My favourite poem of all is Invictus. It holds such wonderful rebellious power, gives me such a surge of determined strength...

Invictus
by William Ernest Henry

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.

I've written a few poems myself, but not many are worthy of mention. Most were written mid-teenage angst (from which i never seem to have fully emerged :P) and are melodramatic to the say the least. oh the gnashing of teeth. i don't feel quite brave enough to share theu crapness with the masses, so i shall stick with stuff that's already gotten seen. I've written two fandom poems, in more recent years. One for Stargate (from the Goa'ould's perspective as it posessed Jack, although i feel it works quite well as a personification of anger too) and one in answer to an X-Men challenge on the word 'feral' (how could i resist??), for which i wrote about Wolvie of course.

So, like i said, quite the bit of melodrama, lol, but they were all fun (or theraputic) to write, so it can't be all bad. Feral is the only poem i've written that i am truly happy with, i think. Ooh, and then there's the little skit i wrote on a whim in response to the Yllek's declaration: "poems and all poetry should be shot."

But what shouldn't be shot,
Is poetry about Jacks butt.

For a lyrical prose,
About his manly pose.
Ruminations on his eyes.
And how he hides how wise,
he really is.
We must preserve this.

How black his look,
When lives he took.
How tanned his skin,
How beautiful the soul within.

No, not shot,
But got.

Also worth of archivation is Silverhammer and my's (grr, bugger grammer) poetic flurry on Culpalicious one day.

Silverhammer's question:

It’s on my calendar
In tiny black text,
Not two Wednesdays from now
Or Saturday next

But 28 Feb,
Gregorian-wise,
And it’s got me blinking
And rubbing my eyes

What could this mean
To those folks cross the pond?
A day to celebrate syrup
And the things it goes on?

For syrup is grand
And I’ve heard it said
That our man Kelly
Likes it on eggs

But still and all
It’s seems so whimsical -
A party for breakfast
And morning comestibles

So tell me dear Pheral,
Show me the way,
And explain if you will...

Pancake Day (UK)

And my answer:

alas i'm a particularly brainless kind of cat
i know little of the other and not much more on that
i ponder on this thingy and i wonder on that fact
my constant thought "i wonder what the answer is to that?"

people ask me questions and i try to look sincere
while my braincells scatter panicking in mindless braincell fear
as the information i have gathered seems to disappear...

one thing on which my brain and i do heartily agree
is what my favourite topping on these pancakes oughta be.
kelly is an oddity and no-one else has taste
whereas i prefer a dash of lemon and some sugar paste.

but past my love of topping
i can feel the question dropping
to that dark abandoned portion of my brain...

perhaps we just like flat things
perhaps we worship sweets
or maybe we were visited by aliens in treats
that resemble heated pancakes all coated in nice eats,
and ever since we've celebrated by modelling our breakfast on these paranormal meets??

but more likely is the case:
that my brain is a disgrace
and i simply do not know
why we celebrate this so.

:D