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Best Famous Relationship Poems

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

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by Rainer Maria Rilke |

Ignorant Before The Heavens Of My Life

 Ignorant before the heavens of my life,
I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness
of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.
As if I didn't exist. Do I have any
share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with
their pure effect? Does my blood's ebb and flow
change with their changes? Let me put aside
every desire, every relationship
except this one, so that my heart grows used to
its farthest spaces. Better that it live
fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than
as if protected, soothed by what is near.

by Rainer Maria Rilke |

As Once The Winged Energy Of Delight

 As once the winged energy of delight
carried you over childhood's dark abysses,
now beyond your own life build the great
arch of unimagined bridges.

Wonders happen if we can succeed
in passing through the harshest danger;
but only in a bright and purely granted
achievement can we realize the wonder.

To work with Things in the indescribable
relationship is not too hard for us;
the pattern grows more intricate and subtle,
and being swept along is not enough.

Take your practiced powers and stretch them out
until they span the chasm between two
contradictions...For the god
wants to know himself in you.

by Edgar Lee Masters |

Ralph Rhodes

 All they said was true:
I wrecked my father's bank with my loans
To dabble in wheat; but this was true --
I was buying wheat for him as well,
Who couldn't margin the deal in his name
Because of his church relationship.
And while George Reece was serving his term
I chased the will-o'-the-wisp of women,
And the mockery of wine in New York.
It's deathly to sicken of wine and women
When nothing else is left in life.
But suppose your head is gray, and bowed
On a table covered with acrid stubs
Of cigarettes and empty glasses,
And a knock is heard, and you know it's the knock
So long drowned out by popping corks
And the pea-cock screams of demireps --
And you look up, and there's your Theft,
Who waited until your head was gray,
And your heart skipped beats to say to you:
The game is ended. I've called for you.
Go out on Broadway and be run over,
They'll ship you back to Spoon River.

by Howard Nemerov |

Walking the Dog

 Two universes mosey down the street
Connected by love and a leash and nothing else.
Mostly I look at lamplight through the leaves
While he mooches along with tail up and snout down,
Getting a secret knowledge through the nose
Almost entirely hidden from my sight.

We stand while he's enraptured by a bush
Till I can't stand our standing any more
And haul him off; for our relationship
Is patience balancing to this side tug
And that side drag; a pair of symbionts
Contented not to think each other's thoughts.

What else we have in common's what he taught,
Our interest in shit. We know its every state
From steaming fresh through stink to nature's way
Of sluicing it downstreet dissolved in rain
Or drying it to dust that blows away.
We move along the street inspecting shit.

His sense of it is keener far than mine,
And only when he finds the place precise
He signifies by sniffing urgently
And circles thrice about, and squats, and shits,
Whereon we both with dignity walk home
And just to show who's master I write the poem.

by Howard Nemerov |

The Makers

 Who can remember back to the first poets, 
The greatest ones, greater even than Orpheus? 
No one has remembered that far back 
Or now considers, among the artifacts, 
And bones and cantilevered inference 
The past is made of, those first and greatest poets, 
So lofty and disdainful of renown 
They left us not a name to know them by. 

They were the ones that in whatever tongue 
Worded the world, that were the first to say 
Star, water, stone, that said the visible 
And made it bring invisibles to view 
In wind and time and change, and in the mind 
Itself that minded the hitherto idiot world 
And spoke the speechless world and sang the towers 
Of the city into the astonished sky. 

They were the first great listeners, attuned 
To interval, relationship, and scale, 
The first to say above, beneath, beyond, 
Conjurors with love, death, sleep, with bread and wine, 
Who having uttered vanished from the world 
Leaving no memory but the marvelous 
Magical elements, the breathing shapes 
And stops of breath we build our Babels of.

by Maggie Estep |

Fuck Me

I'm all screwed up so

and take out the garbage
feed the cat and FUCK ME
you can do it, I know you can.

and theorize about
Sado Masochism's relationship
to classical philosophy
tell me how this stimulates
the fabric of most human relationships,
I love that kind of pointless intellectualism
so do it again and

Stop being logical
stop contemplating
the origins of evil
and the beauty of death
this is not a TV movie about Plato sex life,
this is FUCK ME

It's the pause that refreshes
just add water and

I wrote this
so I'd have a good excuse to say "FUCK ME"
over and over
and over
so I could get a lot of attention
and look, it worked!
So thank you
thank you
and fuck ME.

by Denise Duhamel |


 They decide to exchange heads.
Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin 
over Ken's bulging neck socket. His wide jaw line jostles
atop his girlfriend's body, loosely,
like one of those novelty dogs
destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.
The two dolls chase each other around the orange Country Camper 
unsure what they'll do when they're within touching distance. 
Ken wants to feel Barbie's toes between his lips, 
take off one of her legs and force his whole arm inside her.
With only the vaguest suggestion of genitals,
all the alluring qualities they possess as fashion dolls, 
up until now, have done neither of them much good. 
But suddenly Barbie is excited looking at her own body 
under the weight of Ken's face. He is part circus freak,
part thwarted hermaphrodite. And she is imagining 
she is somebody else-- maybe somebody middle class and ordinary,
maybe another teenage model being caught in a scandal.

The night had begun with Barbie getting angry 
at finding Ken's blow up doll, folded and stuffed
under the couch. He was defensive and ashamed, especially about 
not having the breath to inflate her. But after a round
of pretend-tears, Barbie and Ken vowed to try
to make their relationship work. With their good memories 
as sustaining as good food, they listened to late-night radio 
talk shows, one featuring Doctor Ruth. When all else fails,
just hold each other, the small sex therapist crooned. 
Barbie and Ken, on cue, groped in the dark, 
their interchangeable skin glowing, the color of Band-Aids. 
Then, they let themselves go-- Soon Barbie was begging Ken 
to try on her spandex miniskirt. She showed him how 
to pivot as though he was on a runway. Ken begged 
to tie Barbie onto his yellow surfboard and spin her 
on the kitcen table until she grew dizzy. Anything,
anything, they both said to the other's requests,
their mirrored desires bubbling from the most unlikely places.

by Sylvia Plath |

In Plaster

 I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was: she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.

by Robert Frost |

The Generations of Men

 A governor it was proclaimed this time, 
When all who would come seeking in New Hampshire 
Ancestral memories might come together. 
And those of the name Stark gathered in Bow, 
A rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off, 
And sprout-lands flourish where the axe has gone. 
Someone had literally run to earth 
In an old cellar hole in a by-road 
The origin of all the family there. 
Thence they were sprung, so numerous a tribe 
That now not all the houses left in town 
Made shift to shelter them without the help 
Of here and there a tent in grove and orchard. 
They were at Bow, but that was not enough: 
Nothing would do but they must fix a day 
To stand together on the crater's verge 
That turned them on the world, and try to fathom 
The past and get some strangeness out of it. 
But rain spoiled all. The day began uncertain, 
With clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted. 
The young folk held some hope out to each other 
Till well toward noon when the storm settled down 
With a swish in the grass. "What if the others 
Are there," they said. "It isn't going to rain." 
Only one from a farm not far away 
Strolled thither, not expecting he would find 
Anyone else, but out of idleness. 
One, and one other, yes, for there were two. 
The second round the curving hillside road 
Was a girl; and she halted some way off 
To reconnoitre, and then made up her mind 
At least to pass by and see who he was, 
And perhaps hear some word about the weather. 
This was some Stark she didn't know. He nodded. 
"No fête to-day," he said. 
"It looks that way." 
She swept the heavens, turning on her heel. 
"I only idled down." 
"I idled down." 
Provision there had been for just such meeting 
Of stranger cousins, in a family tree 
Drawn on a sort of passport with the branch 
Of the one bearing it done in detail-- 
Some zealous one's laborious device. 
She made a sudden movement toward her bodice, 
As one who clasps her heart. They laughed together. 
"Stark?" he inquired. "No matter for the proof." 
"Yes, Stark. And you?" 
"I'm Stark." He drew his passport. 
"You know we might not be and still be cousins: 
The town is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys, 
All claiming some priority in Starkness. 
My mother was a Lane, yet might have married 
Anyone upon earth and still her children 
Would have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day." 
"You riddle with your genealogy 
Like a Viola. I don't follow you." 
"I only mean my mother was a Stark 
Several times over, and by marrying father 
No more than brought us back into the name." 
"One ought not to be thrown into confusion 
By a plain statement of relationship, 
But I own what you say makes my head spin. 
You take my card--you seem so good at such things-- 
And see if you can reckon our cousinship. 
Why not take seats here on the cellar wall 
And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?" 
"Under the shelter of the family tree." 
"Just so--that ought to be enough protection." 
"Not from the rain. I think it's going to rain." 
"It's raining." 
"No, it's misting; let's be fair. 
Does the rain seem to you to cool the eyes?" 
The situation was like this: the road 
Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up, 
And disappeared and ended not far off. 
No one went home that way. The only house 
Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod. 
And below roared a brook hidden in trees, 
The sound of which was silence for the place. 
This he sat listening to till she gave judgment. 
"On father's side, it seems, we're--let me see----" 
"Don't be too technical.--You have three cards." 
"Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch 
Of the Stark family I'm a member of." 
"D'you know a person so related to herself 
Is supposed to be mad." 
"I may be mad." 
"You look so, sitting out here in the rain 
Studying genealogy with me 
You never saw before. What will we come to 
With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees? 
I think we're all mad. Tell me why we're here 
Drawn into town about this cellar hole 
Like wild geese on a lake before a storm? 
What do we see in such a hole, I wonder." 
"The Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc, 
Which means The Seven Caves that We Came out of. 
This is the pit from which we Starks were digged." 
"You must be learned. That's what you see in it?" 
"And what do you see?" 
"Yes, what do I see? 
First let me look. I see raspberry vines----" 
"Oh, if you're going to use your eyes, just hear 
What I see. It's a little, little boy, 
As pale and dim as a match flame in the sun; 
He's groping in the cellar after jam, 
He thinks it's dark and it's flooded with daylight." 
"He's nothing. Listen. When I lean like this 
I can make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,-- 
With his pipe in his mouth and his brown jug-- 
Bless you, it isn't Grandsir Stark, it's Granny, 
But the pipe's there and smoking and the jug. 
She's after cider, the old girl, she's thirsty; 
Here's hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely." 
"Tell me about her. Does she look like me?" 
"She should, shouldn't she, you're so many times 
Over descended from her. I believe 
She does look like you. Stay the way you are. 
The nose is just the same, and so's the chin-- 
Making allowance, making due allowance." 
"You poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!" 
"See that you get her greatness right. Don't stint her." 
"Yes, it's important, though you think it isn't. 
I won't be teased. But see how wet I am." 
"Yes, you must go; we can't stay here for ever. 
But wait until I give you a hand up. 
A bead of silver water more or less 
Strung on your hair won't hurt your summer looks. 
I wanted to try something with the noise 
That the brook raises in the empty valley. 
We have seen visions--now consult the voices. 
Something I must have learned riding in trains 
When I was young. I used the roar 
To set the voices speaking out of it, 
Speaking or singing, and the band-music playing. 
Perhaps you have the art of what I mean. 
I've never listened in among the sounds 
That a brook makes in such a wild descent. 
It ought to give a purer oracle." 
"It's as you throw a picture on a screen: 
The meaning of it all is out of you; 
The voices give you what you wish to hear." 
"Strangely, it's anything they wish to give." 
"Then I don't know. It must be strange enough. 
I wonder if it's not your make-believe. 
What do you think you're like to hear to-day?" 
"From the sense of our having been together-- 
But why take time for what I'm like to hear? 
I'll tell you what the voices really say. 
You will do very well right where you are 
A little longer. I mustn't feel too hurried, 
Or I can't give myself to hear the voices." 
"Is this some trance you are withdrawing into?" 
"You must be very still; you mustn't talk." 
"I'll hardly breathe." 
"The voices seem to say----" 
"I'm waiting." 
"Don't! The voices seem to say: 
Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid 
Of an acquaintance made adventurously." 
"I let you say that--on consideration." 
"I don't see very well how you can help it. 
You want the truth. I speak but by the voices. 
You see they know I haven't had your name, 
Though what a name should matter between us----" 
"I shall suspect----" 
"Be good. The voices say: 
Call her Nausicaa, and take a timber 
That you shall find lies in the cellar charred 
Among the raspberries, and hew and shape it 
For a door-sill or other corner piece 
In a new cottage on the ancient spot. 
The life is not yet all gone out of it. 
And come and make your summer dwelling here, 
And perhaps she will come, still unafraid, 
And sit before you in the open door 
With flowers in her lap until they fade, 
But not come in across the sacred sill----" 
"I wonder where your oracle is tending. 
You can see that there's something wrong with it, 
Or it would speak in dialect. Whose voice 
Does it purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir's 
Nor Granny's, surely. Call up one of them. 
They have best right to be heard in this place." 
"You seem so partial to our great-grandmother 
(Nine times removed. Correct me if I err.) 
You will be likely to regard as sacred 
Anything she may say. But let me warn you, 
Folks in her day were given to plain speaking. 
You think you'd best tempt her at such a time?" 
"It rests with us always to cut her off." 
"Well then, it's Granny speaking: 'I dunnow! 
Mebbe I'm wrong to take it as I do. 
There ain't no names quite like the old ones though, 
Nor never will be to my way of thinking. 
One mustn't bear too hard on the new comers, 
But there's a dite too many of them for comfort. 
I should feel easier if I could see 
More of the salt wherewith they're to be salted. 
Son, you do as you're told! You take the timber-- 
It's as sound as the day when it was cut-- 
And begin over----' There, she'd better stop. 
You can see what is troubling Granny, though. 
But don't you think we sometimes make too much 
Of the old stock? What counts is the ideals, 
And those will bear some keeping still about." 
"I can see we are going to be good friends." 
"I like your 'going to be.' You said just now 
It's going to rain." 
"I know, and it was raining. 
I let you say all that. But I must go now." 
"You let me say it? on consideration? 
How shall we say good-bye in such a case?" 
"How shall we?" 
"Will you leave the way to me?" 
"No, I don't trust your eyes. You've said enough. 
Now give me your hand up.--Pick me that flower." 
"Where shall we meet again?" 
"Nowhere but here 
Once more before we meet elsewhere." 
"In rain?" 
"It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain. 
In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains? 
But if we must, in sunshine." So she went.