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Best Famous Robert Creeley Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Robert Creeley poems. This is a select list of the best famous Robert Creeley poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Robert Creeley poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Robert Creeley poems.

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Written by Robert Creeley |


 America, you ode for reality!
Give back the people you took.
Let the sun shine again on the four corners of the world you thought of first but do not own, or keep like a convenience.
People are your own word, you invented that locus and term.
Here, you said and say, is where we are.
Give back what we are, these people you made, us, and nowhere but you to be.

Written by Robert Creeley |

Ballad Of The Despairing Husband

 My wife and I lived all alone,
contention was our only bone.
I fought with her, she fought with me, and things went on right merrily.
But now I live here by myself with hardly a damn thing on the shelf, and pass my days with little cheer since I have parted from my dear.
Oh come home soon, I write to her.
Go fuck yourself, is her answer.
Now what is that, for Christian word? I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.
But still I love her, yes I do.
I love her and the children too.
I only think it fit that she should quickly come right back to me.
Ah no, she says, and she is tough, and smacks me down with her rebuff.
Ah no, she says, I will not come after the bloody things you've done.
Oh wife, oh wife -- I tell you true, I never loved no one but you.
I never will, it cannot be another woman is for me.
That may be right, she will say then, but as for me, there's other men.
And I will tell you I propose to catch them firmly by the nose.
And I will wear what dresses I choose! And I will dance, and what's to lose! I'm free of you, you little prick, and I'm the one to make it stick.
Was this the darling I did love? Was this that mercy from above did open violets in the spring -- and made my own worn self to sing? She was.
I know.
And she is still, and if I love her? then so I will.
And I will tell her, and tell her right .
Oh lovely lady, morning or evening or afternoon.
Oh lovely lady, eating with or without a spoon.
Oh most lovely lady, whether dressed or undressed or partly.
Oh most lovely lady, getting up or going to bed or sitting only.
Oh loveliest of ladies, than whom none is more fair, more gracious, more beautiful.
Oh loveliest of ladies, whether you are just or unjust, merciful, indifferent, or cruel.
Oh most loveliest of ladies, doing whatever, seeing whatever, being whatever.
Oh most loveliest of ladies, in rain, in shine, in any weather.
Oh lady, grant me time, please, to finish my rhyme.

Written by Robert Creeley |

The Carnival

 Whereas the man who hits
the gong dis-
proves it, in all its
simplicity --

Even so the attempt
makes for triumph, in
another man.
Likewise in love I am not foolish or in- competent.
My method is not a tenderness, but hope defined.

More great poems below...

Written by Robert Creeley |

The Conspiracy

 You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.
Things tend to awaken even through random communication Let us suddenly proclaim spring.
And jeer at the others, all the others.
I will send a picture too if you will send me one of you.

Written by Robert Creeley |

Four Days In Vermont

 Window's tree trunk's predominant face
a single eye-leveled hole where limb's torn off
another larger contorts to swell growing in around
imploding wound beside a clutch of thin twigs
hold to one two three four five six dry twisted
yellowish brown leaves flat against the other
gray trees in back stick upright then the glimpse
of lighter still grayish sky behind the close
welted solid large trunk with clumps of gray-green
lichen seen in boxed glass squared window back
of two shaded lamps on brown chiffonier between
two beds echo in mirror on far wall of small room.

Written by Robert Creeley |

The Mirror

 Seeing is believing.
Whatever was thought or said, these persistent, inexorable deaths make faith as such absent, our humanness a question, a disgust for what we are.
Whatever the hope, here it is lost.
Because we coveted our difference, here is the cost.

Written by Robert Creeley |

A Token

 My lady
fair with
arms, what

can I say to
you-words, words
as if all
worlds were there.

Written by Robert Creeley |

A Form Of Women

 I have come far enough
from where I was not before
to have seen the things
looking in at me from through the open door

and have walked tonight
by myself
to see the moonlight
and see it as trees

and shapes more fearful
because I feared
what I did not know
but have wanted to know.
My facd is my own, I thought.
But you have seen it turn into a thousand years.
I watched you cry.
I could not touch you.
I wanted very much to touch you but could not.
If it is dark when this is given to you, have care for its content when the moon shines.
My face is my own.
My hands are my own.
My mouth is my own but I am not.
Moon, moon, whn you leave me alone all the darkness is an utter blackness, a pit of fear, a stench, hands unreasonable never to touch.
But I love you.
Do you love me.
What to say when you see me.

Written by Robert Creeley |


 I approach with such
a careful tremor, always
I feel the finally foolish

question of how it is,
then, supposed to be felt,
and by whom.
I remember once in a rented room on 27th street, the woman I loved then, literally, after we had made love on the large bed sitting across from a basin with two faucets, she had to pee but was nervous, embarrassed I suppose I would watch her who had but a moment ago been completely open to me, naked, on the same bed.
Squatting, her head reflected in the mirror, the hair dark there, the full of her face, the shoulders, sat spread-legged, turned on one faucet and shyly pissed.
What love might learn from such a sight.

Written by Robert Creeley |

A Song

 I had wanted a quiet testament
and I had wanted, among other things,
a song.
That was to be of a like monotony.
(A grace Simply.
Very very quiet.
A murmur of some lost thrush, though I have never seen one.
Which was you then.
Sitting and so, at peace, so very much now this same quiet.
A song.
And of you the sign now, surely, of a gross perpetuity (which is not reluctant, or if it is, it is no longer important.
A song.
Which one sings, if he sings it, with care.

Written by Robert Creeley |


 What I took in my hand
grew in weight.
You must understand it was not obscene.
Night comes.
We sleep.
Then if you know what say it.
Don't pretend.
Guises are what enemies wear.
You and I live in a prayer.
Helpless, should I speak.
Would you.
What do you think of me.
No woman ever was, was wiser than you.
None is more true.
But fate, love, fate scares me.
What I took in my hand grows in weight.

Written by Robert Creeley |

I Know A Man

 As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,--John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.

Written by Robert Creeley |

A Wicker Basket

 Comes the time when it's later
and onto your table the headwaiter
puts the bill, and very soon after
rings out the sound of lively laughter--

Picking up change, hands like a walrus,
and a face like a barndoor's,
and a head without any apparent size,
nothing but two eyes--

So that's you, man,
or me.
I make it as I can, I pick up, I go faster than they know-- Out the door, the street like a night, any night, and no one in sight, but then, well, there she is, old friend Liz-- And she opens the door of her cadillac, I step in back, and we're gone.
She turns me on-- There are very huge stars, man, in the sky, and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie, with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it, and I eat it-- Slowly.
And while certainly they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket of these cats not making it, I make it in my wicker basket.

Written by Robert Creeley |

Water Music

 The words are a beautiful music.
The words bounce like in water.
Water music, loud in the clearing off the boats, birds, leaves.
They look for a place to sit and eat-- no meaning, no point.

Written by Robert Creeley |


 She stood at the window.
There was a sound, a light.
She stood at the window.
A face.
Was it that she was looking for, he thought.
Was it that she was looking for.
He said, turn from it, turn from it.
The pain is not unpainful.
Turn from it.
The act of her anger, of the anger she felt then, not turning to him.