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Best Famous Robert Pinsky Poems

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

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Written by Robert Pinsky |

Ode To Meaning

 Dire one and desired one,
Savior, sentencer--

In an old allegory you would carry
A chained alphabet of tokens:

Ankh Badge Cross.
Dragon, Engraved figure guarding a hallowed intaglio, Jasper kinema of legendary Mind, Naked omphalos pierced By quills of rhyme or sense, torah-like: unborn Vein of will, xenophile Yearning out of Zero.
Untrusting I court you.
Wavering I seek your face, I read That Crusoe's knife Reeked of you, that to defile you The soldier makes the rabbi spit on the torah.
"I'll drown my book" says Shakespeare.
Drowned walker, revenant.
After my mother fell on her head, she became More than ever your sworn enemy.
She spoke Sometimes like a poet or critic of forty years later.
Or she spoke of the world as Thersites spoke of the heroes, "I think they have swallowed one another.
I Would laugh at that miracle.
" You also in the laughter, warrior angel: Your helmet the zodiac, rocket-plumed Your spear the beggar's finger pointing to the mouth Your heel planted on the serpent Formulation Your face a vapor, the wreath of cigarette smoke crowning Bogart as he winces through it.
You not in the words, not even Between the words, but a torsion, A cleavage, a stirring.
You stirring even in the arctic ice, Even at the dark ocean floor, even In the cellular flesh of a stone.
My poker friends Question your presence In a poem by me, passing the magazine One to another.
Not the stone and not the words, you Like a veil over Arthur's headstone, The passage from Proverbs he chose While he was too ill to teach And still well enough to read, I was Beside the master craftsman Delighting him day after day, ever At play in his presence--you A soothing veil of distraction playing over Dying Arthur playing in the hospital, Thumbing the Bible, fuzzy from medication, Ever courting your presence, And you the prognosis, You in the cough.
Gesturer, when is your spur, your cloud? You in the airport rituals of greeting and parting.
Indicter, who is your claimant? Bell at the gate.
Spiderweb iron bridge.
Cloak, video, aroma, rue, what is your Elected silence, where was your seed? What is Imagination But your lost child born to give birth to you? Dire one.
Desired one.
Savior, sentencer-- Absence, Or presence ever at play: Let those scorn you who never Starved in your dearth.
If I Dare to disparage Your harp of shadows I taste Wormwood and motor oil, I pour Ashes on my head.
You are the wound.
You Be the medicine.

Written by Robert Pinsky |

Ginza Samba

 A monosyllabic European called Sax
Invents a horn, walla whirledy wah, a kind of twisted
Brazen clarinet, but with its column of vibrating
Air shaped not in a cylinder but in a cone
Widening ever outward and bawaah spouting
Infinitely upward through an upturned
Swollen golden bell rimmed
Like a gloxinia flowering
In Sax's Belgian imagination

And in the unfathomable matrix
Of mothers and fathers as a genius graven
Humming into the cells of the body
Or cupped in the resonating grail
Of memory changed and exchanged
As in the trading of brasses,
Pearls and ivory, calicos and slaves,
Laborers and girls, two

Cousins in a royal family
Of Niger known as the Birds or Hawks.
In Christendom one cousin's child Becomes a "favorite negro" ennobled By decree of the Czar and founds A great family, a line of generals, Dandies and courtiers including the poet Pushkin, killed in a duel concerning His wife's honor, while the other cousin sails In the belly of a slaveship to the port Of Baltimore where she is raped And dies in childbirth, but the infant Will marry a Seminole and in the next Chorus of time their child fathers A great Hawk or Bird, with many followers Among them this great-grandchild of the Jewish Manager of a Pushkin estate, blowing His American breath out into the wiggly Tune uncurling its triplets and sixteenths--the Ginza Samba of breath and brass, the reed Vibrating as a valve, the aether, the unimaginable Wires and circuits of an ingenious box Here in my room in this house built A hundred years ago while I was elsewhere: It is like falling in love, the atavistic Imperative of some one Voice or face--the skill, the copper filament, The golden bellful of notes twirling through Their invisible element from Rio to Tokyo and back again gathering Speed in the variations as they tunnel The twin haunted labyrinths of stirrup And anvil echoing here in the hearkening Instrument of my skull.

Written by Robert Pinsky |

To Television

 Not a "window on the world"
But as we call you,
A box a tube

Terrarium of dreams and wonders.
Coffer of shades, ordained Cotillion of phosphors Or liquid crystal Homey miracle, tub Of acquiescence, vein of defiance.
Your patron in the pantheon would be Hermes Raster dance, Quick one, little thief, escort Of the dying and comfort of the sick, In a blue glow my father and little sister sat Snuggled in one chair watching you Their wife and mother was sick in the head I scorned you and them as I scorned so much Now I like you best in a hotel room, Maybe minutes Before I have to face an audience: behind The doors of the armoire, box Within a box--Tom & Jerry, or also brilliant And reassuring, Oprah Winfrey.
Thank you, for I watched, I watched Sid Caesar speaking French and Japanese not Through knowledge but imagination, His quickness, and Thank You, I watched live Jackie Robinson stealing Home, the image--O strung shell--enduring Fleeter than light like these words we Remember in, they too winged At the helmet and ankles.

More great poems below...

Written by Robert Pinsky |


 The back, the yoke, the yardage.
Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist.
The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle.
The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin.
The code.
The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.
One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes-- The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.
And then another.
As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.
A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him.
Then he held Her into space, and dropped her.
Almost at once He stepped up to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers-- Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, "shrill shirt ballooning.
" Wonderful how the patern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord.
Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras.
The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin.
The kilt, devised for workers to wear among the dusty clattering looms.
Weavers, carders, spinners.
The loader, The docker, the navvy.
The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt.
Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied both her and me.
We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail.
The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade.
The shirt.

Written by Robert Pinsky |

The Night Game

 Some of us believe
We would have conceived romantic
Love out of our own passions
With no precedents,
Without songs and poetry--
Or have invented poetry and music
As a comb of cells for the honey.
Shaped by ignorance, A succession of new worlds, Congruities improvised by Immigrants or children.
I once thought most people were Italian, Jewish or Colored.
To be white and called Something like Ed Ford Seemed aristocratic, A rare distinction.
Possibly I believed only gentiles And blonds could be left-handed.
Already famous After one year in the majors, Whitey Ford was drafted by the Army To play ball in the flannels Of the Signal Corps, stationed In Long Branch, New Jersey.
A night game, the silver potion Of the lights, his pink skin Shining like a burn.
Never a player I liked or hated: a Yankee, A mere success.
But white the chalked-off lines In the grass, white and green The immaculate uniform, And white the unpigmented Halo of his hair When he shifted his cap: So ordinary and distinct, So close up, that I felt As if I could have made him up, Imagined him as I imagined The ball, a scintilla High in the black backdrop Of the sky.
Tight red stitches.
The bleached Horsehide white: the color Of nothing.
Color of the past And of the future, of the movie screen At rest and of blank paper.
"I could have.
" The mind.
The black Backdrop, the white Fly picked out by the towering Lights.
A few years later On a blanket in the grass By the same river A girl and I came into Being together To the faint muttering Of unthinkable Troubadours and radios.
The emerald Theater, the night.
Another time, I devised a left-hander Even more gifted Than Whitey Ford: A Dodger.
People were amazed by him.
Once, when he was young, He refused to pitch on Yom Kippur.