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Best Famous Flying Poems

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

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Written by James Tate |

Dream On

 Some people go their whole lives
without ever writing a single poem.
Extraordinary people who don't hesitate to cut somebody's heart or skull open.
They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease.
and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.
These same people stroll into a church as if that were a natural part of life.
Investing money is second nature to them.
They contribute to political campaigns that have absolutely no poetry in them and promise none for the future.
They sit around the dinner table at night and pretend as though nothing is missing.
Their children get caught shoplifting at the mall and no one admits that it is poetry they are missing.
The family dog howls all night, lonely and starving for more poetry in his life.
Why is it so difficult for them to see that, without poetry, their lives are effluvial.
Sure, they have their banquets, their celebrations, croquet, fox hunts, their sea shores and sunsets, their cocktails on the balcony, dog races, and all that kissing and hugging, and don't forget the good deeds, the charity work, nursing the baby squirrels all through the night, filling the birdfeeders all winter, helping the stranger change her tire.
Still, there's that disagreeable exhalation from decaying matter, subtle but everpresent.
They walk around erect like champions.
They are smooth-spoken and witty.
When alone, rare occasion, they stare into the mirror for hours, bewildered.
There was something they meant to say, but didn't: "And if we put the statue of the rhinoceros next to the tweezers, and walk around the room three times, learn to yodel, shave our heads, call our ancestors back from the dead--" poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt.
You haven't scribbled a syllable of it.
You're a nowhere man misfiring the very essence of your life, flustering nothing from nothing and back again.
The hereafter may not last all that long.
Radiant childhood sweetheart, secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow, fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids: all day, all night meditation, knot of hope, kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life seeking, through poetry, a benediction or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal, explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor.
And yet it's cruel to expect too much.
It's a rare species of bird that refuses to be categorized.
Its song is barely audible.
It is like a dragonfly in a dream-- here, then there, then here again, low-flying amber-wing darting upward then out of sight.
And the dream has a pain in its heart the wonders of which are manifold, or so the story is told.

Written by Dylan Thomas |

Poem In October

 It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
 And the mussel pooled and the heron
 Priested shore
 The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
 Myself to set foot
 That second
 In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water- Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name Above the farms and the white horses And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road Over the border And the gates Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder, Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly Come in the morning where I wandered and listened To the rain wringing Wind blow cold In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour And over the sea wet church the size of a snail With its horns through mist and the castle Brown as owls But all the gardens Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel My birthday Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country And down the other air and the blue altered sky Streamed again a wonder of summer With apples Pears and red currants And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother Through the parables Of sun light And the legends of the green chapels And the twice told fields of infancy That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea Where a boy In the listening Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery Sang alive Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday Away but the weather turned around.
And the true Joy of the long dead child sang burning In the sun.
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth Still be sung On this high hill in a year's turning.

Written by Dejan Stojanovic |

A Woman in the Garden of Light

To find the hidden place 
Longing freely to explore 
Break obstacles and recognize 
Invisible sparks emanating 
From the deserved discovery 
Of nothing between us 
Shining longing only 
Wakening stars in the Garden 
Witnessing the birth of new landscapes, 
Future cities and temples 
Hearing new stories, falling 
From the fountains of the secret art 
All old sounds and colors reviving 
And you, blindingly bright, 
Into new senses are melting me 
And into the core I grow 
With invisible roots piercing 
Touching the core of fire 
Traveling far to the place, before 
Space and time, and coming back 
To this Garden to find you 
To see the real you swimming 
And flying ahead of the light 
To find you where the light never was 
And to learn that you are its source

More great poems below...

Written by Edward Taylor |

Dream On

 Some people go their whole lives
without ever writing a single poem.
Extraordinary people who don't hesitate to cut somebody's heart or skull open.
They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease.
and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.
These same people stroll into a church as if that were a natural part of life.
Investing money is second nature to them.
They contribute to political campaigns that have absolutely no poetry in them and promise none for the future.
They sit around the dinner table at night and pretend as though nothing is missing.
Their children get caught shoplifting at the mall and no one admits that it is poetry they are missing.
The family dog howls all night, lonely and starving for more poetry in his life.
Why is it so difficult for them to see that, without poetry, their lives are effluvial.
Sure, they have their banquets, their celebrations, croquet, fox hunts, their sea shores and sunsets, their cocktails on the balcony, dog races, and all that kissing and hugging, and don't forget the good deeds, the charity work, nursing the baby squirrels all through the night, filling the birdfeeders all winter, helping the stranger change her tire.
Still, there's that disagreeable exhalation from decaying matter, subtle but everpresent.
They walk around erect like champions.
They are smooth-spoken and witty.
When alone, rare occasion, they stare into the mirror for hours, bewildered.
There was something they meant to say, but didn't: "And if we put the statue of the rhinoceros next to the tweezers, and walk around the room three times, learn to yodel, shave our heads, call our ancestors back from the dead--" poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt.
You haven't scribbled a syllable of it.
You're a nowhere man misfiring the very essence of your life, flustering nothing from nothing and back again.
The hereafter may not last all that long.
Radiant childhood sweetheart, secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow, fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids: all day, all night meditation, knot of hope, kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life seeking, through poetry, a benediction or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal, explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor.
And yet it's cruel to expect too much.
It's a rare species of bird that refuses to be categorized.
Its song is barely audible.
It is like a dragonfly in a dream-- here, then there, then here again, low-flying amber-wing darting upward then out of sight.
And the dream has a pain in its heart the wonders of which are manifold, or so the story is told.

Written by G K Chesterton |

The Latest School

 See the flying French depart
Like the bees of Bonaparte,
Swarming up with a most venomous vitality.
Over Baden and Bavaria, And Brighton and Bulgaria, Thus violating Belgian neutrality.
And the injured Prussian may Not unreasonably say "Why, it cannot be so small a nationality Since Brixton and Batavia, Bolivia and Belgravia, Are bursting with the Belgian neutrality.
" By pure Alliteration You may trace this curious nation, And respect this somewhat scattered Principality; When you see a B in Both You may take your Bible oath You are violating Belgian neutrality.

Written by Edgar Allan Poe |

Alone

 From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.

Written by Sylvia Plath |

Leaving Early

 Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember, Me, sitting here bored as a loepard In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps, Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers Sipping their liquids from assorted pots, Pitchers and Coronation goblets Like Monday drunkards.
The milky berries Bow down, a local constellation, Toward their admirers in the tabletop: Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them --- Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue? The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends.
They stink of armpits And the invovled maladies of autumn, Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug Gave up the ghost last night.
High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch, Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid Littered with Chinese hands.
Now I'm stared at By chrysanthemums the size Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice Are rattling the cracker packets.
Fine flour Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic? You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones.
Lady, what am I doing With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood, Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

Written by Galway Kinnell |

from Flying Home

3 
As this plane dragged 
its track of used ozone half the world long 
thrusts some four hundred of us 
toward places where actual known people 
live and may wait, 
we diminish down in our seats, 
disappeared into novels of lives clearer than ours, 
and yet we do not forget for a moment 
the life down there, the doorway each will soon enter: 
where I will meet her again 
and know her again, 
dark radiance with, and then mostly without, the stars.
Very likely she has always understood what I have slowly learned, and which only now, after being away, almost as far away as one can get on this globe, almost as far as thoughts can carry - yet still in her presence, still surrounded not so much by reminders of her as by things she had already reminded me of, shadows of her cast forward and waiting - can I try to express: that love is hard, that while many good things are easy, true love is not, because love is first of all a power, its own power, which continually must make its way forward, from night into day, from transcending union always forward into difficult day.
And as the plane descends, it comes to me in the space where tears stream down across the stars, tears fallen on the actual earth where their shining is what we call spirit, that once the lover recognizes the other, knows for the first time what is most to be valued in another, from then on, love is very much like courage, perhaps it is courage, and even perhaps only courage.
Squashed out of old selves, smearing the darkness of expectation across experience, all of us little thinkers it brings home having similar thoughts of landing to the imponderable world, the transoceanic airliner, resting its huge weight down, comes in almost lightly, to where with sudden, tiny, white puffs and long, black, rubberish smears all its tires know the home ground.

Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson |

The Revenge - A Ballad of the Fleet

 At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away: 
'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted' 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: ''Fore God I am no coward; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 
And the half my men are sick.
I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with ?' Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.
' So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.
He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
'Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.
' And Sir Richard said again: 'We be all good English men.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet.
' Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between.
Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delayed By their mountain-like

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

By an Autumn Fire

 Now at our casement the wind is shrilling, 
Poignant and keen 
And all the great boughs of the pines between 
It is harping a lone and hungering strain 
To the eldritch weeping of the rain; 
And then to the wild, wet valley flying 
It is seeking, sighing, 
Something lost in the summer olden.
When night was silver and day was golden; But out on the shore the waves are moaning With ancient and never fulfilled desire, And the spirits of all the empty spaces, Of all the dark and haunted places, With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces, Come to the lure of our leaping fire.
But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor From our blithe domain, And drown the whimper of wind and rain With undaunted laughter, echoing long, Cheery old tale and gay old song; Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition, Attained ambition.
Ours is the treasure of tested loving, Friendship that needs no further proving; No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain, Here we have largess of summer in fee­ Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping, At bay the chill of the autumn keeping, While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reaping In the fairest meadow of memory!

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot |

Macavity: The Mystery Cat

 Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair: For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there! Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity, He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare, And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there! You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air-- But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there! Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin; You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed; His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake; And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square-- But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there! He's outwardly respectable.
(They say he cheats at cards.
) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair-- Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there! And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair-- But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: "It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare: And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Written by William Butler Yeats |

To Ireland In The Coming Times

 Know, that I would accounted be
True brother of a company
That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
Ballad and story, rann and song;
Nor be I any less of them,
Because the red-rose-bordered hem
Of her, whose history began
Before God made the angelic clan,
Trails all about the written page.
When Time began to rant and rage The measure of her flying feet Made Ireland's heart hegin to beat; And Time bade all his candles flare To light a measure here and there; And may the thoughts of Ireland brood Upon a measured guietude.
Nor may I less be counted one With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson, Because, to him who ponders well, My rhymes more than their rhyming tell Of things discovered in the deep, Where only body's laid asleep.
For the elemental creatures go About my table to and fro, That hurry from unmeasured mind To rant and rage in flood and wind, Yet he who treads in measured ways May surely barter gaze for gaze.
Man ever journeys on with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Ah, faerics, dancing under the moon, A Druid land, a Druid tune.
! While still I may, I write for you The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye; And we, our singing and our love, What measurer Time has lit above, And all benighted things that go About my table to and fro, Are passing on to where may be, In truth's consuming ecstasy, No place for love and dream at all; For God goes by with white footfall.
I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson |

Ballad of a Ship

 Down by the flash of the restless water 
The dim White Ship like a white bird lay; 
Laughing at life and the world they sought her, 
And out she swung to the silvering bay.
Then off they flew on their roystering way, And the keen moon fired the light foam flying Up from the flood where the faint stars play, And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
'T was a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter, And full three hundred beside, they say, -- Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter So soon to seize them and hide them for aye; But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay, Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
Through the mist of a drunken dream they brought her (This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey: The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her, And hurled her down where the dead men stay.
A torturing silence of wan dismay -- Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying -- Then down they sank to slumber and sway Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.
ENVOY Prince, do you sleep to the sound alway Of the mournful surge and the sea-birds' crying? -- Or does love still shudder and steel still slay, Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying?

Written by José Martí |

A Sincere Man Am I

A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
And I want before I die
My soul's verses to bestow.
I'm a traveler to all parts, And a newcomer to none: I am art among the arts, With the mountains I am one.
I know how to name and class All the strange flowers that grow; I know every blade of grass, Fatal lie and sublime woe.
I have seen through dead of night Upon my head softly fall, Rays formed of the purest light From beauty celestial.
I have seen wings that were surging From beautiful women's shoulders, And seen butterflies emerging From the refuse heap that moulders.
I have known a man to live With a dagger at his side, And never once the name give Of she by whose hand he died.
Twice, for an instant, did I My soul's reflection espy: Twice: when my poor father died And when she bade me good-bye.
I trembled once, when I flung The vineyard gate, and to my dread, The wicked hornet had stung My little girl on the forehead.
I rejoiced once and felt lucky The day that my jailer came To read the death warrant to me That bore his tears and my name.
I hear a sigh across the earth, I hear a sigh over the deep: It is no sign reaching my hearth, But my son waking from sleep.
If they say I have obtained The pick of the jeweller's trove, A good friend is what I've gained And I have put aside love.
I have seen across the skies A wounded eagle still flying; I know the cubby where lies The snake of its venom dying.
I know that the world is weak And must soon fall to the ground, Then the gentle brook will speak Above the quiet profound.
While trembling with joy and dread, I have touched with hand so bold A once-bright star that fell dead From heaven at my threshold.
On my brave heart is engraved The sorrow hidden from all eyes: The son of a land enslaved, Lives for it, suffers and dies.
All is beautiful and right, All is as music and reason; And all, like diamonds, is light That was coal before its season.
I know when fools are laid to rest Honor and tears will abound, And that of all fruits, the best Is left to rot in holy ground.
Without a word, the pompous muse I've set aside, and understood: From a withered branch, I choose To hang my doctoral hood.

Written by Elizabeth Bishop |

Seascape

 This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels,
flying high as they want and as far as they want sidewise 
in tiers and tiers of immaculate reflections; 
the whole region, from the highest heron 
down to the weightless mangrove island 
with bright green leaves edged neatly with bird-droppings 
like illumination in silver, 
and down to the suggestively Gothic arches of the mangrove roots
and the beautiful pea-green back-pasture 
where occasionally a fish jumps, like a wildflower 
in an ornamental spray of spray; 
this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope: 
it does look like heaven.
But a skeletal lighthouse standing there in black and white clerical dress, who lives on his nerves, thinks he knows better.
He thinks that hell rages below his iron feet, that that is why the shallow water is so warm, and he knows that heaven is not like this.
Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare and when it gets dark he will remember something strongly worded to say on the subject.