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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.

Search for the best famous Imagination poems, articles about Imagination poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Imagination poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

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 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?


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


More great poems below...

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 Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) 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.


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.


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 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.


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.


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.


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 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

 


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 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 Wallace Stevens | |

To The One Of Fictive Music

 Sister and mother and diviner love,
And of the sisterhood of the living dead
Most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom,
And of the fragrant mothers the most dear
And queen, and of diviner love the day
And flame and summer and sweet fire, no thread
Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown
Its venom of renown, and on your head
No crown is simpler than the simple hair.
Now, of the music summoned by the birth That separates us from the wind and sea, Yet leaves us in them, until earth becomes, By being so much of the things we are, Gross effigy and simulacrum, none Gives motion to perfection more serene Than yours, out of our own imperfections wrought, Most rare, or ever of more kindred air In the laborious weaving that you wear.
For so retentive of themselves are men That music is intensest which proclaims The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom, And of all the vigils musing the obscure, That apprehends the most which sees and names, As in your name, an image that is sure, Among the arrant spices of the sun, O bough and bush and scented vine, in whom We give ourselves our likest issuance.
Yet not too like, yet not so like to be Too near, too clear, saving a little to endow Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs The difference that heavenly pity brings.
For this, musician, in your girdle fixed Bear other perfumes.
On your pale head wear A band entwining, set with fatal stones.
Unreal, give back to us what once you gave: The imagination that we spurned and crave.


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 Robert William Service | |

Imagination

 A gaunt and hoary slab of stone
 I found in desert place,
And wondered why it lay alone
 In that abandoned place.
Said I: 'Maybe a Palace stood Where now the lizards crawl, With courts of musky quietude And turrets tall.
Maybe where low the vultures wing 'Mid mosque and minaret, The proud pavilion of a King Was luminously set.
'Mid fairy fountains, alcoves dim, Upon a garnet throne He ruled,--and now all trace of him Is just this stone.
Ah well, I've done with wandering, But from a blousy bar I see with drunk imagining A Palace like a star.
I build it up from one grey stone With gardens hanging high, And dream .
.
.
Long, long ere Babylon It's King was I.


by Wislawa Szymborska | |

Pi

 The admirable number pi: 
three point one four one.
All the following digits are also just a start, five nine two because it never ends.
It can't be grasped, six five three five , at a glance, eight nine, by calculation, seven nine, through imagination, or even three two three eight in jest, or by comparison four six to anything two six four three in the world.
The longest snake on earth ends at thirty-odd feet.
Same goes for fairy tale snakes, though they make it a little longer.
The caravan of digits that is pi does not stop at the edge of the page, but runs off the table and into the air, over the wall, a leaf, a bird's nest, the clouds, straight into the sky, through all the bloatedness and bottomlessness.
Oh how short, all but mouse-like is the comet's tail! How frail is a ray of starlight, bending in any old space! Meanwhile two three fifteen three hundred nineteen my phone number your shirt size the year nineteen hundred and seventy-three sixth floor number of inhabitants sixty-five cents hip measurement two fingers a charade and a code, in which we find how blithe the trostle sings! and please remain calm, and heaven and earth shall pass away, but not pi, that won't happen, it still has an okay five, and quite a fine eight, and all but final seven, prodding and prodding a plodding eternity to last.


by Wislawa Szymborska | |

A Large Number

 Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is the way it's always been:
bad with large numbers.
It is still moved by particularity.
It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam, disclosing only random faces, while the rest go blindly by, unthought of, unpitied.
Not even a Dante could have stopped that.
So what do you do when you're not, even with all the muses on your side? Non omnis moriar—a premature worry.
Yet am I fully alive, and is that enough? It never has been, and even less so now.
I select by rejecting, for there's no other way, but what I reject, is more numerous, more dense, more intrusive than ever.
At the cost of untold losses—a poem, a sigh.
I reply with a whisper to a thunderous calling.
How much I am silent about I can't say.
A mouse at the foot of mother mountain.
Life lasts as long as a few lines of claws in the sand.
My dreams—even they are not as populous as they should be.
There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor.
Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.
A single hand turns a knob.
Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house.
I run from the threshold down into the quiet valley seemingly no one's—an anachronism by now.
Where does all this space still in me come from— that I don't know.


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 | |

TO MY WIFE

 I

You buy my freedom with your love.
With every book you catalogue or stamp My imagination hacks a strand from the hawser That for three years has held it In the grubbing estuary of mud and time.
Your early waking with tired eyes And late return at evening, all Contribute to the store of images I love you for: the irony being Your job is worse than mine Your talent more.
II I do not understand myself, the time, or you.
I cannot comprehend our love, shot through Like flying silk with flashes of gold light And the tattered backcloth of suffering.
Each night I remember our meeting; My hair ‘like iron wire’, the grey dust In the air of my house, the exact place On the carpet where I kissed you And how we talked on and on, Too much in love for love, Until the night was gone.
III We acted out our love By nearly going mad, Gave up the jobs we had To take a cottage on the moors At less than garage rent.
For food we learned to pledge our dreams And found, too late, the world redeems What it had lent.
By night the world unpicked The dream we wove by day, Each dawn we woke to find The stitching come away.
IV Two creatures from a bestiary Besieged our dream: A neighbour’s one-eyed cat That prowled outside to bring Its witch-like owner With her tapping stick.
Was the Bach we played too loud for her deaf ears, Or was it our love that howled her silence home? V We have re-built that house With blood.
We have sculptured that dream In stone.


by Barry Tebb | |

NEW YEAR POEM

 For Jeremy Reed



Rejection doesn’t lead me to dejection

But to inspiration via irritation

Or at least to a bit of naughty new year wit-

Oh isn’t it a shame my poetry’s not tame

Like Rupert’s or Jay’s - I never could

Get into their STRIDE just to much pride

To lick the arses of the poetry-of-earthers

Or the sad lady who runs KATABASIS from the back

Of a bike, gets shouted at by rude parkies

And writing huffy poems to prove it.
.
.
Oh to be acceptable and IN THE POETRY REVIEW Like Lavinia or Jo With double spreads And a glossy colour photo Instead I’m stuck in a bus queue at Morden London’s meridian point of zero imagination Actually it’s a bit like ACUMEN with the Oxleys Boasting about their 150,000 annual submissions- If what they print’s the best God help the rest.
.
.
) At least my Christmas post had - instead of a card From Jeremy Reed - his ELEGY FOR DAVID GASCOYNE - The best poem I’ve had by post in forty years And Jeremy’s best to date in my estimate - The English APOLLINAIRE - your ZONE, your SONG OF THE BADLY LOVED - sitting in a cafe in South End Green I send you this poem, Jeremy, sight unseen, A new year’s gift to you, pushing through To star galaxies still unmapped and to you, BW, Sonneteer of silence, huddled in the fourth month Of your outdoor vigil, measuring in blood, tears and rain Your syllable count in hour-glass of pain.


by Quincy Troupe | |

Poem Reaching For Something

 we walk through a calligraphy of hats slicing off foreheads
ace-deuce cocked, they slant, razor sharp, clean through imagination, our
spirits knee-deep in what we have forgotten entrancing our bodies now to
dance, like enraptured water lilies
the rhythm in liquid strides of certain looks
eyeballs rippling through breezes
riffing choirs of trees, where a trillion slivers of sunlight prance across
filigreeing leaves, a zillion voices of bamboo reeds, green with summer
saxophone bursts, wrap themselves, like transparent prisms of dew drops
around images, laced with pearls & rhinestones, dreams
& perhaps it is through this decoding of syllables that we learn speech
that sonorous river of broken mirrors carrying our dreams
assaulted by pellets of raindrops, prisons of words entrapping us
between parentheses — two bat wings curving cynical smiles

still, there is something here, that, perhaps, needs explaining
beyond the hopelessness of miles, the light at the end of a midnight tunnel —
where some say a speeding train is bulleting right at us ——
so where do the tumbling words spend themselves after they have spent
all meaning residing in the warehouse of language, after they have slipped
from our lips, like skiers on ice slopes, strung together words linking
themselves through smoke, where do the symbols they carry
stop everything, put down roots, cleanse themselves of everything
but clarity —— though here eye might be asking a little too much of any
poet's head, full as it were with double-entendres