To see a list of my favourite poem anthalogies (collections), click here.
This page is a collection of my favourite poems written by poets the world over. If you’re looking for my favourite poems written by myself, you might be interested in the ‘Favourites’ category on this website.
- Invictus by William Ernest Henley
- Sur une barricade by Victor Hugo
- The Days to Come by Medora C. Addison
- The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes
Invictus by William Ernest Henley
My all-time favourite poem is Invictus by William Ernest Henley. It is rooted in a childhood memory: I remember watching the film of the same name, Invictus, with my parents when I was about ten years old. The struggle of Nelson Mandela was so vividly portrayed in tandem with Henley’s powerful verse left a lasting impression. The film is excellent, by the way, and I thoroughly recommend it!
I carry this poem around with me in my wallet wherever I go. It is one of the most powerful poems I have ever come across, and is made even more moving when you read about its backstory.
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.
(source)
Sur une barricade by Victor Hugo
I particularly enjoy the first part of this poem, for it is truly moving.
Sur une barricade, au milieu des pavés
Souillés d’un sang coupable et d’un sang pur lavés,
Un enfant de douze ans est pris avec des hommes.
— Es-tu de ceux-là, toi ? — L’enfant dit : Nous en sommes.
— C’est bon, dit l’officier, on va te fusiller.
Attends ton tour. — L’enfant voit des éclairs briller,
Et tous ses compagnons tomber sous la muraille.
Il dit à l’officier : Permettez-vous que j’aille
Rapporter cette montre à ma mère chez nous ?
— Tu veux t’enfuir ? — Je vais revenir. — Ces voyous
Ont peur ! Où loges-tu ? — Là, près de la fontaine.
Et je vais revenir, monsieur le capitaine.
— Va-t’en, drôle ! — L’enfant s’en va. — Piège grossier !
Et les soldats riaient avec leur officier,
Et les mourants mêlaient à ce rire leur râle ;
Mais le rire cessa, car soudain l’enfant pâle,
Brusquement reparu, fier comme Viala,
Vint s’adosser au mur et leur dit : Me voilà.
La mort stupide eut honte, et l’officier fit grâce.
Enfant, je ne sais point, dans l’ouragan qui passe
Et confond tout, le bien, le mal, héros, bandits,
Ce qui dans ce combat te poussait, mais je dis
Que ton âme ignorante est une âme sublime.
Bon et brave, tu fais, dans le fond de l’abîme,
Deux pas, l’un vers ta mère et l’autre vers la mort ;
L’enfant a la candeur et l’homme a le remord,
Et tu ne réponds point de ce qu’on te fit faire ;
Mais l’enfant est superbe et vaillant qui préfère
A la fuite, à la vie, à l’aube, aux jeux permis,
Au printemps, le mur sombre où sont morts ses amis.
La gloire au front te baise, ô toi si jeune encore !
Doux ami, dans la Grèce antique, Stésichore
T’eût chargé de défendre une porte d’Argos ;
Cinégyre t’eût dit : Nous sommes deux égaux !
Et tu serais admis au rang des purs éphèbes
Par Tyrtée à Messène et par Eschyle à Thèbes.
On graverait ton nom sur des disques d’airain ;
Et tu serais de ceux qui, sous le ciel serein,
S’ils passent près du puits ombragé par le saule,
Font que la jeune fille ayant sur son épaule
L’urne où s’abreuveront les buffles haletants,
Pensive, se retourne et regarde longtemps.
The Days to Come by Medora C. Addison
Now shall I store my soul with silent beauty,
Beauty of drifting clouds and mountain heights,
Beauty of sun-splashed hills and shadowed forests,
Beauty of dawn and dusk and star-swept nights.
Now shall I fill my heart with quiet music,
Song of the wind across the pine-clad hill,
Song of the rain and, fairer than all music,
Call of the thrush when twilight woods are still.
So shall the days to come be filled with beauty,
Bright with the promise caught from eastern skies;
So shall I see the stars when night is darkest,
Still hear the thrush’s song when music dies.
(source)
The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes
Read here by Morgan Freeman
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
(source)