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Best Famous Grandson Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Czeslaw Milosz | |

Forget

 Forget the suffering
You caused others.
Forget the suffering Others caused you.
The waters run and run, Springs sparkle and are done, You walk the earth you are forgetting.
Sometimes you hear a distant refrain.
What does it mean, you ask, who is singing? A childlike sun grows warm.
A grandson and a great-grandson are born.
You are led by the hand once again.
The names of the rivers remain with you.
How endless those rivers seem! Your fields lie fallow, The city towers are not as they were.
You stand at the threshold mute.


by Grace Paley | |

Here

 Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face

how did this happen
well that's who I wanted to be

at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration

that's my old man across the yard
he's talking to the meter reader
he's telling him the world's sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips.


by Du Fu | |

Official at Stone Moat Village

Dusk stay at stone moat village
Be official night capture people
Old man over wall escape
Old woman out door look
Official shout with what anger
Woman cry with what grief
Hear woman forward send words
Three sons Ye city defend
One son send letter to
Two sons newly battle dead
Survive one for now sneak life
Dead ones great end finished
House in become no person
Only be breast on grandson
Have grandson mother not go
come and go without whole skirt
Old woman strength though decline
Ask follow officer night return
Urgent should Heyang work
Like produce prepare morning meal
Night long speech sound exhaust
Seem hear sob whimpering
Sky bright up before road
Alone with old man part


At dusk, I stopped to rest at Stone Moat village,
An officer came that night to capture men.
The old man escaped by climbing over the wall,
The old wife went to look outside the door.
How angrily the officer now shouted,
How bitterly the wife did weep out loud!
I heard the words the wife was sending forth:
"Three sons of mine were sent to defend Yecheng.
From one of my sons, a letter has arrived,
The other two have recently died in battle.
The one who survived has kept alive for now,
The dead ones though have met their final end.
Inside this house, there are no people left,
There's just a grandson suckling on the breast.
The grandson's mother also cannot go,
She goes about without a skirt intact.
Although I'm an old woman with failing strength,
I ask you to take me with you tonight.
If you should need workers at Heyang,
I can prepare the morning meal for you.
"
Her voice then died away into the night,
I seemed to hear her sob and whimper still.
At dawn, before I set upon the road,
It's only from the old man that I part.


More great poems below...

by Randall Jarrell | |

The Player Piano

 I ate pancakes one night in a Pancake House
Run by a lady my age.
She was gay.
When I told her that I came from Pasadena She laughed and said, "I lived in Pasadena When Fatty Arbuckle drove the El Molino bus.
" I felt that I had met someone from home.
No, not Pasadena, Fatty Arbuckle.
Who's that? Oh, something that we had in common Like -- like -- the false armistice.
Piano rolls.
She told me her house was the first Pancake House East of the Mississippi, and I showed her A picture of my grandson.
Going home -- Home to the hotel -- I began to hum, "Smile a while, I bid you sad adieu, When the clouds roll back I'll come to you.
" Let's brush our hair before we go to bed, I say to the old friend who lives in my mirror.
I remember how I'd brush my mother's hair Before she bobbed it.
How long has it been Since I hit my funnybone? had a scab on my knee? Here are Mother and Father in a photograph, Father's holding me.
.
.
.
They both look so young.
I'm so much older than they are.
Look at them, Two babies with their baby.
I don't blame you, You weren't old enough to know any better; If I could I'd go back, sit down by you both, And sign our true armistice: you weren't to blame.
I shut my eyes and there's our living room.
The piano's playing something by Chopin, And Mother and Father and their little girl Listen.
Look, the keys go down by themselves! I go over, hold my hands out, play I play -- If only, somehow, I had learned to live! The three of us sit watching, as my waltz Plays itself out a half-inch from my fingers.


by William Butler Yeats | |

Are You Content?

 I call on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent? Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff Set up the old stone Cross, That red-headed rector in County Down, A good man on a horse, Sandymount Corbets, that notable man Old William pollexfen, The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back, Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay In some good company, I who have always hated work, Smiling at the sea, Or demonstrate in my own life What Robert Browning meant By an old hunter talking with Gods; But I am not content.