For narrative poetry, I am a fan of "The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner," which, in its entirety, I have once memorized. But one of my current favorites comes from J. Michael Strazynski's Jeremiah:

I wear hope
around my neck
like a noose.
It's loose enough for me to breathe
when I need to get me through the day.
And, with each swagger and sway,
comes a new belief
that there's a new relief
around the way.
So I keep going, halfway knowing
it's just a trick my mind likes to play
so I don't quit.
Or is it?
Maybe, I'll never know. Maybe I'll never go
past the dreaming that there's more,
the scheming
that what I'm searching for is
seemingly
reminiscent to the folklore
that there's a garden paradise where I can settle
and never have to leave.
Where I can
breathe
deep breaths and exhale with abandon.
Maybe that paradise is wherever I'm standing tall
believing in myself, that I can conquer all
the sadness and
all the madness, and
have a ball
wherever I go.
Could that be the paradise I'm looking for?
Maybe. Maybe I'll never know.


Also, props to @CymTyr for the oldest necropost I've seen so far this week. :D

@ilves and @robobrien I've somehow missed out on Seamus Heaney; I can see he's definitely worth catching up on.