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Best Famous January Poems

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

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Written by Wallace Stevens | |

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter 
To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; 

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter 

Of the January sun; and not to think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves, 

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place 

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Written by Tanwir Phool | |


For Tanwir Phool's poetry see these links:

php http://urdunetjpn.
com/ur/category/tanwir-phool/ http://forum.
php?f=18&t=4969 ***************************************************************************** RUBA'I Jo lamHa guzartaa hai who keya detaa hai? Dauraaniya-e-zeest bataa detaa hai Aie Phool ! ghaTaa umr se ik aur baras Jaataa huwaa har saal sadaa detaa hai (From "DhuwaaN DhuwaaN Chehray" published in April,1999) English translation.
What is given by the moment passed? It tells one the spent period of his or her life.
Every passing year is saying that one more year is being decreased / deducted from one's life.
**************** RUBA'I Tu maaNg sadaa SuHbat-e-bad Khoo se panaah Saathi jo buraa ho to who kartaa hai tabaah ShaitaaN se bhalaa'i ki tawaqqu hai tujhay ! LAA HAULA WALAA QUWWATA ILLAA BILLAH (From "Gulshan-e-SuKhan" published in January,1970) English translation You should seek riddance from the company of sinful person.
If the companion is evil-minded ,you will be ruined.
Do you expect beneficence from the Devil? There is no source of strength save that of God.
(Poet : Tanwir Phool ) http://duckduckgo.

Written by Omer Tarin | |

For Tahira Mazhar Ali Khan , RIP (5th January 1925-23rd March 2015)

Some souls pass away so quietly that not even the suspiration of their fleeting wings
is heard, or known, to us, among so many other activities, so many other things; 

so, this was one such soul, that breathed its last, effortlessly and without pain, 
melting away into the unknown, rising to the snowy Himalayan heights, shining forth beyond these dusty plains; 

only now, people seem to have woken up to her plaudits, her praise, 
something she never sought in her long and eventful life, through years of joy and strife

yet all this is somehow her due, more than many who falsely claim it 
and its no small achievement, hers, at so many levels, when we think of it- 

personal and national-- daughter, wife, mother; and an inspiring enabling guide
to millions, who flounder in the shallows, or sink with each fickle tide; 

for these, the poor, the helpless, the friendless, the outcast, 
she brought hope and comfort and a vision eternal, one that will last 
and outlive us all.

(BR magazine 25th March 2015)

More great poems below...

Written by Julie Hill Alger | |

Marketplace Report January 23, 1991

The new war is a week old.
Bombs fall on Baghdad, missiles on Tel Aviv.
The voice on the radio says the armament dealers of Europe are hopeful that a longer war will be good for business.
They say, as fighting continues there will be wear and tear on matériel.
Spare parts must be manufactured, as well as replacements for equipment blown apart, shattered, set afire.
Prudently, the merchants consult their spreadsheets.
They guard against euphoria and prepare for a possible downside to this bonanza: the Allies are shooting at their best customer, Saddam Hussein.
If he loses their market will be depressed.
There is also a danger of restrictions on sales to angry dictators.
Thus, the longterm effects of the war may not all be positive.

Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 [To the memory of an excellent and beautiful 
girl of 17, belonging to the village of Brienen, who perished on 
the 13th of January, 1809, whilst giving help on the occasion of 
the breaking up of the ice on the Rhine, and the bursting of the 
dam of Cleverham.
"I'll bear thee, mother, across the swell, 'Tis not yet high, I can wade right well.
" "Remember us too! in what danger are we! Thy fellow-lodger, and children three! The trembling woman!--Thou'rt going away!" She bears the mother across the spray.
"Quick! haste to the mound, and awhile there wait, I'll soon return, and all will be straight.
The mound's close by, and safe from the wet; But take my goat too, my darling pet!" THE DAM DISSOLVES, THE ICE-PLAIN GROWLS, THE FLOODS DASH ON, THE WATER HOWLS.
She places the mother safe on the shore; Fair Susan then turns tow'rd the flood once more.
"Oh whither? Oh whither? The breadth fast grows, Both here and there the water o'erflows.
Fair Susan returns by the way she had tried, The waves roar around, but she turns not aside; She reaches the mound, and the neighbour straight, But for her and the children, alas, too late! THE DAM DISAPPEAR'D,--LIKE A SEA IT GROWLS, ROUND THE HILLOCK IN CIRCLING EDDIES IT HOWLS.
The foaming abyss gapes wide, and whirls round, The women and children are borne to the ground; The horn of the goat by one is seized fast, But, ah, they all must perish at last! Fair Susan still stands-there, untouch'd by the wave; The youngest, the noblest, oh, who now will save? Fair Susan still stands there, as bright as a star, But, alas! all hope, all assistance is far.
The foaming waters around her roar, To save her, no bark pushes off from the shore.
Her gaze once again she lifts up to Heaven, Then gently away by the flood she is driven.
The rushing water the wilderness covers, Yet Susan's image still o'er it hovers.
-- The water sinks, the plains re-appear.
Fair Susan's lamented with many a tear,-- May he who refuses her story to tell, Be neglected in life and in death as well! 1809.

Written by Richard Wilbur | |

Orchard Trees January

 It's not the case, though some might wish it so
Who from a window watch the blizzard blow

White riot through their branches vague and stark,
That they keep snug beneath their pelted bark.
They take affliction in until it jells To crystal ice between their frozen cells, And each of them is inwardly a vault Of jewels rigorous and free of fault, Unglimpsed until in May it gently bears A sudden crop of green-pronged solitaires.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Calendar of Sonnets: January

 O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire, 
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn 
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn 
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire 
The streams than under ice.
June could not hire Her roses to forego the strength they learn In sleeping on thy breast.
No fires can burn The bridges thou dost lay where men desire In vain to build.
O Heart, when Love's sun goes To northward, and the sounds of singing cease, Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace.
Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose.
Walk boldly on the white untrodden snows, The winter is the winter's own release.

Written by Mary Darby Robinson | |

January 1795

 Pavement slipp'ry, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.
Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ; Courtiers clinging and voracious ; Misers scarce the wretched heeding ; Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.
Wives who laugh at passive spouses ; Theatres, and meeting-houses ; Balls, where simp'ring misses languish ; Hospitals, and groans of anguish.
Arts and sciences bewailing ; Commerce drooping, credit failing ; Placemen mocking subjects loyal ; Separations, weddings royal.
Authors who can't earn a dinner ; Many a subtle rogue a winner ; Fugitives for shelter seeking ; Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.
Taste and talents quite deserted ; All the laws of truth perverted ; Arrogance o'er merit soaring ; Merit silently deploring.
Ladies gambling night and morning ; Fools the works of genius scorning ; Ancient dames for girls mistaken, Youthful damsels quite forsaken.
Some in luxury delighting ; More in talking than in fighting ; Lovers old, and beaux decrepid ; Lordlings empty and insipid.
Poets, painters, and musicians ; Lawyers, doctors, politicians : Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes, Seeking fame by diff'rent roads.
Gallant souls with empty purses ; Gen'rals only fit for nurses ; School-boys, smit with martial spirit, Taking place of vet'ran merit.
Honest men who can't get places, Knaves who shew unblushing faces ; Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded ; Candour spurn'd, and art rewarded.

Written by Edwin Morgan | |


 My shadow --
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire so that I got up and looked out half-asleep at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below? Without fire Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging to my elbow, your eyes spoke what I could not grasp -- Nothing, if you were here! The wind of the early quiet merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets? Are you at my heels? Are you here? And I throw back the sheets.

Written by Ogden Nash | |

One Third Of The Calendar

 In January everything freezes.
We have two children.
Both are she'ses.
This is our January rule: One girl in bed, and one in school.
In February the blizzard whirls.
We own a pair of little girls.
Blessings upon of each the head ---- The one in school and the one in bed.
March is the month of cringe and bluster.
Each of our children has a sister.
They cling together like Hansel and Gretel, With their noses glued to the benzoin kettle.
April is made of impetuous waters And doctors looking down throats of daughters.
If we had a son too, and a thoroughbred, We'd have a horse, And a boy, And two girls In bed.

Written by Dorothy Parker | |


 The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I'll be safe in hell.
Like January weather, The years will bite and smart, And pull your bones together To wrap your chattering heart.
The pretty stuff you're made of Will crack and crease and dry.
The thing you are afraid of Will look from every eye.
You will go faltering after The bright, imperious line, And split your throat on laughter, And burn your eyes with brine.
You will be frail and musty With peering, furtive head, Whilst I am young and lusty Among the roaring dead.

Written by Dylan Thomas | |

January 1939

 Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms, An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires, Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food, Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair In a wind that plucked a goose, Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs, Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the bum city, That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea Secretly in statuary, Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street, Not spin to stare at an old year Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries Like the mauled pictures of boys? The salt person and blasted place I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble An upright man in the antipodes Or spray-based and rock-chested sea: Over the past table I repeat this present grace.

Written by Anne Sexton | |


 I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow came down like stars in small calcium fragments, we were in our own bodies (that room that will bury us) and you were in my body (that room that will outlive us) and at first I rubbed your feet dry with a towel becuase I was your slave and then you called me princess.
Princess! Oh then I stood up in my gold skin and I beat down the psalms and I beat down the clothes and you undid the bridle and you undid the reins and I undid the buttons, the bones, the confusions, the New England postcards, the January ten o’clcik night, and we rose up like wheat, acre after acre of gold, and we harvested, we harvested.

Written by Robert Southey | |

Ode Written On The First Of January

 Come melancholy Moralizer--come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now

Come Moralizer to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
For well the funeral song
Befits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round With clamorous joy to welcome in this day, This consecrated day, To Mirth and Indolence.
Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, Whilst her unclouded sun Illumes thy summer day, Canst thou rejoice--rejoice that Time flies fast? That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun? That swift the stream of Years Rolls to Eternity? If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish, If Power be thine, remember what thou art-- Remember thou art Man, And Death thine heritage! Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, Her eye all eloquence, Her voice all harmony? Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove! Winter is dark and cold-- Where now the charms of Spring? Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid With stern and frowning front Appals the shuddering soul? And would'st thou bid me court her faery form When, as she sports her in some happier mood, Her many-colour'd robes Dance varying to the Sun? Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height, With anxious gaze survey The fruitful far-off vale.
Oh there are those who love the pensive song To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant! There are who at this hour Will love to contemplate! For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, Rejoicing when the fading orb of day Is sunk again in night, That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction's heavy load With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows The World a pilgrimage, The Grave the inn of rest.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | |

The Wreck of the Indian Chief

 'Twas on the 8th of January 1881,
That a terrific gale along the English Channel ran,
And spread death and disaster in its train,
Whereby the "Indian Chief" vessel was tossed on the raging main.
She was driven ashore on the Goodwin Sands, And the good captain fearlessly issued hie commands, "Come, my men, try snd save the vessel, work with all your might," Although the poor sailors on board were in a fearful plight.
They were expecting every minute her hull would give way, And they, poor souls, felt stricken with dismay, And the captain and some of the crew clung to the main masts, Where they were exposed to the wind's cold blasts.
A fierce gale was blowing and the sea ran mountains high, And the sailors on board heaved many a bitter sigh; And in the teeth of the storm the lifeboat was rowed bravely Towards the ship in distress, which was awful to see.
The ship was lifted high on the crest of a wave, While the sailors tried hard their lives to save, And implored God to save them from a watery grave, And through fear eome of them began to rave.
The waves were miles long in length; And the sailors had lost nearly all their strength, By striving hard their lives to save, From being drowned in the briny wave.
A ration of rum and a biscuit was served out to each man, And the weary night passed, and then appeared the morning dawn; And when the lifeboat hove in sight a sailor did shout, "Thank God, there's she at last without any doubt.
" But, with weakness and the biting cold, Several of fhe sailors let go their hold; And, alas, fell into the yawning sea, Poor souls! and were launched into eternity.
Oh, it was a most fearful plight, For the poor sailors to be in the rigging all night; While the storm fiend did laugh and roar, And the big waves lashed the ship all o'er.
And as the lifeboat drew near, The poor sailors raised a faint cheer; And all the lifeboat men saw was a solitary mast, And some sailors clinging to it, while the ahip was sinking fast.
Charles Tait, the coxswain of the lifeboat, was a skilful boatman, And the bravery he and his crew displayed was really grand; For his men were hardy and a very heroic set, And for bravery their equals it would be hard to get.
But, thank God, out of twenty-nine eleven were saved, Owing to the way the lifeboat men behaved; And when they landed with the eleven wreckers at Ramsgate, The people's joy was very great.