Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

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.

Search for the best famous Business poems, articles about Business poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Business poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Wang Wei | |

Fields and Gardens by the River Qi

 I dwell apart by the River Qi,
Where the Eastern wilds stretch far without hills.
The sun darkens beyond the mulberry trees; The river glistens through the villages.
Shepherd boys depart, gazing back to their hamlets; Hunting dogs return following their men.
When a man's at peace, what business does he have? I shut fast my rustic door throughout the day.


by Julie Hill Alger | |

Marketplace Report January 23, 1991

The new war is a week old.
Bombs fall on Baghdad, missiles on Tel Aviv.
The voice on the radio says the armament dealers of Europe are hopeful that a longer war will be good for business.
They say, as fighting continues there will be wear and tear on matériel.
Spare parts must be manufactured, as well as replacements for equipment blown apart, shattered, set afire.
Prudently, the merchants consult their spreadsheets.
They guard against euphoria and prepare for a possible downside to this bonanza: the Allies are shooting at their best customer, Saddam Hussein.
If he loses their market will be depressed.
There is also a danger of restrictions on sales to angry dictators.
Thus, the longterm effects of the war may not all be positive.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE YELPERS.

 OUR rides in all directions bend,

For business or for pleasure,
Yet yelpings on our steps attend,

And barkings without measure.
The dog that in our stable dwells, After our heels is striding, And all the while his noisy yells But show that we are riding.
1815.
*


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.


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?


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


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

The Human

I thought I would pray to be a doctor
No, I changed my mind
I thought I would pray to be a lawyer
No, I changed my mind
I thought now I would pray to be an engineer
I felt confused and helpless
I thought again and again
About many professions, what I should be 
A business person or a politician? 
I couldn't decide any of that
All professions were easy to do
I thought what is the best to become
I thought years and years about
After that, I decided
To be a better human
A devoted human 
To spread the peace, justice and love
For everyone without any returns
                  --------------
Ehsan Sehgal?


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

The Human

I thought I would pray to be a doctor
No, I changed my mind
I thought I would pray to be a lawyer
No, I changed my mind
I thought now I would pray to be an engineer
I felt confused and helpless
I thought again and again
About many professions, what I should be 
A business person or a politician? 
I couldn't decide any of that
All professions were easy to do
I thought what is the best to become
I thought years and years about
After that, I decided
To be a better human
A devoted human 
To spread the peace, justice and love
For everyone without any returns
              --------------
Ehsan Sehgal?


by Walt Whitman | |

Souvenirs of Democracy.

 THE business man, the acquirer vast, 
After assiduous years, surveying results, preparing for departure, 
Devises houses and lands to his children—bequeaths stocks, goods—funds for a
 school
 or hospital, 
Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold; 
Parceling out with care—And then, to prevent all cavil,
His name to his testament formally signs.
But I, my life surveying, With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years, Nor houses, nor lands—nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Only these Souvenirs of Democracy—In them—in all my songs—behind me leaving, To You, who ever you are, (bathing, leavening this leaf especially with my breath—pressing on it a moment with my own hands; —Here! feel how the pulse beats in my wrists!—how my heart’s-blood is swelling, contracting!) I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.


by Walt Whitman | |

Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour.

 HAST never come to thee an hour, 
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth? 
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, 
To utter nothingness?


by Allen Ginsberg | |

Who Runs America?

Oil brown smog over Denver 
Oil red dung colored smoke 
level to level across the horizon 

blue tainted sky above 
Oil car smog gasoline 
hazing red Denver's day 

December bare trees 

sticking up from housetop streets 

Plane lands rumbling, planes rise over 

radar wheels, black smoke 

drifts from tailfins 

Oil millions of cars speeding the cracked plains 
Oil from Texas, Bahrein, Venezuela Mexico 
Oil that turns General Motors 

revs up Ford 
lights up General Electric, oil that crackles 

thru International Business Machine computers, 

charges dynamos for ITT 
sparks Western 
Electric 

runs thru Amer Telephone & Telegraph wires 

Oil that flows thru Exxon New Jersey hoses, 
rings in Mobil gas tank cranks, rumbles 

Chrysler engines 

shoots thru Texaco pipelines 

blackens ocean from broken Gulf tankers 
spills onto Santa Barbara beaches from 

Standard of California derricks offshore.


by Robert Graves | |

Call It a Good Marriage

 Call it a good marriage - 
For no one ever questioned 
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation 
At her h's and her s's, 
His p's and w's.
Though few would still subscribe To the monogamic axiom That strife below the hip-bones Need not estrange the heart, Call it a good marriage: More drew those two together, Despite a lack of children, Than pulled them apart.
Call it a good marriage: They never fought in public, They acted circumspectly And faced the world with pride; Thus the hazards of their love-bed Were none of our damned business - Till as jurymen we sat on Two deaths by suicide.


by Robert Graves | |

The Caterpillar

 Under this loop of honeysuckle, 
A creeping, coloured caterpillar, 
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, 
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.
Down beneath grow dandelions, Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses; Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
I eat and swallow and eat again.
Here come raindrops helter-skelter; I munch and nibble unregarding: Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm.
When I’m old, tired, melancholy, I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum Close by, here on this lovely spray, And die and dream the ages away.
Some say worms win resurrection, With white wings beating flitter-flutter, But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care? Either way I’ll miss my share.
Under this loop of honeysuckle, A hungry, hairy caterpillar, I crawl on my high and swinging seat, And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.


by Rg Gregory | |

ulster

 fancy shooting a man dead for an old label

but think
if there weren't any old labels
nobody would ever be shot dead

and all those poor people
whose livelihood depends on making guns
would have to be left to starve

make up your mind
who would you sooner see living
 men with bullets in them
 or thousands of ordinary people
 going about their decent business

there's a lot to thank old labels for


by Rg Gregory | |

owl power

 they say in the local sanctuary
owls are the stupidest creatures
all this wisdom business is
the mythological media at work
but the shortest nosing into books
tells you even the mythic world
is bamboozled by the creature - no
two cultures being able to agree

the bird was cherished by minerva
hebrews loathed it as unclean
buddhists treasure its seclusion
elsewhere night-hag evil omen

the baker's daughter's silly cry
ungrateful chinese children
the precious life of genghis khan
sweet fodder to the owl's blink

in the end it's the paradox
i'll be what you want romantic fool
that scares elates about the owl
sitting in the dark and seeing all

not true not true the cynics say
the bloody fraudster's almost blind
dead lazy till its stomach rattles
its skill is seeing with its ears

ruthlessness stupidity
(transmogrified to wisdom)
make the perfect pitch for power
so proofed - why give a hoot for gods


by Rg Gregory | |

sacked

 fog owns the town

in its palm
lawyers nibble each other's fingers
the churches take their cut

at the fat lunch
the men of business
carve themselves prayers and praises

the fog comes to my window
and lisping in says

 i've drained the town of you
 and you of the town
 come outside
 and let me smother you
 to the border

no person calls
and only the headless
watch and watch in the street


by Eamon Grennan | |

Cat Scat

 I am watching Cleo listening, our cat
listening to Mozart's Magic Flute.
What can she be hearing? What can the air carry into her ears like that, her ears swivelling like radio dishes that are tuned to all the noise of the world, flat and sharp, high and low, a scramble of this and that she can decode like nobody's business, acrobat of random airs as she is? Although of course a bat is better at it, sifting out of its acoustic habitat the sound of the very shape of things automat- ically-- and on the wing, at that.
The Magic Flute! What a joy it is, I feel, and wonder (to the end this little scat) doe , or can, the cat.


by Brooks Haxton | |

Salesmanship With Half A Dram Of Tears

 Gripping the lectern, rocking it, searching
the faces for the souls, for signs of heartfelt
mindfulness at work, I thought, as I recited
words I wrote in tears: instead of tears,
if I had understood my father's business,
I could be selling men's clothes.
I could be kneeling, complimenting someone at the bay of mirrors, mumblingly, with pinpoints pressed between my lips.
That was the life I held in scorn while young, because I thought to live without distraction, using words.
Yet, looking now into the room of strangers' eyes, I wanted them to feel what I said touch, as palpably as when a men in double worsted felt the cuff drop to his wrist.
There was a rush in the applause of gratitude and mercy: they could go.
A teenager, embarrassed for himself and me, lefthandedly squeezed my fingers, and said thanks.


by Ted Hughes | |

The Thought-Fox

 I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star: Something more near Though deeper within darkness Is entering the loneliness: Cold, delicately as the dark snow, A fox's nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that now And again now, and now, and now Sets neat prints into the snow Between trees, and warily a lame Shadow lags by stump and in hollow Of a body that is bold to come Across clearings, an eye, A widening deepening greenness, Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed.


by Robinson Jeffers | |

So Many Blood-Lakes

 We have now won two world-wars, neither of which concerned us, we were 
slipped in.
We have levelled the powers Of Europe, that were the powers of the world, into rubble and dependence.
We have won two wars and a third is comming.
This one--will not be so easy.
We were at ease while the powers of the world were split into factions: we've changed that.
We have enjoyed fine dreams; we have dreamed of unifying the world; we are unifying it--against us.
Two wars, and they breed a third.
Now gaurd the beaches, watch the north, trust not the dawns.
Probe every cloud.
Build power.
Fortress America may yet for a long time stand, between the east and the west, like Byzantium.
--As for me: laugh at me.
I agree with you.
It is a foolish business to see the future and screech at it.
One should watch and not speak.
And patriotism has run the world through so many blood-lakes: and we always fall in.