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Best Famous Suicide Poems

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

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by Carolyn Kizer | |

Days of 1986

 He was believed by his peers to be an important poet,
But his erotic obsession, condemned and strictly forbidden,
Compromised his standing, and led to his ruin.
Over sixty, and a father many times over, The objects of his attention grew younger and younger: He tried to corrupt the sons of his dearest friends; He pressed on them drinks and drugs, And of course he was caught and publicly shamed.
Was his death a suicide? No one is sure.
But that’s not the whole story; it’s too sordid to tell.
Besides, the memory of his poems deserves better.
Though we were unable to look at them for a time His poems survive his death.
There he appears as his finest self: Attractive, scholarly, dedicated to love.
At last we can read him again, putting aside The brute facts of his outer life, And rejoice at the inner voice, so lofty and pure.


by Robert Graves | |

Call It a Good Marriage

 Call it a good marriage - 
For no one ever questioned 
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation 
At her h's and her s's, 
His p's and w's.
Though few would still subscribe To the monogamic axiom That strife below the hip-bones Need not estrange the heart, Call it a good marriage: More drew those two together, Despite a lack of children, Than pulled them apart.
Call it a good marriage: They never fought in public, They acted circumspectly And faced the world with pride; Thus the hazards of their love-bed Were none of our damned business - Till as jurymen we sat on Two deaths by suicide.


by Amy Levy | |

Ballade of a Special Edition

 He comes; I hear him up the street--
Bird of ill omen, flapping wide
The pinion of a printed sheet,
His hoarse note scares the eventide.
Of slaughter, theft, and suicide He is the herald and the friend; Now he vociferates with pride-- A double murder in Mile End! A hanging to his soul is sweet; His gloating fancy's fain to bide Where human-freighted vessels meet, And misdirected trains collide.
With Shocking Accidents supplied, He tramps the town from end to end.
How often have we heard it cried-- A double murder in Mile End.
War loves he; victory or defeat, So there be loss on either side.
His tale of horrors incomplete, Imagination's aid is tried.
Since no distinguished man has died, And since the Fates, relenting, send No great catastrophe, he's spied This double murder in Mile End.
Fiend, get thee gone! no more repeat Those sounds which do mine ears offend.
It is apocryphal, you cheat, Your double murder in Mile End.


by Dorothy Parker | |

Rhyme Against Living

 If wild my breast and sore my pride,
I bask in dreams of suicide;
If cool my heart and high my head,
I think, "How lucky are the dead!"


by James Wright | |

In Response To A Rumor That The Oldest Whorehouse In Wheeling West Virginia Has Been Condemned

 I will grieve alone,
As I strolled alone, years ago, down along
The Ohio shore.
I hid in the hobo jungle weeds Upstream from the sewer main, Pondering, gazing.
I saw, down river, At Twenty-third and Water Streets By the vinegar works, The doors open in early evening.
Swinging their purses, the women Poured down the long street to the river And into the river.
I do not know how it was They could drown every evening.
What time near dawn did they climb up the other shore, Drying their wings? For the river at Wheeling, West Virginia, Has only two shores: The one in hell, the other In Bridgeport, Ohio.
And nobody would commit suicide, only To find beyond death Bridgeport, Ohio.


by Lisa Zaran | |

Leaves

 I went looking for God 
but I found you instead.
Bad luck or destiny, you decide.
Buried in the muck, the soot of the city, sorrow for an appetite, devil on your left shoulder, angel on your right.
You, with your thorny rhythms and tragic, midnight melodies.
My heart never tried to commit suicide before.
Originally published in Literati Magazine, Winter 2005 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005


by Lisa Zaran | |

Love Is Believable

 love is believable 
in every moment of exhaustion 
in every heartbroken home 
in every dark spirit, 
the meaning unfolds.
.
.
.
.
.
in every night that sings of tomorrow.
in every suicide i carry deep inside my head.
in every lonely smile that plays across my lips.
love is believable i tell you, in every scrap of history, in every sheen of want.
what can be wrong that some days i have a tough time believing.
and in each chamber of my heart i pray.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2006


by Stevie Smith | |

Exeat

 I remember the Roman Emperor, one of the cruellest of them,
Who used to visit for pleasure his poor prisoners cramped in dungeons,
So then they would beg him for death, and then he would say:
Oh no, oh no, we are not yet friends enough.
He meant they were not yet friends enough for him to give them death.
So I fancy my Muse says, when I wish to die: Oh no, Oh no, we are not yet friends enough, And Virtue also says: We are not yet friends enough.
How can a poet commit suicide When he is still not listening properly to his Muse, Or a lover of Virtue when He is always putting her off until tomorrow? Yet a time may come when a poet or any person Having a long life behind him, pleasure and sorrow, But feeble now and expensive to his country And on the point of no longer being able to make a decision May fancy Life comes to him with love and says: We are friends enough now for me to give you death; Then he may commit suicide, then He may go.


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 172: Your face broods

 Your face broods from my table, Suicide.
Your force came on like a torrent toward the end of agony and wrath.
You were christened in the beginning Sylvia Plath and changed that name for Mrs Hughes and bred and went on round the bend till the oven seemed the proper place for you.
I brood upon your face, the geography of grief, hooded, till I allow again your resignation from us now though the screams of orphaned children fix me anew.
Your torment here was brief, long falls your exit all repeatingly, a poor exemplum, one more suicide, to stack upon the others till stricken Henry with his sisters & brothers suddenly gone pauses to wonder why he alone breasts the wronging tide.


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 127: Again his friends death made the man sit still

 Again, his friend's death made the man sit still
and freeze inside—his daughter won first price—
his wife scowled over at him—
It seemed to be Hallowe'en.
His friend's death had been adjudged suicide, which dangles a trail longer than Henry's chill, longer than his loss and longer than the letter that he wrote that day to the widow to find out what the hell had happened thus.
All souls converge upon a hopeless mote tonight, as though the throngs of souls in hopeless pain rise up to say they cannot care, to say they abide whatever is to come.
My air is flung with souls which will not stop and among them hangs a soul that has not died and refuses to come home.


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 136: While his wife earned the living Rabbi Henry

 While his wife earned the living, Rabbi Henry
studied the Torah, writing commentaries
more likely to be burnt than printed.
It was rumoured that they needed revision.
Smiling, kissing, he bent his head not with 'Please' but with austere requests barely hinted, like a dog with a bone he worried the Sacred Book and often taught its fringes.
Imperishable enthusiasms.
I have only one request to make of the Lord, that I may no longer have to earn my living as a rabbi 'Thou shalt make unto thee any graven image' The sage said 'I merit long life if only because I have never left bread-crumbs lying on the ground.
We were tested yesterday & are sound, Henry's lady & Henry.
It all centered in the end on the suicide in which I am an expert, deep & wide.
'


by Charles Bukowski | |

Show Biz

 I can't have it
and you can't have it
and we won't
get it

so don't bet on it
or even think about
it

just get out of bed
each morning

wash
shave
clothe
yourself
and go out into
it

because
outside of that
all that's left is
suicide and
madness

so you just
can't
expect too much

you can't even
expect

so what you do
is
work from a modest
minimal
base

like when you
walk outside
be glad your car
might possibly
be there

and if it is-
that the tires
aren't
flat

then you get
in
and if it
starts--you
start.
and it's the damndest movie you've ever seen because you're in it-- low budget and 4 billion critics and the longest run you ever hope for is one day.


by Charles Bukowski | |

Yes Yes

 when God created love he didn't help most
when God created dogs He didn't help dogs
when God created plants that was average
when God created hate we had a standard utility
when God created me He created me
when God created the monkey He was asleep
when He created the giraffe He was drunk
when He created narcotics He was high
and when He created suicide He was low

when He created you lying in bed
He knew what He was doing
He was drunk and He was high
and He created the mountians and the sea and fire at the same time

He made some mistakes
but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.


by Nick Flynn | |

Bag Of Mice

 I dreamt your suicide note
was scrawled in pencil on a brown paperbag,
& in the bag were six baby mice.
The bag opened into darkness, smoldering from the top down.
The mice, huddled at the bottom, scurried the bag across a shorn field.
I stood over it & as the burning reached each carbon letter of what you'd written your voice released into the night like a song, & the mice grew wilder.