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Best Famous Father Poems

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

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by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Adam Posed

Could our first father, at his toilsome plow,
Thorns in his path, and labor on his brow,
Clothed only in a rude, unpolished skin,
Could he a vain fantastic nymph have seen,
In all her airs, in all her antic graces,
Her various fashions, and more various faces;
How had it posed that skill, which late assigned
Just appellations to each several kind!
A right idea of the sight to frame;
T'have guessed from what new element she came;
T'have hit the wav'ring form, or giv'n this thing a name.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Crucifix

I
This greatist hour was hallowed and thandered
By  angel's choirs;  fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned.
.
.
?" And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry.
.
.
" II Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Piter sank into the stone trance.
.
.
Only there, where Mother stood alone, None has dared cast a single glance.


by Allen Ginsberg | |

Wild Orphan

Blandly mother 
takes him strolling 
by railroad and by river 
-he's the son of the absconded 
hot rod angel- 
and he imagines cars 
and rides them in his dreams, 

so lonely growing up among 
the imaginary automobiles 
and dead souls of Tarrytown 

to create 
out of his own imagination 
the beauty of his wild 
forebears-a mythology 
he cannot inherit.
Will he later hallucinate his gods? Waking among mysteries with an insane gleam of recollection? The recognition- something so rare in his soul, met only in dreams -nostalgias of another life.
A question of the soul.
And the injured losing their injury in their innocence -a cock, a cross, an excellence of love.
And the father grieves in flophouse complexities of memory a thousand miles away, unknowing of the unexpected youthful stranger bumming toward his door.
- New York, April 13, 1952


by Sarah Fuller Flower Adams | |

He Sendeth Sun He Sendeth Shower

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, 
Alike they're needful for the flower: 
And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love? Creator! I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Oh, ne'er will I at life repine: Enough that thou hast made it mine.
When falls the shadow cold of death I yet will sing, with parting breath, As comes to me or shade or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done!


by Jerome Rothenberg | |

A MISSAL LIKE A BONE

 Link by link
I can disown
no link.
(R.
Duncan) I search the passage someone sends & find a missal like a bone.
My hands are white with sweat.
I lay my burden down the ground below me shrinking.
The more my fingers ply these keys the more words daunt me.
I am what a haunt averts, what you who once spoke from my dream no longer tell.
The book is paradise.
An odor is a clue to what was lost.
I seek & speak son of a father with no home or heart.
I bantereed with a friend that there are speeds beyond the speed of light.
I spun around.
the calculus of two plus two, the mystery of false attachments, still persists.
I settled for a lesser light a circumstance found that my words rang true.


by Jerome Rothenberg | |

I EXCEED MY LIMITS

 I have tried an altenstil
& dropped it.
My skin is blazing, blazing too the way I see your faces in the glass.
With the circle of the sun behind me I exceed my limits.
My garments are from the beginning & my dwelling place is in my self(J.
Dee) It makes me want to fly the stars below the paradise of poets lost in space.
I am the father of a lie unspoken.
I can make my mind go blank then paw at you my fingers in your mouth.
I think of God when fucking.
Is it wrong to pray without a hat to reject the call to grace? I long to flatter presidents & kings.
I long for manna.
I will be the first to sail for home the last to flaunt my longings.
I will undo my garments & stand before you naked.
In winter I will curse their god & die.


by Phillis Wheatley | |

To The Kings Most Excellent Majesty

 YOUR subjects hope, dread Sire--
The crown upon your brows may flourish long,
And that your arm may in your God be strong!
O may your sceptre num'rous nations sway,
And all with love and readiness obey!
But how shall we the British king reward!
Rule thou in peace, our father, and our lord!
Midst the remembrance of thy favours past,
The meanest peasants most admire the last*
May George, beloved by all the nations round,
Live with heav'ns choicest constant blessings crown'd!
Great God, direct, and guard him from on high,
And from his head let ev'ry evil fly!
And may each clime with equal gladness see
A monarch's smile can set his subjects free!

* The Repeal of the Stamp Act.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Child Is Father To The Man

 'The child is father to the man.
' How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can: 'The child is father to the man.
' No; what the poet did write ran, 'The man is father to the child.
' 'The child is father to the man!' How can he be? The words are wild.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

 As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying, What I do is me: for that I came.
I say more: the just man justices; Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is — Christ.
For Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men's faces.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

In The Valley Of The Elwy

 I remember a house where all were good
 To me, God knows, deserving no such thing:
 Comforting smell breathed at very entering,
Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood.
That cordial air made those kind people a hood All over, as a bevy of eggs the mothering wing Will, or mild nights the new morsels of spring: Why, it seemed of course; seemed of right it should.
Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales, All the air things wear that build this world of Wales; Only the inmate does not correspond: God, lover of souls, swaying considerate scales, Complete thy creature dear O where it fails, Being mighty a master, being a father and fond.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Handsome Heart

 at a Gracious Answer


'But tell me, child, your choice; what shall I buy
You?'—'Father, what you buy me I like best.
' With the sweetest air that said, still plied and pressed, He swung to his first poised purport of reply.
What the heart is! which, like carriers let fly— Doff darkness, homing nature knows the rest— To its own fine function, wild and self-instressed, Falls light as ten years long taught how to and why.
Mannerly-hearted! more than handsome face— Beauty's bearing or muse of mounting vein, All, in this case, bathed in high hallowing grace.
.
.
Of heaven what boon to buy you, boy, or gain Not granted?—Only .
.
.
O on that path you pace Run all your race, O brace sterner that strain!


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

To Seem The Stranger Lies My Lot My Life

 To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
Among strangers.
Father and mother dear, Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near And he my peace my parting, sword and strife.
England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife To my creating thought, would neither hear Me, were I pleading, plead nor do I: I wear- y of idle a being but by where wars are rife.
I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd Remove.
Not but in all removes I can Kind love both give and get.
Only what word Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven's baffling ban Bars or hell's spell thwarts.
This to hoard unheard, Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

To What Serves Mortal Beauty?

 To what serves mortal beauty '—dangerous; does set danc-
ing blood—the O-seal-that-so ' feature, flung prouder form
Than Purcell tune lets tread to? ' See: it does this: keeps warm
Men's wits to the things that are; ' what good means—where a glance
Master more may than gaze, ' gaze out of countenance.
Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh ' windfalls of war's storm, How then should Gregory, a father, ' have gleanèd else from swarm- ed Rome? But God to a nation ' dealt that day's dear chance.
To man, that needs would worship ' block or barren stone, Our law says: Love what are ' love's worthiest, were all known; World's loveliest—men's selves.
Self ' flashes off frame and face.
What do then? how meet beauty? ' Merely meet it; own, Home at heart, heaven's sweet gift; ' then leave, let that alone.
Yea, wish that though, wish all, ' God's better beauty, grace.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Thee God I Come from

 Thee, God, I come from, to thee go, 
All day long I like fountain flow 
From thy hand out, swayed about 
Mote-like in thy mighty glow.
What I know of thee I bless, As acknowledging thy stress On my being and as seeing Something of thy holiness.
Once I turned from thee and hid, Bound on what thou hadst forbid; Sow the wind I would; I sinned: I repent of what I did.
Bad I am, but yet thy child.
Father, be thou reconciled.
Spare thou me, since I see With thy might that thou art mild.
I have life before me still And thy purpose to fulfil; Yea a debt to pay thee yet: Help me, sir, and so I will.
But thou bidst, and just thou art, Me shew mercy from my heart Towards my brother, every other Man my mate and counterpart.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Adam Posd

 Cou'd our First Father, at his toilsome Plough,
Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,
Cloath'd only in a rude, unpolish'd Skin,
Cou'd he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen,
In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces, 
Her various Fashions, and more various Faces;
How had it pos'd that Skill, which late assign'd
Just Appellations to Each several Kind!
A right Idea of the Sight to frame;
T'have guest from what New Element she came; 
T'have hit the wav'ring Form, or giv'n this Thing a Name.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Priest At The Serapeum

 My dear old father,
who always loved me the same;
my dear old father I lament
who died the day before yesterday, just before dawn.
Jesus Christ, it is my daily effort to observe the precepts of Thy most holy church in all my acts, in all words, in all thoughts.
And all those who renounce Thee I shun.
-- But now I lament; I bewail, Christ, for my father although he was -- a horrible thing to say -- a priest at the accursed Serapeum.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Holy of Holies

 ‘Elder father, though thine eyes 
Shine with hoary mysteries, 
Canst thou tell what in the heart 
Of a cowslip blossom lies? 

‘Smaller than all lives that be, 
Secret as the deepest sea, 
Stands a little house of seeds, 
Like an elfin’s granary.
‘Speller of the stones and weeds, Skilled in Nature’s crafts and creeds, Tell me what is in the heart Of the smallest of the seeds.
’ ‘God Almighty, and with Him Cherubim and Seraphim, Filling all eternity— Adonai Elohim.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Human Tree

 Many have Earth's lovers been,
Tried in seas and wars, I ween;
Yet the mightiest have I seen:
Yea, the best saw I.
One that in a field alone Stood up stiller than a stone Lest a moth should fly.
Birds had nested in his hair, On his shoon were mosses rare, Insect empires flourished there, Worms in ancient wars; But his eyes burn like a glass, Hearing a great sea of grass Roar towards the stars.
From them to the human tree Rose a cry continually: `Thou art still, our Father, we Fain would have thee nod.
Make the skies as blood below thee, Though thou slay us, we shall know thee.
Answer us, O God! `Show thine ancient fame and thunder, Split the stillness once asunder, Lest we whisper, lest we wonder Art thou there at all?' But I saw him there alone, Standing stiller than a stone Lest a moth should fall.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

Freedom

 What freeman knoweth freedom? Never he 
Whose father's father through long lives have reigned 
O'er kingdoms which mere heritage attained.
Though from his youth to age he roam as free As winds, he dreams not freedom's ecstacy.
But he whose birth was in a nation chained For centuries; where every breath was drained From breasts of slaves which knew not there could be Such thing as freedom,--he beholds the light Burst, dazzling; though the glory blind his sight He knows the joy.
Fools laugh because he reels And weilds confusedly his infant will; The wise man watching with a heart that feels Says: "Cure for freedom's harms is freedom still.
"


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Dream

 Once a dream did weave a shade,
O'er my Angel-guarded bed.
That an Emmet lost it's way Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled wildered and forlorn Dark benighted travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke I heard her say.
O my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh.
Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.
Pitying I dropp'd a tear; But I saw a glow-worm near: Who replied.
What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night.
I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetles hum, Little wanderer hie thee home.