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Best Famous Business Poems

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

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Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Young Blood

 "But, sir," I said, "they tell me the man is like to die!" The Canon shook his head indulgently.
"Young blood, Cousin," he boomed.
"Young blood! Youth will be served!" -- D'Hermonville's Fabliaux.
He woke up with a sick taste in his mouth And lay there heavily, while dancing motes Whirled through his brain in endless, rippling streams, And a grey mist weighed down upon his eyes So that they could not open fully.
Yet After some time his blurred mind stumbled back To its last ragged memory -- a room; Air foul with wine; a shouting, reeling crowd Of friends who dragged him, dazed and blind with drink Out to the street; a crazy rout of cabs; The steady mutter of his neighbor's voice, Mumbling out dull obscenity by rote; And then .
.
.
well, they had brought him home it seemed, Since he awoke in bed -- oh, damn the business! He had not wanted it -- the silly jokes, "One last, great night of freedom ere you're married!" "You'll get no fun then!" "H-ssh, don't tell that story! He'll have a wife soon!" -- God! the sitting down To drink till you were sodden! .
.
.
Like great light She came into his thoughts.
That was the worst.
To wallow in the mud like this because His friends were fools.
.
.
.
He was not fit to touch, To see, oh far, far off, that silver place Where God stood manifest to man in her.
.
.
.
Fouling himself.
.
.
.
One thing he brought to her, At least.
He had been clean; had taken it A kind of point of honor from the first .
.
.
Others might do it .
.
.
but he didn't care For those things.
.
.
.
Suddenly his vision cleared.
And something seemed to grow within his mind.
.
.
.
Something was wrong -- the color of the wall -- The queer shape of the bedposts -- everything Was changed, somehow .
.
.
his room.
Was this his room? .
.
.
He turned his head -- and saw beside him there The sagging body's slope, the paint-smeared face, And the loose, open mouth, lax and awry, The breasts, the bleached and brittle hair .
.
.
these things.
.
.
.
As if all Hell were crushed to one bright line Of lightning for a moment.
Then he sank, Prone beneath an intolerable weight.
And bitter loathing crept up all his limbs.


Written by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

Sestina Otiosa

 Our great work, the Otia Merseiana, 
Edited by learned Mister Sampson, 
And supported by Professor Woodward, 
Is financed by numerous Bogus Meetings
Hastily convened by Kuno Meyer 
To impose upon the Man of Business.
All in vain! The accomplished Man of Business Disapproves of Otia Merseiana, Turns his back on Doctor Kuno Meyer; Cannot be enticed by Mister Sampson, To be present at the Bogus Meetings, Though attended by Professor Woodward.
Little cares the staid Professor Woodward: He, being something of a man of business, Knows that not a hundred Bogus Meetings To discuss the Otia Merseiana Can involve himself and Mister Sampson In the debts of Doctor Kuno Meyer.
So the poor deluded Kuno Meyer, Unenlightened by Professor Woodward -- Whom, upon the word of Mister Sampson, He believes to be a man of business Fit to run the Otia Merseiana -- Keeps on calling endless Bogus Meetings.
Every week has now its Bogus Meetings, Punctually convened by Kuno Meyer In the name of Otia Merseiana: Every other week Professor Woodward Takes his place, and, as a man of business, Audits the accounts with Mister Sampson.
He and impecunious Mister Sampson Are the mainstay of the Bogus Meetings; But the alienated Man of Business Cannot be allured by Kuno Meyer To attend and meet Professor Woodward, Glory of the Otia Merseiana.
Kuno Meyer! Great Professor Woodward! Bogus Meetings damn, for men of business, Mister Sampson's Otia Merseiana.


Written by Henry David Thoreau | |

The Summer Rain

 My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read, 
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large 
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, 
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again, What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, If juster battles are enacted now Between the ants upon this hummock's crown? Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, If red or black the gods will favor most, Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, For now I've business with this drop of dew, And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower-- I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use.
A clover tuft is pillow for my head, And violets quite overtop my shoes.
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, And gently swells the wind to say all's well; The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; But see that globe come rolling down its stem, Now like a lonely planet there it floats, And now it sinks into my garment's hem.
Drip drip the trees for all the country round, And richness rare distills from every bough; The wind alone it is makes every sound, Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show himself, Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so; My dripping locks--they would become an elf, Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.


More great poems below...

Written by James A Emanuel | |

False Notions Fears And Other Things Of Wood

 Repeatedly, that sturdy stump in me
bears up like stone,
beneath some ritual I see:
the blinding axe
swings up, holds,
that moment of its weightlessness
inscrutable
till I confirm the arm is mine;
I will it, grip,
feel moist the swelling handle,
the shudder rude,
the difference fallen.
Toward that chopping block I carry in me woodthings— infectious undergrowth pretending upwards through each stem and branch of me— all so certain of themselves they practice, like pains, the craft of being.
They try to wrench away before we reach that stump, my woodthings and I, they weakening in its brightness, in my luminous saying "I must go, must go to the chopping block.
" They know the brutal business of my thinking; I know they have no charity nor memory to return the way they came— came not from wilderness, nor forest, nor living trees.
Their craft and strength I test— and mine— at the chopping block.


Written by Edgar Albert Guest | |

A Toast to the Men

 Here's to the men! Since Adam's time 
They've always been the same;
Whenever anything goes wrong,
The woman is to blame.
From early morn to late at night, The men fault-finders are; They blame us if they oversleep, Or if they miss a car.
They blame us if, beneath the bed, Their collar buttons roll; They blame us if the fire is out Or if there is no coal.
They blame us if they cut themselves While shaving, and they swear That we're to blame if they decide To go upon a tear.
Here's to the men, the perfect men! Who never are at fault; They blame us if they chance to get The pepper for the salt.
They blame us if their business fails, Or back a losing horse; And when it rains on holidays The fault is ours, of course.
They blame us when they fall in love, And when they married get; Likewise they blame us when they're sick, And when they fall in debt.
For everything that crisscross goes They say we are to blame; But, after all, here's to the men, We love them just the same!


Written by Marilyn L Taylor | |

Reverie with Fries

 Straight-spined girl—yes, you of the glinting earrings,
amber skin and sinuous hair: what happened?
you’ve no business lunching with sticky children
here at McDonald’s.
Are they yours? How old were you when you had them? You are far too dazzling to be their mother, though I hear them spluttering Mommy Mommy over the Muzak.
Do you plan to squander your precious twenties wiping ketchup dripping from little fingers, drowning your ennui in a Dr.
Pepper from the dispenser? Were I you for one schizophrenic moment, I’d display my pulchritude with a graceful yet dismissive wave to the gathered burghers feeding their faces— find myself a job as a super-model, get me to those Peloponnesian beaches where I’d preen all day with a jug of ouzo in my bikini.
Would I miss the gummy suburban vinyl, hanker for the Happiest Meal on Main Street? —Wouldn’t one spectacular shrug suffice for begging the question?


Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Conscientious Objector

 I shall die, but 
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death? Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.


Written by Marianne Moore | |

Poetry

 I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all 
 this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful.
When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base- ball fan, the statistician-- nor is it valid to discriminate against 'business documents and school-books'; all these phenomena are important.
One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be 'literalists of the imagination'--above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall we have it.
In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, you are interested in poetry.


Written by Marianne Moore | |

Baseball and Writing

 Fanaticism?No.
Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either how it will go or what you will do; generating excitement-- a fever in the victim-- pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category? Owlman watching from the press box? To whom does it apply? Who is excited?Might it be I? It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel-- a catcher's, as, with cruel puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly back to plate.
(His spring de-winged a bat swing.
) They have that killer instinct; yet Elston--whose catching arm has hurt them all with the bat-- when questioned, says, unenviously, "I'm very satisfied.
We won.
" Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We"; robbed by a technicality.
When three players on a side play three positions and modify conditions, the massive run need not be everything.
"Going, going .
.
.
"Is it?Roger Maris has it, running fast.
You will never see a finer catch.
Well .
.
.
"Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why gild it, although deer sounds better-- snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest, one-handing the souvenir-to-be meant to be caught by you or me.
Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile.
He is no feather.
"Strike! .
.
.
Strike two!" Fouled back.
A blur.
It's gone.
You would infer that the bat had eyes.
He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.
I think I helped a little bit.
" All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which won the pennant?Each.
It was he.
Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws by Boyer, finesses in twos-- like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre- diagnosis with pick-off psychosis.
Pitching is a large subject.
Your arm, too true at first, can learn to catch your corners--even trouble Mickey Mantle.
("Grazed a Yankee! My baby pitcher, Montejo!" With some pedagogy, you'll be tough, premature prodigy.
) They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.
Trying indeed!The secret implying: "I can stand here, bat held steady.
" One may suit him; none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him.
Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds require food, rest, respite from ruffians.
(Drat it! Celebrity costs privacy!) Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice, brewer's yeast (high-potency-- concentrates presage victory sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez-- deadly in a pinch.
And "Yes, it's work; I want you to bear down, but enjoy it while you're doing it.
" Mr.
Houk and Mr.
Sain, if you have a rummage sale, don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
Studded with stars in belt and crown, the Stadium is an adastrium.
O flashing Orion, your stars are muscled like the lion.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET CCXVI.

[Pg 221]

SONNET CCXVI.

I' pur ascolto, e non odo novella.

HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR.

Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait,
Of that sweet enemy I love so well:
What now to think or say I cannot tell,
'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate:
The beautiful are still the marks of fate;
And sure her worth and beauty most excel:
What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwell
Where virtue finds a more congenial state?
If so, she will illuminate that sphere
Even as a sun: but I—'tis done with me!
I then am nothing, have no business here!
O cruel absence! why not let me see
The worst? my little tale is told, I fear,
My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.
Morehead.
No tidings yet—I listen, but in vain;
Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe,
What or to think or say I nothing know,
So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,
Danger to some has in their beauty lain;
Fairer and chaster she than others show;
God haply seeks to snatch from earth below
Virtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain,
Or rather sun.
If what I dread be nigh,
My life, its trials long, its brief repose
Are ended all.
O cruel absence! why
Didst thou remove me from the menaced woes?
My short sad story is already done,
And midway in its course my vain race run.
Macgregor.


Written by Dejan Stojanovic | |

The Strange Love Song of T. S. Eliot

At twenty-six, I was inexperienced; 
Still, I knew much about love 
In the waste land, reasoning, 
It's not important when you start 
Practicing, rather when you start searching; 
And I committed myself to finding 
It before others even knew it existed, 'breeding 

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing' 
My thoughts, my longings, my love 
For something that didn't need naming 
In the misty mornings, recognizing 
The dew on the petal, alive yet sleepy; 
I was a dreamer, I admit, thinking, 
April is the cruelest month, flying 

Thoughts about some distant teaching, 
Seeing invisible in the visible, loving 
Wild thoughts making love, searching 
To find it; love was a secret hard to decode— 
Sacred to me.
Students talking Of business, Dante and Michelangelo; That was important, yet not so important In the land where death died long ago, blooming Roses taught me a lesson, doing My search for me, wakening The land where human measures are important Yet not so important; so I stayed, deserving A degree from real roses, forgetting The Ph.
D.
at Harvard, which for me was waiting Of course it was not about Michelangelo, But does it really matter? I saw paintings And landscapes, dead lands and lands Alive, knowing it's more important To feel than to know.
I had it all in my head; And I stayed where dreaming Was more important than competing In the land where the women come and go, talking Of Sara Bernhardt and Coco Chanel in the Sistine Chapel And men come and go, talking Of wars, children come and go, talking Of chocolate, and they all go, leaving Not much to think about exchanging Experiences with feelings, transforming Experiences into meanings, mixing Thoughts about love evaporating Into 'the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes.
' And in the end I understood April, learning That April seemed cruel only in the dead land, knowing That every month is equally paradisiacal and hellish, Equally paradoxical.


Written by Ben Jonson | |

On Don Surly


XXVIII.
 ? ON DON SURLY.
  
Don SURLY, to aspire the glorious name
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,
Makes serious use of all great trade he knows,
He speaks to men with a rhinocerote's nose,
Which he thinks great ; and so reads verses too :
And that is done, as he saw great men do.
He has tympanies of business in his face,
And can forget men's names, with a great grace.
He will both argue, and discourse in oaths,
Both which are great : and laugh at ill-made clothes ;
That's greater, yet : to cry his own up neat.
He doth at meals, alone, his pheasant eat,
Which is main greatness ; and at his still board
He drinks to no man : that's, too, like a lord.
He keeps another's wife, which is a spice
Of solemn greatness ; and he dares, at dice,
Blaspheme God greatly ; or some poor hind beat,
That breathes in his dog's way : and this is great.
Nay more, for greatness sake, he will be one
May hear my epigrams, but like of none.
SURLY, use other arts, these only can
Style thee a most great fool, but no great man.


[AJ Notes:
cry his own up neat, facilely praise his own clothes.
still board, quiet table.
]


Written by Emanuel Xavier | |

WALKING WITH ANGELS

 for Lindsay

AIDS
knows the condom wrapped penetration 
of strangers and lovers, deep inside
only a tear away from risk

knows bare minimum t-cell level counts, 
replacing intoxicating cocktails
with jagged little pills

knows how to avoid a cure thanks to war
how to keep pharmaceutical corporations
and doctors in business

AIDS
knows the weight loss desired 
by supermodels,
knows the fearless meaning of a friends genuine kiss or hug
converts non-believers to religion 
and spirituality

comprehends loneliness
values the support of luminaries
smiles at the solidarity 
of single red ribbons

knows to dim the lights 
to elude detection
how to shame someone into hiding
from the rest of the world
to be grateful for the gift of clothing 
and shelter,
to remain silent, holding back the anger and frustration

AIDS
knows that time on earth 
is limited for all of us
that using lemons to make lemonade is better than drinking the Kool-Aid
but no matter how much you drink
you are always left dehydrated

knows working extensive hours
to pay hospital bills, 
the choice of survival
or taking pleasure in what is left of life

knows the solid white walls
you want to crash through 
and tear down
the thoughts of suicide 
in the back of your head

AIDS
knows the prosperous could be doing more with their wealth
and that everyone still thinks it is a deserving fate- for gays,
drug addicts, prostitutes, 
and the unfortunate children of such
born into a merciless world of posh handbags and designer jewelry

knows how to be used as another percentage to profit politicians
knows it doesn’t only affect humans 
but animals too, without bias
-providing fodder for art and something to be left behind

if there is a God
he has disregarded our prayers
left his angels behind to journey along with us
-none of us knowing exactly 
where we are headed


Written by Emanuel Xavier | |

THE DEATH OF ART

 “Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.
” -critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry "the death of art.
” I am not a poet.
I want to be rich and buy things for my family.
Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life.
I am not a poet.
Georgia O' Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me.
I do not feel oppressed or depressed and no longer have anything to say about the President.
I am not a poet.
I do not like being called an "activist" because it takes away from those that are out on the streets protesting and fighting for our rights.
I am not a poet.
I eat poultry and fish and suck way too much dick to be considered a vegetarian.
I am not a poet.
I would most likely give my ass up in prison before trying to save it with poetry .
.
.
and I’d like it! Heck, I’d probably be inspired.
I am not a poet.
I may value peace but I will not simply use a pen to unleash my anger.
I would fuck somebody up if I had to.
I am not a poet.
I may have been abused and had a difficult life but I don’t want pity.
I believe laughter and love heals.
I am not a poet.
I am not dying.
I write a lot about AIDS and how it has affected my life but, despite the rumors, I am not positive.
Believe it or not, weight loss amongst sexually active gay men could still be a choice.
I am not a poet.
I do not get Kerouac or honestly care much for Bukowski.
I am not a poet.
I don’t spend my weekends reading and writing.
I like to go out and party.
I like to have a few cocktails but I do not have a drinking problem regardless of what borough, city or state I may wake up in.
I am not a poet.
I don’t need drugs to open up my imagination.
I've been a dealer and had a really bad habit but that was long before I started writing.
I am not a poet.
I can seriously only tolerate about half an hour of spoken word before I start tuning out and thinking about my grocery list or what my cats are up to.
I am not a poet.
I only do poetry events if I know there will be cute guys there and I always carry business cards.
I am not a poet according to the scholars and academics and Harold Bloom.
I only write to masturbate my mind.
After all, fucking yourself is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.
I am not a poet.
I am only trying to get attention and convince myself that poetry can save lives when my words simply and proudly contribute to “the death of art.


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Judgement

"On the one hand you claim your true love, and on the other hand you judge your beloved, that is a business and selfishness, not a true love, true love does not require any kind of judgement in any way.
" Ehsan Sehgal