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Best Famous Political Poems

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

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by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Political leader

To become a political leader it is essential to be an expert liar.
Ehsan Sehgal.


by Robinson Jeffers | |

Be Angry At The Sun

 That public men publish falsehoods
Is nothing new.
That America must accept Like the historical republics corruption and empire Has been known for years.
Be angry at the sun for setting If these things anger you.
Watch the wheel slope and turn, They are all bound on the wheel, these people, those warriors.
This republic, Europe, Asia.
Observe them gesticulating, Observe them going down.
The gang serves lies, the passionate Man plays his part; the cold passion for truth Hunts in no pack.
You are not Catullus, you know, To lampoon these crude sketches of Caesar.
You are far From Dante's feet, but even farther from his dirty Political hatreds.
Let boys want pleasure, and men Struggle for power, and women perhaps for fame, And the servile to serve a Leader and the dupes to be duped.
Yours is not theirs.


by Robinson Jeffers | |

Cassandra

 The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers
Hooked in the stones of the wall,
The storm-wrack hair and screeching mouth: does it matter, Cassandra,
Whether the people believe
Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth, they'd liefer
Meet a tiger on the road.
Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion— Vendors and political men Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for kind Wisdom.
Poor bitch be wise.
No: you'll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to men And gods disgusting—you and I, Cassandra.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Elsa Wertman

 I was a peasant girl from Germany,
Blue-eyed, rosy, happy and strong.
And the first place I worked was at Thomas Greene's.
On a summer's day when she was away He stole into the kitchen and took me Right in his arms and kissed me on my throat, I turning my head.
Then neither of us Seemed to know what happened.
And I cried for what would become of me.
And cried and cried as my secret began to show.
One day Mrs.
Greene said she understood, And would make no trouble for me, And, being childless, would adopt it.
(He had given her a farm to be still.
) So she hid in the house and sent out rumors, As if it were going to happen to her.
And all went well and the child was born -- They were so kind to me.
Later I married Gus Wertman, and years passed.
But -- at political rallies when sitters-by thought I was crying At the eloquence of Hamilton Greene -- That was not it.
No! I wanted to say: That's my son! That's my son!


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Typographical

 The Editor wrote his political screed 
In ink that was fainter and fainter; 
He rose to the call of his country's need, 
And in spiderish characters wrote with speed, 
A column on "Cutting the Painter".
The "reader" sat in his high-backed chair, For literals he was a hunter; But he stared aghast at the column long Of the editorial hot and strong, For the comp.
inspired by some sense of wrong Had headed it "Gutting the Punter".


by James Wright | |

As I Step Over A Puddle At The End Of Winter I Think Of An Ancient Chinese Governor

 And how can I, born in evil days
And fresh from failure, ask a kindness of Fate?

 -- Written A.
D.
819 Po Chu-i, balding old politician, What's the use? I think of you, Uneasily entering the gorges of the Yang-Tze, When you were being towed up the rapids Toward some political job or other In the city of Chungshou.
You made it, I guess, By dark.
But it is 1960, it is almost spring again, And the tall rocks of Minneapolis Build me my own black twilight Of bamboo ropes and waters.
Where is Yuan Chen, the friend you loved? Where is the sea, that once solved the whole loneliness Of the Midwest?Where is Minneapolis? I can see nothing But the great terrible oak tree darkening with winter.
Did you find the city of isolated men beyond mountains? Or have you been holding the end of a frayed rope For a thousand years?


by William Butler Yeats | |

Politics

 'In our time the destiny of man prevents its meanings
in political terms.
' -- Thomas Mann.
How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!


by William Butler Yeats | |

On A Political Prisoner

 She that but little patience knew,
From childhood on, had now so much
A grey gull lost its fear and flew
Down to her cell and there alit,
And there endured her fingers' touch
And from her fingers ate its bit.
Did she in touching that lone wing Recall the years before her mind Became a bitter, an abstract thing, Her thought some popular enmity: Blind and leader of the blind Drinking the foul ditch where they lie? When long ago I saw her ride Under Ben Bulben to the meet, The beauty of her country-side With all youth's lonely wildness stirred, She seemed to have grown clean and sweet Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird: Sea-borne, or balanced on the air When first it sprang out of the nest Upon some lofty rock to stare Upon the cloudy canopy, While under its storm-beaten breast Cried out the hollows of the sea.


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 102: The sunburnt terraces which swans make home

 The sunburnt terraces which swans make home
with water purling, Macchu Pichu died
like Delphi long ago—
a message to Justinian closing it out,
the thousand years' authority, although
tho' never found exactly wrong

political patterns did indeed emerge;
the Oracle was conservative, like Lippmann,
roared the winds on the height,
The Shining Ones behind the shrine, whose verge
saw the impious plunged, 6000 statures
above the Temple shone

plundered, centuries plundered, first the gold
then bronze & marble, then the plinths,
then the dead nerve—
root-canal-work, ugh.
I—I still hold for the saviour of teeth, & I embrace only he threw me a vicious


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 105: As a kid I believed in democracy: I

 As a kid I believed in democracy: I
'saw no alternative'—teaching at The Big Place I ah
put it in practice:
we'd time for one long novel: to a vote—
Gone with the Wind they voted: I crunched 'No'
and we sat down with War & Peace.
As a man I believed in democracy (nobody ever learns anything): only one lazy day my assistant, called James Dow, & I were chatting, in a failure of meeting of minds, and I said curious 'What are your real politics?' 'Oh, I'm a monarchist.
' Finishing his dissertation, in Political Science.
I resign.
The universal contempt for Mr Nixon, whom never I liked but who alert & gutsy served us years under a dope, since dynasty K swarmed in.
Let's have a King maybe, before a few mindless votes.


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 84: Op. posth. no. 7

 Plop, plop.
The lobster toppled in the pot, fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny, glowing fire-red, succulent, and on the whole becoming what man wants.
I crack my final claw singly, wind up the grave, & to bed.
—Sound good, Mr Bones.
I wish I had me some.
(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.
) —O no no no.
Sole I remember; where no lobster swine,— pots hot or cold is none.
With you I grieve lightly, and I have no lesson.
Bodies are relishy, they say.
Here's mine, was.
What ever happened to Political Economy, leaving me here? Is a rare—in my opinion—responsibility.
The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever.
Have a bite, for a sign.