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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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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 Constantine P Cavafy | |

Half An Hour

 I never had you, nor will I ever have you
I suppose.
A few words, an approach as in the bar yesterday, and nothing more.
It is, undeniably, a pity.
But we who serve Art sometimes with intensity of mind, and of course only for a short while, we create pleasure which almost seems real.
So in the bar the day before yesterday -- the merciful alcohol was also helping much -- I had a perfectly erotic half-hour.
And it seems to me that you understood, and stayed somewhat longer on purpose.
This was very necessary.
Because for all the imagination and the wizard alcohol, I needed to see your lips as well, I needed to have your body close.


by A S J Tessimond | |

Earthfast

 Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze Is pinned to the centre.
They write their euclidean music standing With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.


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.


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


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Among

"Among the people, there will be someone like a poetry, like an imagination that is neither perceived as real nor present to the senses, when it comes true and visible, it is the Divine gift and reward of one's inner wishes, desires and prayers.
" Ehsan Sehgal


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


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.


by Thomas Hood | |

On Mistress Nicely a Pattern for Housekeepers

 She was a woman peerless in her station, 
With household virtues wedded to her name; 
Spotless in linen, grass-bleached in her fame; 
And pure and clear-starched in her conversation; 
Thence in my Castle of Imagination 
She dwells for evermore, the dainty dame, 
To keep all airy draperies from shame 
And all dream furnitures in preservation: 

There walketh she with keys quite silver bright, 
In perfect hose and shoes of seemly black, 
Apron and stomacher of lily white, 
And decent order follows in her track: 
The burnished plate grows lustrous in her sight, 
And polished floors and tables shine her back.


by Denise Levertov | |

In Mind

 There's in my mind a woman
of innocence, unadorned but

fair-featured and smelling of
apples or grass.
She wears a utopian smock or shift, her hair is light brown and smooth, and she is kind and very clean without ostentation- but she has no imagination And there's a turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.


by Denise Levertov | |

Everything That Acts Is Actual

 From the tawny light
from the rainy nights
from the imagination finding
itself and more than itself
alone and more than alone
at the bottom of the well where the moon lives,
can you pull me

into December? a lowland
of space, perception of space
towering of shadows of clouds blown upon
clouds over new ground, new made
under heavy December footsteps? the only
way to live?

The flawed moon acts on the truth, and makes
an autumn of tentative silences.
You lived, but somewhere else, your presence touched others, ring upon ring, and changed.
Did you think I would not change? The black moon turns away, its work done.
A tenderness, unspoken autumn.
We are faithful only to the imagination.
What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth.
What holds you to what you see of me is that grasp alone.


by Amy Levy | |

Ballade of a Special Edition

 He comes; I hear him up the street--
Bird of ill omen, flapping wide
The pinion of a printed sheet,
His hoarse note scares the eventide.
Of slaughter, theft, and suicide He is the herald and the friend; Now he vociferates with pride-- A double murder in Mile End! A hanging to his soul is sweet; His gloating fancy's fain to bide Where human-freighted vessels meet, And misdirected trains collide.
With Shocking Accidents supplied, He tramps the town from end to end.
How often have we heard it cried-- A double murder in Mile End.
War loves he; victory or defeat, So there be loss on either side.
His tale of horrors incomplete, Imagination's aid is tried.
Since no distinguished man has died, And since the Fates, relenting, send No great catastrophe, he's spied This double murder in Mile End.
Fiend, get thee gone! no more repeat Those sounds which do mine ears offend.
It is apocryphal, you cheat, Your double murder in Mile End.


by Elinor Wylie | |

The Falcon

 Why should my sleepy heart be taught 
To whistle mocking-bird replies? 
This is another bird you've caught, 
Soft-feathered, with a falcon's eyes.
The bird Imagination, That flies so far, that dies so soon; Her wings are coloured like the sun, Her breast is coloured like the moon.
Weave her a chain of silver twist, And a little hood of scarlet wool, And let her perch upon your wrist, And tell her she is beautiful.


by Robert William Service | |

The Choice

 Some inherit manly beauty,
Some come into worldly wealth;
Some have lofty sense of duty,
Others boast exultant health.
Though the pick may be confusing, Health, wealth, charm or character, If you had the chance of choosing Which would you prefer? I'm not sold on body beauty, Though health I appreciate; Character and sense of duty I resign to Men of State.
I don't need a heap of money; Oh I know I'm hard to please.
Though to you it may seem funny, I want none of these.
No, give me Imagination, And the gift of weaving words Into patterns of creation, With the lilt of singing birds; Passion and the power to show it, Sense of life with love expressed: Let my be a bloody poet,-- You can keep the rest.


by Delmore Schwartz | |

The Ballet Of The Fifth Year

 Where the sea gulls sleep or indeed where they fly
Is a place of different traffic.
Although I Consider the fishing bay (where I see them dip and curve And purely glide) a place that weakens the nerve Of will, and closes my eyes, as they should not be (They should burn like the street-light all night quietly, So that whatever is present will be known to me), Nevertheless the gulls and the imagination Of where they sleep, which comes to creation In strict shape and color, from their dallying Their wings slowly, and suddenly rallying Over, up, down the arabesque of descent, Is an old act enacted, my fabulous intent When I skated, afraid of policemen, five years old, In the winter sunset, sorrowful and cold, Hardly attained to thought, but old enough to know Such grace, so self-contained, was the best escape to know.


by Delmore Schwartz | |

The Greatest Thing In North America

 This is the greatest thing in North America:
Europe is the greatest thing in North America!
High in the sky, dark in the heart, and always there
Among the natural powers of sunlight and of air,
Changing, second by second, shifting and changing the
 light,
Bring fresh rain to the stone of the library steps.
Under the famous names upon the pediment: Thales, Aristotle, Cicero, Augustine, Scotus, Galileo, Joseph, Odysseus, Hamlet, Columbus and Spinoza, Anna Karenina, Alyosha Karamazov, Sherlock Holmes.
And the last three also live upon the silver screen Three blocks away, in moonlight's artificial day, A double bill in the darkened palace whirled, And the veritable glittering light of the turning world's Burning mind and blazing imagination, showing, day by day And week after week the desires of the heart and mind Of all the living souls yearning everywhere From Canada to Panama, from Brooklyn to Paraguay, From Cuba to Vancouver, every afternoon and every night.


by George Meredith | |

Modern Love XXXVIII: Give to Imagination

 Give to imagination some pure light 
In human form to fix it, or you shame 
The devils with that hideous human game: 
Imagination urging appetite! 
Thus fallen have earth's greatest Gogmagogs, 
Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere: 
Imagination is the charioteer 
That, in default of better, drives the hogs.
So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love! My soul is arrowy to the light in you.
You know me that I never can renew The bond that woman broke: what would you have? 'Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between, Save petrifaction! What does Pity here? She killed a thing, and now it's dead, 'tis dear.
Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!


by Wallace Stevens | |

Final Soliloquy Of The Interior Paramour

 Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.
This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves, Out of all the indifferences, into one thing: Within a single thing, a single shawl Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth, A light, a power, the miraculous influence.
Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole, A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.
Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one.
.
.
How high that highest candle lights the dark.
Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.


by Barry Tebb | |

TO MARGARET UNFORGOTTEN

 Two nights I have dreamed of you

Once as an adolescent, evanescent

Yet tangible still to the spirit’s touch,

Then as a ten year old in the shared 

Secret garden of our imagination.


by Barry Tebb | |

LETTER FROM KIRKHEATON

 I have no camera but imagination’s tinted glass

I cannot pass this crumbling dry stone wall

Without a break to catch the vistas of the chain of Pennine hills

That splash their shades of colour like mercury in the rising glass.
The June sun focuses upon the vivid grass, The elder’s pale amber, the Victoria Tower’s finger On the pulse of past shared walks, Emley’s mast And the girl from there whose early death We somehow took the blame for: her reach from the beyond.
Still troubles us, the only ones to mourn you, Chris, Your corn-gold hair splayed like a longship’s mast You sailed to Valhalla through a sea of passing loves, The deceits of married men who took your beauty For a moment’s gift then cast you with your seven year old son adrift.
The sun has gone but birdsong blunders on As I take courage from the gone, the waving grass, The sculptured pylons of my shadowed past.