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Best Famous Places Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

You Are Tired

You are tired 
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me then And we'll leave it far and far away- (Only you and I understand!) You have played (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break and- Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart- Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows And if you like The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah come with me! I'll blow you that wonderful bubble the moon That floats forever and a day; I'll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream Until I find the Only Flower Which shall keep (I think) your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea.


by Galway Kinnell | |

from Flying Home

3 
As this plane dragged 
its track of used ozone half the world long 
thrusts some four hundred of us 
toward places where actual known people 
live and may wait, 
we diminish down in our seats, 
disappeared into novels of lives clearer than ours, 
and yet we do not forget for a moment 
the life down there, the doorway each will soon enter: 
where I will meet her again 
and know her again, 
dark radiance with, and then mostly without, the stars.
Very likely she has always understood what I have slowly learned, and which only now, after being away, almost as far away as one can get on this globe, almost as far as thoughts can carry - yet still in her presence, still surrounded not so much by reminders of her as by things she had already reminded me of, shadows of her cast forward and waiting - can I try to express: that love is hard, that while many good things are easy, true love is not, because love is first of all a power, its own power, which continually must make its way forward, from night into day, from transcending union always forward into difficult day.
And as the plane descends, it comes to me in the space where tears stream down across the stars, tears fallen on the actual earth where their shining is what we call spirit, that once the lover recognizes the other, knows for the first time what is most to be valued in another, from then on, love is very much like courage, perhaps it is courage, and even perhaps only courage.
Squashed out of old selves, smearing the darkness of expectation across experience, all of us little thinkers it brings home having similar thoughts of landing to the imponderable world, the transoceanic airliner, resting its huge weight down, comes in almost lightly, to where with sudden, tiny, white puffs and long, black, rubberish smears all its tires know the home ground.


by Elizabeth Bishop | |

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day.
Accept the fluster of lost door keys the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther losing faster: places and names and where it was your meant to travel.
None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch.
And look! my last or next-to-last of three loved housed went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lose two cities lovely ones.
And vaster some realms I owned two rivers a continent.
I miss them but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice a gesture I love) I shan't have lied.
It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.


More great poems below...

by Dimitris Varos | |

Mind Games

 I am a waterfall in the desert.
A rain from a cloudless sky.
A well known but unborn child.
An insistence experience that you never had.
I play mind games with your brain.
When you strike the keys and remember the sea I come as indefinable memory.
When you look at your watch and the time has passed you feel me like a fleeting hallucination.
I play mind games with your brain.
I’m nesting behind your eyes.
I’m ranging through your dreams.
You are finding me in all of your desires.
In all of those are absent from you.
I play mind games with your brain.
I stand in the places that you cannot reach.
I exist where you cannot touch upon.
But I am what you always waiting for I m what holds your life on.
I play mind games with your brain.
But I swear this is not a fun.
I feel unbearable loneliness.
Because I do not have a body And you, that you have, refuse me yours.


by Razvan ?upa | |

pain is a foreign language

a romanian body knows how to sidestep decisions it feels
that in such cases it can no longer justify its comfortable suffering
for this with your entire body you must stay here until it’s very late
you can be a keychain or a gummed sticker
but one day the music of breathing will disappear
all on its own

or conversely

my hands ready to receive silence
like a sandwich I waited in the bus station
until I was on the verge of tears
the air had the freshness of new leaves
I’d prepared everything; men had taken their places
I just had to watch out for the arrow-swift hordes of evening
they were debating what part of me should be devoured first

they couldn’t believe it when I arose with easy strides
to take charge of matters
in my native language as on a skateboard

(translated from the Romanian by Adam J.
Sorkin with the poet, published in elimae, 10, 2010)


by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Journey Of The Magi

 'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
' And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped in away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no imformation, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt.
I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.


by Erin Belieu | |

The Hideous Chair

 This hideous,
upholstered in gift-wrap fabric, chromed
in places, design possibility

for the future canned ham.
Its genius wonderful, circa I993.
I've assumed a great many things: the perversity of choices, affairs I did or did not have.
But let the record show that I was happy.
O let the hideous chair stand! For the Chinese apothecary with his roots and fluids; for Paoul at the bank; for the young woman in Bailey's Drug, expert on henna; and Warren Beatty, tough, sleek stray.
For Fluff and Flo, drunk at noon, and the Am Vets lady reading her Vogue, the cholos on the corner where the 57 bus comes by, for their gratifying, cool appraisal and courtly manner when I pass.
Let the seat be comfortable but let the chair be hideous and stand against the correct, hygienic, completely proper subdued in taxidermied elegance.
Let me have in any future some hideous thing to love, here Boston, MA, 8 Farrington Ave.


by A R Ammons | |

Rogue Elephant

 The reason to be autonomous is to stand there,
a cleared instrument, ready to act, to search

the moral realm and actual conditions for what
needs to be done and to do it: fine, the

best, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it
comes in handy to the wrong choice, why then

you see the danger in the effective: better
then an autonomy that stands and looks about,

negotiating nothing, the supreme indifferences:
is anything to be gained where as much is lost:

and if for every action there is an equal and
opposite reaction has the loss been researched

equally with the gain: you can see how the
milling actions of millions could come to a

buzzard-like glide as from a coincidental,
warm bottom of water stuck between chilled

peaks: it is not so easy to say, OK, go on
out and act: who, doing what, to what or

whom: just a minute: should the bunker be
bombed (if it stores gas): should all the

rattlers die just because they rattle: if I
hear the young gentleman vomiter roaring down

the hall in the men's room, should I go and
inquire of him, reducing him to my care: no

wonder the great sayers (who say nothing) sit
about in inaccessible states of mind: no

wonder still wisdom and catatonia appear to
exchange places occasionally: but if anything

were easy, our easy choices soon would carry
away our ignorance with the world-better

let the mixed-up mix and let the surface shine
with all the possibilities, each in itself.


by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Accountability

 FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits;
Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits.
Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys, Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys.
We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us de same; We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se bad we ain't to blame.
Ef we'se good, we need n't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin' We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'.
But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill, An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill.
John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike; Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike.
When you come to think about it, how it's all planned out it's splendid.
Nuthin's done er evah happens, 'dout hit's somefin' dat's intended; Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de dickens,-- Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens.


by Mihai Eminescu | |

THE MURMUR OF THE FOREST

On the pond bright sparks are falling, 
Wavelets in the sunlight glisten ; 
Gazing on the woods with rapture , 
Do I let my spirit capture 
Drowsiness, and lie and listen.
.
.
Quails are calling.
All the silent water sleeping Of the streams and of the rivers ; Only where the sun is shining Thousand circles there designing As with fright its surface shivers, Swiftly leaping.
Pipe the birds midst woods concealing, Which of us their language guessing ? Birds of endless kinds and races Chirp amidst its leafy places And what wisdom they expressing And what feeling.
Asks the cuckoo: "Who has seen Our beloved summer idol , Beautiful beyond all praising Through her languid lashes gazing, Pur most lovely, tender, bridal, Forest queen ?" Bends the lime with gentle care Her sweet body to embower ; In the breeze his branches singing Lift her in their arms upswinging, While a hundred blossoms shower On her hair.
Asks the brooklet as it flows : " Where has gone my lovely lady ? She, who evening hour beguiling, In my silver surface smiling, Broke its mirror deep and shady With her toes ?" I replied:" O forest, she Comes no more, no more returning ! Only you, great oaks, still dreaming Violet eyes, like flowers gleaming, That the summer through were yearning Just for me.
" Happy then, alone we twain, Through the forest brush-wood striding ! Sweet enchanted tale of wonder That the darkness broke asunder.
.
.
Dear, wherever you'd be hiding, Come again ! English version by Corneliu M.
Popescu Transcribed by Monica Dima School No.
10, Focsani, Romania


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Sonnet 04: Not In This Chamber Only At My Birth

 Not in this chamber only at my birth—
 When the long hours of that mysterious night
 Were over, and the morning was in sight—
I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth
I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;
 And never shall one room contain me quite
 Who in so many rooms first saw the light,
Child of all mothers, native of the earth.
So is no warmth for me at any fire To-day, when the world's fire has burned so low; I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire, At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong, And straighten back in weariness, and long To gather up my little gods and go.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Sonnet 02: Time Does Not Bring Relief; You All Have Lied

 Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
 Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
 I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
 And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
 But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide

There are a hundred places where I fear
 To go,—so with his memory they brim
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
 And so stand stricken, so remembering him!


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Journey

 Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Following Care along the dusty road,
Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed;
Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand
Tugged ever, and I passed.
All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes.
Yet onward! Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural.
Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats.
Only my heart makes answer.
Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear.
Only my heart, only my heart responds.
Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

The Return

I visited many places, 
Some of them quite 
Exotic and far away, 
But I always returned to myself.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Unpretentious Dreams

How hard it is not to say too much, 
How hard to love more, 
To say simple things, 
Live like a river slowly eroding the stone, 
Watch from the shore the distant dot, 
Imagine places bathing in its light, 
To see, not colors, not shapes, not the sea 
But the simple life glistening 
And hovering like a bird 
Full of unpretentious dreams 
Satisfied only with the ability to fly.


by Lizette Woodworth Reese | |

Spicewood

 The spicewood burns along the gray, spent sky,
In moist unchimneyed places, in a wind,
That whips it all before, and all behind,
Into one thick, rude flame, now low, now high,
It is the first, the homeliest thing of all--
At sight of it, that lad that by it fares,
Whistles afresh his foolish, town-caught airs--
A thing so honey-colored, and so tall!

It is as though the young Year, ere he pass,
To the white riot of the cherry tree,
Would fain accustom us, or here, or there,
To his new sudden ways with bough and grass,
So starts with what is humble, plain to see,
And all familiar as a cup, a chair.


by John Gould Fletcher | |

Melancholy

 HENCE, all you vain delights,
 As short as are the nights
 Wherein you spend your folly!
There 's naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
 But only melancholy--
 O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that 's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
 A midnight bell, a parting groan--
 These are the sounds we feed upon:
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


by John Gould Fletcher | |

Hence All You Vain Delights from the Nice Valour

 Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly:
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,
O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound;
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan:
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE MOUNTAIN CASTLE.

 THERE stands on yonder high mountain

A castle built of yore,
Where once lurked horse and horseman

In rear of gate and of door.
Now door and gate are in ashes, And all around is so still; And over the fallen ruins I clamber just as I will.
Below once lay a cellar, With costly wines well stor'd; No more the glad maid with her pitcher Descends there to draw from the hoard.
No longer the goblet she places Before the guests at the feast; The flask at the meal so hallow'd No longer she fills for the priest.
No more for the eager squire The draught in the passage is pour'd; No more for the flying present Receives she the flying reward.
For all the roof and the rafters, They all long since have been burn'd, And stairs and passage and chapel To rubbish and ruins are turn'd.
Yet when with lute and with flagon, When day was smiling and bright, I've watch'd my mistress climbing To gain this perilous height, Then rapture joyous and radiant The silence so desolate brake, And all, as in days long vanish'd, Once more to enjoyment awoke; As if for guests of high station The largest rooms were prepared; As if from those times so precious A couple thither had fared; As if there stood in his chapel The priest in his sacred dress, And ask'd: "Would ye twain be united?" And we, with a smile, answer'd, "Yes!" And songs that breath'd a deep feeling, That touched the heart's innermost chord, The music-fraught mouth of sweet echo, Instead of the many, outpour'd.
And when at eve all was hidden In silence unbroken and deep, The glowing sun then look'd upwards, And gazed on the summit so steep.
And squire and maiden then glitter'd As bright and gay as a lord, She seized the time for her present, And he to give her reward.
1803.
*


by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

May and the Poets

 There is May in books forever; 
May will part from Spenser never; 
May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 
May's in all the Italian books:-- 
She has old and modern nooks, 
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves, 
In happy places they call shelves, 
And will rise and dress your rooms 
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will, May's at home, and with me still; But come rather, thou, good weather, And find us in the fields together.


by A S J Tessimond | |

Not Love Perhaps

 This is not Love, perhaps, 
Love that lays down its life, 
that many waters cannot quench, 
nor the floods drown, 
But something written in lighter ink, 
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.
A need, at times, to be together and talk, And then the finding we can walk More firmly through dark narrow places, And meet more easily nightmare faces; A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand, And then find Earth less like an alien land; A need for alliance to defeat The whisperers at the corner of the street.
A need for inns on roads, islands in seas, Halts for discoveries to be shared, Maps checked, notes compared; A need, at times, of each for each, Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.


by J R R Tolkien | |

Sing All Ye People!

 Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
For the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
And the Dark Tower is thrown down.
Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard, For your watch hath not been in vain, And the Black Gate is broken, And your King hath passed through, And he is victorious.
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West, For your King shall come again, And he shall dwell amoung you All the days of your life.
And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed, And he shall plant it in the high places, And the City shall be blessed.
Sing all ye people!


by J R R Tolkien | |

Theoden

 From dark Dunharrow in the dim morning
With thane and captain rode Thengel's son:
To Edoras he came, the ancient halls
Of the Mark-wardens mist-enshrouded;
Golden timbers were in gloom mantled.
Farewell he bade to his free people, Hearth and high-seat, and the hallowed places, Where long he had feasted ere the light faded.
Forth rode the king, fear behind him, Fate before him.
Fealty kept he; Oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.
Forth rode Theoden.
Five nights and days East and onward rode the Eolingas.
Through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood, Six thousand spears to Sunlending, Mundberg the mighty under Mindolluin, Sea-kings city in the South-kingdom Foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.
Doom drove them on.
Darkness took them, Horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar Sank into silence: so the songs tell us.


by R S Thomas | |

A Blackbird Singing

 It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark 
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk In a green April, your mind drawn Away from its work by sweet disturbance Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase With history's overtones, love, joy And grief learned by his dark tribe In other orchards and passed on Instinctively as they are now, But fresh always with new tears.


by R S Thomas | |

A Blackbird Singing

 It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark 
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk In a green April, your mind drawn Away from its work by sweet disturbance Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase With history's overtones, love, joy And grief learned by his dark tribe In other orchards and passed on Instinctively as they are now, But fresh always with new tears.