The one whole poem I know off by heart (except The Owl and the Pussycat, but I'm not sure that counts) is by Emily Dickinson. I decided to learn it off by heart when I was about eighteen, and I have no idea why. Every now and again it comes back to me at the strangest times, like it did today:
I found the words to every thought,
I ever had, but One,
And that defies me,
As a hand did try to chalk the Sun,
To Races nurtured in the Dark,
How would your own begin?
Can Blaze be shown in Cochineal
Or Noon in Mazarin?
I'm not sure why it interests me - the quirky, characteristic, offbeat style, the rhythm that makes it feel like a hymn, or the colonial/missionary overtones in the lines 'As a hand did try to chalk the Sun,/To Races nurtured in the Dark, or the vivid colours and times of day she conjures up with her strange analogies. Whatever it is, its stuck with me this far, and I have a feeling it always will.
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