccharine,
In this poor, pro-poetical thread.
I’m sure he’d rather some biting prose.
Instead he gets verses lamenting life’s woes.
Worse yet, rhyming couplet about some red rose
In this poor, pro-poetical thread.
With every new post, deej’s rage will be fed.
With iamb and trochee we’ll batter his head.
One day, out of ammo, we’ll put it to bed,
This poor, pro-poetical thread.
The last few days…
She said I should put my hair in a cake. I think something was lost in translation as a small bird blew a hole in the window too. ‘I think she had the flu.’ Said the Veterinary. Who flew out of the room to take an emergency call. Some people were walking in circles with a purpose in the next room. The slow dancers danced and terrific cries were heard from the surrounding area. ‘Give me eyes and ears, feelings to feel.’ Said the sphere, inside a sphere that could speak. A donut shaped life will not see it, when it happens. For its eyes are on the outside. Only the dudes looking inside will see the mirror that shows them the real outside. Like wood with potential to be carved the people read into obsession and ill health.