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Best Famous Imagination Poems

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

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Written 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


Written by Allen Ginsberg | |

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- 
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees 
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam- ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage- teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?


Written by A R Ammons | |

An Improvisation For Angular Momentum

 Walking is like
imagination, a
single step
dissolves the circle
into motion; the eye here
and there rests
on a leaf,
gap, or ledge,
everything flowing
except where
sight touches seen:
stop, though, and
reality snaps back
in, locked hard,
forms sharply
themselves, bushbank,
dentree, phoneline,
definite, fixed,
the self, too, then
caught real, clouds
and wind melting
into their directions,
breaking around and
over, down and out,
motions profound,
alive, musical!

Perhaps the death mother like the birth mother
does not desert us but comes to tend
and produce us, to make room for us
and bear us tenderly, considerately,
through the gates, to see us through,
to ease our pains, quell our cries,
to hover over and nestle us, to deliver
us into the greatest, most enduring
peace, all the way past the bother of
recollection,
beyond the finework of frailty,
the mishmash house of the coming & going,
creation's fringes,
the eddies and curlicues


More great poems below...

Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Melancholia

 The sickness of desire, that in dark days 
Looks on the imagination of despair, 
Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise; 
Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care.
Incertainty that once gave scope to dream Of laughing enterprise and glory untold, Is now a blackness that no stars redeem, A wall of terror in a night of cold.
Fool! thou that hast impossibly desired And now impatiently despairest, see How nought is changed: Joy's wisdom is attired Splendid for others' eyes if not for thee: Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled: If they delite thee not, 'tis thou art dead.


Written by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi | |

I Was Dead

i was dead i came alive i was tears i became laughter

all because of love when it arrived my temporal life from then on changed to eternal

love said to me you are not crazy enough you don’t fit this house

i went and became crazy crazy enough to be in chains

love said you are not intoxicated enough you don’t fit the group

i went and got drunk drunk enough to overflow with light-headedness

love said you are still too clever filled with imagination and skepticism

i went and became gullible and in fright pulled away from it all

love said you are a candle attracting everyone gathering every one around you

i am no more a candle spreading light i gather no more crowds and like smoke i am all scattered now

love said you are a teacher you are a head and for everyone you are a leader

i am no more not a teacher not a leader just a servant to your wishes

love said you already have your own wings i will not give you more feathers

and then my heart pulled itself apart and filled to the brim with a new light overflowed with fresh life

now even the heavens are thankful that because of love i have become the giver of light

 

- Rumi.
Ghazal number 1393, translated by Nader Khalili

 


Written by Marilyn L Taylor | |

The Geniuses Among Us

 They take us by surprise, these tall perennials
that jut like hollyhocks above the canopy
of all the rest of us—bright testimonials
to the scale of human possibility.
They come to bloom for every generation, blazing with extraordinary notions from the taproots of imagination— dazzling us with incandescent visions.
And soon, the things we never thought would happen start to happen: the solid fences of reality begin to soften, crumbling into fables and romances— and we turn away from where we've been to a new place, where light is pouring in.


Written by Marianne Moore | |

Poetry

 I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all 
 this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful.
When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base- ball fan, the statistician-- nor is it valid to discriminate against 'business documents and school-books'; all these phenomena are important.
One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be 'literalists of the imagination'--above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall we have it.
In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, you are interested in poetry.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET IX.

SONNET IX.

S' Amor novo consiglio non n' apporta.

HE DESCRIBES HIS SAD STATE.

If Love to give new counsel still delay,
My life must change to other scenes than these;
My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze,
Desire augments while all my hopes decay.
Thus ever grows my life, by night and day,
Despondent, and dismay'd, and ill at ease,
Harass'd and helmless on tempestuous seas,
With no sure escort on a doubtful way.
Her path a sick imagination guides,
Its true light underneath—ah, no! on high,
Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye,
Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hides
Those lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life's span
Is measured half, an old and broken man.
Macgregor.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXXII.

SONNET LXXII.

Ripensando a quel ch' oggi il ciel onora.

HE WOULD DIE OF GRIEF WERE SHE NOT SOMETIMES TO CONSOLE HIM BY HER PRESENCE.

To that soft look which now adorns the skies,
The graceful bending of the radiant head,
[Pg 299]The face, the sweet angelic accents fled,
That soothed me once, but now awake my sighs
Oh! when to these imagination flies,
I wonder that I am not long since dead!
'Tis she supports me, for her heavenly tread
Is round my couch when morning visions rise!
In every attitude how holy, chaste!
How tenderly she seems to hear the tale
Of my long woes, and their relief to seek!
But when day breaks she then appears in haste
The well-known heavenward path again to scale,
With moisten'd eye, and soft expressive cheek!
Morehead.
'Tis sweet, though sad, my trembling thoughts to raise,
As memory dwells upon that form so dear,
And think that now e'en angels join to praise
The gentle virtues that adorn'd her here;
That face, that look, in fancy to behold—
To hear that voice that did with music vie—
The bending head, crown'd with its locks of gold—
All, all that charm'd, now but sad thoughts supply.
How had I lived her bitter loss to weep,
If that pure spirit, pitying my woe,
Had not appear'd to bless my troubled sleep,
Ere memory broke upon the world below?
What pure, what gentle greetings then were mine!
In what attention wrapt she paused to hear
My life's sad course, of which she bade me speak!
But as the dawn from forth the East did shine
Back to that heaven to which her way was clear,
She fled,—while falling tears bedew'd each cheek.
Wrottesley.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET XXXIV.

SONNET XXXIV.

Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov' era.

SOARING IN IMAGINATION TO HEAVEN, HE MEETS LAURA, AND IS HAPPY.

Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays
She, whom I seek but find on earth no more:
There, fairer still and humbler than before,
I saw her, in the third heaven's blessèd maze.
She took me by the hand, and "Thou shalt trace,
If hope not errs," she said, "this happy shore:
I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore,
And ere its evening closed my day's brief space.
What human heart conceives, my joys exceed;
Thee only I expect, and (what remain
Below) the charms, once objects of thy love.
"
Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed?
Such of her soft and hallow'd tones the chain,
From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move.
Wrangham.
[Pg 262] Thither my ecstatic thought had rapt me, where
She dwells, whom still on earth I seek in vain;
And there, with those whom the third heavens contain,
I saw her, much more kind, and much more fair.
My hand she took, and said: "Within this sphere,
If hope deceive me not, thou shalt again
With me reside: who caused thy mortal pain
Am I, and even in summer closed my year.
My bliss no human thought can understand:
Thee only I await; and, that erewhile
You held so dear, the veil I left behind.
"—
She ceased—ah why? Why did she loose my hand?
For oh! her hallow'd words, her roseate smile
In heaven had well nigh fix'd my ravish'd mind!
Charlemont.


Written by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Sounds of Imagination

I imagined I was a mountain 
Then I became a cloud over that mountain 
Lightning and thunder pummeled the mountain 
Pierced the heart of the earth, 
Becoming lava and exploding as a volcano.
I imagined I was a star Light traveling into space Then I grew as a tree With leaves of galaxies eating the light Becoming the angel of life and the bearer of light.
I imagined I was a black hole Flying through myself and swallowing myself While eating others to consume the abyss of energy But still, holding the whole galaxy in order Keeping billions of stars circling around me.
I imagined I was God for a millisecond And became speechless for a long time.


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

La Figlia che Piange

 O quam te memorem virgo.
.
.
STAND on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise— Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.


Written by Erin Belieu | |

Georgic on Memory

 Make your daily monument the Ego,
use a masochist's epistemology
of shame and dog-eared certainty
that others less exacting might forgo.
If memory's an elephant, then feed the animal.
Resist revision: the stand of feral raspberry, contraband fruit the crows stole, ferrying seed for miles .
.
.
No.
It was a broken hedge, not beautiful, sunlight tacking its leafy gut in loose sutures.
Lacking imagination, you'll take the pledge to remember - not the sexy, new idea of history, each moment swamped in legend, liable to judgment and erosion; still, an appealing view, to draft our lives, a series of vignettes where endings could be substituted - your father, unconvoluted by desire, not grown bonsai in regret, the bedroom of blue flowers left intact.
The room was nearly dark, the streetlight a sentinel at the white curtain, its night face implicated.
Do not retract this.
Something did happen.
You recall, can feel a stumbling over wet ground, the cave the needled branches made around your body, the creature you couldn't console.


Written by Emanuel Xavier | |

THE DEATH OF ART

 “Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.
” -critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry "the death of art.
” I am not a poet.
I want to be rich and buy things for my family.
Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life.
I am not a poet.
Georgia O' Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me.
I do not feel oppressed or depressed and no longer have anything to say about the President.
I am not a poet.
I do not like being called an "activist" because it takes away from those that are out on the streets protesting and fighting for our rights.
I am not a poet.
I eat poultry and fish and suck way too much dick to be considered a vegetarian.
I am not a poet.
I would most likely give my ass up in prison before trying to save it with poetry .
.
.
and I’d like it! Heck, I’d probably be inspired.
I am not a poet.
I may value peace but I will not simply use a pen to unleash my anger.
I would fuck somebody up if I had to.
I am not a poet.
I may have been abused and had a difficult life but I don’t want pity.
I believe laughter and love heals.
I am not a poet.
I am not dying.
I write a lot about AIDS and how it has affected my life but, despite the rumors, I am not positive.
Believe it or not, weight loss amongst sexually active gay men could still be a choice.
I am not a poet.
I do not get Kerouac or honestly care much for Bukowski.
I am not a poet.
I don’t spend my weekends reading and writing.
I like to go out and party.
I like to have a few cocktails but I do not have a drinking problem regardless of what borough, city or state I may wake up in.
I am not a poet.
I don’t need drugs to open up my imagination.
I've been a dealer and had a really bad habit but that was long before I started writing.
I am not a poet.
I can seriously only tolerate about half an hour of spoken word before I start tuning out and thinking about my grocery list or what my cats are up to.
I am not a poet.
I only do poetry events if I know there will be cute guys there and I always carry business cards.
I am not a poet according to the scholars and academics and Harold Bloom.
I only write to masturbate my mind.
After all, fucking yourself is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.
I am not a poet.
I am only trying to get attention and convince myself that poetry can save lives when my words simply and proudly contribute to “the death of art.


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Recognise

"Love does not recognise wisdom and beauty, it feels only heart beating, in which displays the imagination of beloved.
" Ehsan Sehgal