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Best Famous Husband Poems

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

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by Anna Akhmatova | |

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.
This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.
My husband, returning, had quietly said, "He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home; They'd found him under the old oak's dome.
I pity the queen.
He, so young, past away!.
.
.
During one night her black hair turned to grey.
" He found his pipe on a warm fire-place, And quietly left for his usual race.
Now my daughter will wake up and rise -- Mother will look in her dear grey eyes.
.
.
And poplars by windows rustle as sing, "Never again will you see your young king.
.
.
"


by | |

The Noble Balm

HIGH-SPIRITED friend  
I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: 
Your fate hath found 
A gentler and more agile hand to tend 
The cure of that which is but corporal; 5 
And doubtful days which were named critical  
Have made their fairest flight 
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind Wrapp'd in this paper lie 10 Which in the taking if you misapply You are unkind.
Your covetous hand Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd Must now be rein'd.
15 True valour doth her own renown command In one full action; nor have you now more To do than be a husband of that store.
Think but how dear you bought This fame which you have caught: 20 Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.
'Tis wisdom and that high For men to use their fortune reverently Even in youth.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

To A Husband

 This is to the crown and blessing of my life,
The much loved husband of a happy wife;
To him whose constant passion found the art
To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart,
And to the world by tenderest proof discovers
They err, who say that husbands can't be lovers.
With such return of passion, as is due, Daphnis I love, Daphinis my thoughts pursue; Daphnis, my hopes and joys are bounded all in you.
Even I, for Daphnis' and my promise' sake, What I in woman censure, undertake.
But this from love, not vanity proceeds; You know who writes, and I who 'tis that reads.
Judge not my passion by my want of skill: Many love well, though they express it ill; And I your censure could with pleasure bear, Would you but soon return, and speak it here.


by Lady Mary Chudleigh | |

To the Ladies.

 WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name : 
For when that fatal knot is ty'd, 
Which nothing, nothing can divide : 
When she the word obey has said, 
And man by law supreme has made, 
Then all that's kind is laid aside, 
And nothing left but state and pride : 
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows, 
And all his innate rigour shows : 
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak, 
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make, And never any freedom take : But still be govern'd by a nod, And fear her husband as a God : Him still must serve, him still obey, And nothing act, and nothing say, But what her haughty lord thinks fit, Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state, And all the fawning flatt'rers hate : Value yourselves, and men despise : You must be proud, if you'll be wise.


by Walter de la Mare | |

Alone

 Over the fence, the dead settle in
for a journey.
Nine o'clock.
You are alone for the first time today.
Boys asleep.
Husband out.
A beer bottle sweats in your hand, and sea lavender clogs the air with perfume.
Think of yourself.
Your arms rest with nothing to do after weeks spent attending to others.
Your thoughts turn to whether butter will last the week, how much longer the car can run on its partial tank of gas.


by | |

I Had A Little Husband


I had a little husband no bigger than my thumb,
I put him in a pint pot, and there I bid him drum,
I bought a little handkerchief to wipe his little nose,
And a pair of little garters to tie his little hose.


by | |

The Old Woman Of Surrey

 

There was an old woman in Surrey,
Who was morn, noon, and night in a hurry;
    Called her husband a fool,
    Drove the children to school,
The worrying old woman of Surrey.


by Ben Jonson | |

On Sir Voluptuous Beast


XXV.
 ? ON SIR VOLUPTUOUS BEAST.
  
While BEAST instructs his fair and innocent wife,
In the past pleasures of his sensual life,
Telling the motions of each petticoat,
And how his Ganymede mov'd, and how his goat,
And now her hourly her own cucquean makes,
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes :
What doth he else, but say, Leave to be chaste,
Just wife, and, to change me, make woman's haste.



[AJ Notes:
Ganymede, in Greek mythology, a beautiful shepherd boy
        with whom Zeus fell in love.
Cucquean, n.
[Cuckold + queen], a woman whose
        husband is unfaithful to her.
]


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

An Ancient Gesture

 I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day And undoing it all through the night; Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight; And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light, And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears; There is simply nothing else to do.
And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique, In the very best tradition, classic, Greek; Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope.
.
.
Penelope, who really cried.


by Carolyn Kizer | |

Poets Household

 1

The stout poet tiptoes
On the lawn.
Surprisingly limber In his thick sweater Like a middle-age burglar.
Is the young robin injured? 2 She bends to feed the geese Revealing the neck’s white curve Below her curled hair.
Her husband seems not to watch, But she shimmers in his poem.
3 A hush is on the house, The only noise, a fern, Rustling in a vase.
On the porch, the fierce poet Is chanting words to himself.


by Mercy Otis Warren | |

Mrs. Simple after her arrival at Halifax

Modest! Polite! Genteel! Heavens what deceit
Dwells in the breast of those I termed grat!
But now too late, my shame and grief appear.
I'm lost! Undone! Stopped short in my career.
A barn my dwelling, paltry fish my food, With insuylts, scorn, and execrations lewd.
Oh sad disgrace! But this is not the worst.
I'm by my husband and my daughter cursed.
Our Bashaw, to, forever in a tease, Vents his dire spleen on us, poor refugees.
Accursed state, from towering hopes I've fell, To her with transports and such devils dwell.
One tear my injured country week for me, And for that tear, may you be ever free.


by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | |

The Widows Lament In Springtime

 Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers load the cherry branches and color some bushes yellow and some red but the grief in my heart is stronger than they for though they were my joy formerly, today I notice them and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me that in the meadows, at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance, he saw trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like to go there and fall into those flowers and sink into the marsh near them.


by Walt Whitman | |

I Sit and Look Out.

 I SIT and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame; 
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after
 deeds
 done; 
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt,
 desperate; 
I see the wife misused by her husband—I see the treacherous seducer of young women; 
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid—I see these
 sights on
 the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and prisoners; 
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be
 kill’d, to
 preserve the lives of the rest; 
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor,
 and
 upon
 negroes, and the like; 
All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out upon, 
See, hear, and am silent.


by Walt Whitman | |

To You.

 LET us twain walk aside from the rest; 
Now we are together privately, do you discard ceremony, 
Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed to none—Tell me the whole story, 
Tell me what you would not tell your brother, wife, husband, or physician.


by Walt Whitman | |

Among the Multitude.

 AMONG the men and women, the multitude, 
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs, 
Acknowledging none else—not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I
 am; 
Some are baffled—But that one is not—that one knows me.
Ah, lover and perfect equal! I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections; And I, when I meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you.


by Walt Whitman | |

Base of all Metaphysics The.

 AND now, gentlemen, 
A word I give to remain in your memories and minds, 
As base, and finale too, for all metaphysics.
(So, to the students, the old professor, At the close of his crowded course.
) Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems, Kant having studied and stated—Fichte and Schelling and Hegel, Stated the lore of Plato—and Socrates, greater than Plato, And greater than Socrates sought and stated—Christ divine having studied long, I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems, See the philosophies all—Christian churches and tenets see, Yet underneath Socrates clearly see—and underneath Christ the divine I see, The dear love of man for his comrade—the attraction of friend to friend, Of the well-married husband and wife—of children and parents, Of city for city, and land for land.


by Louise Gluck | |

Midnight

 Speak to me, aching heart: what
Ridiculous errand are you inventing for yourself
Weeping in the dark garage
With your sack of garbage: it is not your job
To take out the garbage, it is your job
To empty the dishwasher.
You are showing off Again, Exactly as you did in childhood--where Is your sporting side, your famous Ironic detachment? A little moonlight hits The broken window, a little summer moonlight, Tender Murmurs from the earth with its ready Sweetnesses-- Is this the way you communicate With your husband, not answering When he calls, or is this the way the heart Behaves when it grieves: it wants to be Alone with the garbage? If I were you, I'd think ahead.
After fifteen years, His voice could be getting tired; some night If you don't answer, someone else will answer.


by Suheir Hammad | |

4:02 p.m.

 poem supposed to be about
one minute and the lives of three women in it
writing it and up
the block a woman killed
by her husband

poem now about one minute
and the lives of four women
in it

haitian mother
she walks through
town carrying her son's
head—banging it against
her thigh calling out 
creole come see, see what
they've done to my flesh
holds on to him grip tight
through hair wool
his head all that's 
left of her

in tunisia
she folds pay up into stocking
washes his european semen
off her head
hands her heart to god
and this month's rent to mother
sings berber the gold
haired one favored me, rode
and ripped my flesh, i now
have food to eat

brooklyn lover
stumbles—streets ragged under sneakers
she carries her heart
banged up against
thighs crying ghetto
look, look what's been done with
my flesh, my trust, humanity,
somebody tell me
something good


by Erica Jong | |

Autobiographical

 The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears as husband, lover analyst & muse, as father, son & maybe even God & surely death.
All this is true.
The man you turn to in the dark is many men.
This is an open secret women share & yet agree to hide as if they might then hide it from themselves.
I will not hide.
I write in the nude.
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor's name is Love.


by Erica Jong | |

Parable Of The Four-Poster

 Because she wants to touch him, 
she moves away.
Because she wants to talk to him, she keeps silent.
Because she wants to kiss him, she turns away & kisses a man she does not want to kiss.
He watches thinking she does not want him.
He listens hearing her silence.
He turns away thinking her distant & kisses a girl he does not want to kiss.
They marry each other - A four-way mistake.
He goes to bed with his wife thinking of her.
Sher goes to bed with her husband thinking of him.
-& all this in a real old-fashioned four-poster bed.
Do they live unhappily ever after? Of course.
Do they undo their mistakes? Never.
Who is the victim here? Love is the victim.
Who is the villian? Love that never dies.


by Erica Jong | |

Colder

 He was six foot four, and forty-six
and even colder than he thought he was
James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks

Not that I cared about the other woman.
Those perfumed breasts with hearts of pure rock salt.
Lot's wives- all of them.
I didn't care if they fondled him at parties, eased him in at home between a husband & a child, sucked him dry with vacuum cleaner kisses.
It was the coldness that I minded, though he's warned me.
"I'm cold," He said- (as if that helped any).
But he was colder than he thought he was.
Cold sex.
A woman has to die & be exhumed four times a week to know the meaning of it.
His hips are razors his pelvic bones are knives, even his elbows could cut butter.
Cold flows from his mouth like a cloud of carbon dioxide.
Hie penis is pure dry ice which turns to smoke.
His face hands over my face- An ice carving.
One of these days he'll shatter or he'll melt.


by David Lehman | |

April 21

 I'm a very average person,
and I think most people are.
I vote with the common man.
I have two kids, a boy and a girl.
Last Sunday I played golf with the boss.
Hey, it beats working.
I'm his wife.
I may be brainless but I'm her husband.
I played golf with her Last Sunday I played golf with the boss and it was the first warm morning in May and like every other moron driving a lawnmower I'm their husband.
I may be brainless but I'm their wife.
I'm their mother.
I have two kids, a boy and a girl, and it was the first warm morning in May and I think most people are like every other moron driving a lawnmower.
I'm a very average person.
I vote with the common man.
Hey, it beats working.


by Robert Lowell | |

To Speak of Woe That Is in Marriage

It is the future generation that presses into being by means of these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours.
Schopenhauer The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms.
Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes, and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes, free-lancing out along the razor's edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust.
.
.
It's the injustice.
.
.
he is so unjust- Whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him trick? Each night now I tie ten dollars and his car key to my thigh.
.
.
Gored by the climacteric of his want, he stalls above me like an elephant.


by Robert Lowell | |

To Speak of Woe That Is in Marriage

 "It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
 these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours.
" --Schopenhauer "The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms.
Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes, and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes, free-lancing out along the razor's edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust.
.
.
It's the injustice .
.
.
he is so unjust-- whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie ten dollars and his car key to my thigh.
.
.
.
Gored by the climacteric of his want, he stalls above me like an elephant.
"


by Ogden Nash | |

The Joyous Malingerer

 Who is the happy husband? Why, indeed,
'Tis he who's useless in the time of need;
Who, asked to unclasp a bracelet or a neckless,
Contrives to be utterly futile, fumbling, feckless,
Or when a zipper nips his loved one's back
Cannot restore the zipper to its track.
Another time, not wishing to be flayed, She will not use him as a lady's maid.
Stove-wise he's the perpetual backward learner Who can't turn on or off the proper burner.
If faced with washing up he never gripes, But simply drops more dishes than he wipes.
She finds his absence preferable to his aid, And thus all mealtime chores doth he evade.
He can, attempting to replace a fuse, Black out the coast from Boston to Newport News, Or, hanging pictures, be the rookie wizard Who fills the parlor with a plaster blizzard.
He'll not again be called to competition With decorator or with electrician.
At last it dawns upon his patient spouse He's better at his desk than round the house.