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Best Famous Teenage Poems

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

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Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

TO THE SOUND OF VIOLINS

 Give me life at its most garish

Friday night in the Square, pink sequins dazzle

And dance on clubbers bare to the midriff

Young men in crisp shirts and pressed pants

‘Dress code smart’ gyrate to ‘Sex Bomb, Sex Bomb’

And sing along its lyrics to the throng of which I’m one

My shorts, shoulder bag and white beard

Making me stand out in the teeming swarm

Of teens and twenties this foetid Friday night

On my way from the ward where our son paces

And fulminates I throw myself into the drowning

Tide of Friday to be rescued by sheer normality.
The mill girl with her mates asks anxiously "Are you on your own? Come and join us What’s your name?" Age has driven my shyness away As I join the crowd beneath the turning purple screens Bannered ‘Orgasm lasts for ever’ and sip unending Halves of bitter, as I circulate among the crowd, Being complete in itself and out for a good night out, A relief from factory, shop floor and market stall Running from the reality of the ward where my son Pounds the ledge with his fist and seems out to blast My very existence with words like bullets.
The need to anaesthetise the pain resurfaces Again and again.
In Leeds City Square where Pugin’s church, the Black Prince and the Central Post Office In its Edwardian grandeur are startled by the arching spumes Or white water fountains and the steel barricades of Novotel Rise from the ruins of a sixties office block.
I hurry past and join Boar Lane’s Friday crew From Keighley and Dewsbury’s mills, hesitating At the thought of being told I’m past my Sell-by-date and turned away by the West Indian Bouncers, black-suited and city-council badged Who checked my bag but smiled at ‘The Lights of Leeds’ and ‘Poets of Our Time’ tucked away as carefully as condoms- Was it guns or drugs they were after I wondered as I crossed the bare boards to the bar.
I stayed near the fruit machine which no-one played, Where the crowd was thickest, the noise drowned out the pain ‘Sex Bomb, Sex Bomb’ the chorus rang The girls joined in but the young men knew The words no more than me.
Dancing as we knew it In the sixties has gone, you do your own thing And follow the beat, hampered by my bag I just kept going, letting the music and the crowd Hold me, my camera eye moving in search, in search… What I’m searching for I don’t know Searching’s a way of life that has to grow "All of us who are patients here are searchers after truth" My son kept saying, his legs shaking from the side effects Of God-knows- what, pacing the tiny ward kitchen cum smoking room, Denouncing his ‘illegal section’ and ‘poisonous medication’ To an audience of one.
The prospect of TV, Seroxat and Diazepan fazed me: I was beyond unravelling Meltzer on differentiation Of self and object or Rosine Josef Perelberg on ‘Dreaming and Thinking’ Or even the simpler ‘Rise and Crisis of Psychoanalysis in the United States’ So I went out with West Yorkshire on a Friday night.
Nothing dramatic happened; perhaps I’m a little too used To acute wards or worse where chairs fly across rooms, Windows disintegrate and double doors are triple locked And every nurse carries a white panic button and black pager To pinpoint the moment’s crisis.
Normality was a bit of adrenaline, A wild therapy that drew me in, sanity had won the night.
"Are you on your own, love? Come and join us" People kept asking if I was alright and why I had that damned great shoulder bag.
I was introduced To three young men about to tie the knot, a handsome lothario In his midforties winked at me constantly, Dancing with practised ease with sixteen year olds Who all seemed to know him and determined to show him.
Three hours passed in as many minutes and then the crowds Disappeared to catch the last bus home.
The young aren’t As black as they are painted, one I danced with reminded me Of how Margaret would have been at sixteen With straw gold hair Yeats would have immortalised.
People seemed to guess I was haunted by an inner demon I’d tried to leave in the raftered lofts of City Square But failed to.
Girls from sixteen to twenty six kept grabbing me And making me dance and I found my teenage inhibitions Gone at sixty-one and wildly gyrated to ‘Sex Bomb, Sex Bomb’ Egged on by the throng by the fruit machine and continuous Thumbs-up signs from passing men.
I had to forgo A cheerful group of Aussies were intent on taking me clubbing "I’d get killed or turned into a pumpkin If I get home after midnight" I quipped to their delight But being there had somehow put things right.
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Snow Whites Acne

 At first she was sure it was just a bit of dried strawberry juice,
or a fleck of her mother's red nail polish that had flaked off
when she'd patted her daughter to sleep the night before.
But as she scrubbed, Snow felt a bump, something festering under the surface, like a tapeworm curled up and living in her left cheek.
Doc the Dwarf was no dermatologist and besides Snow doesn't get to meet him in this version because the mint leaves the tall doctor puts over her face only make matters worse.
Snow and the Queen hope against hope for chicken pox, measles, something that would be gone quickly and not plague Snow's whole adolescence.
If only freckles were red, she cried, if only concealer really worked.
Soon came the pus, the yellow dots, multiplying like pins in a pin cushion.
Soon came the greasy hair.
The Queen gave her daughter a razor for her legs and a stick of underarm deodorant.
Snow doodled through her teenage years—"Snow + ?" in Magic Markered hearts all over her notebooks.
She was an average student, a daydreamer who might have been a scholar if she'd only applied herself.
She liked sappy music and romance novels.
She liked pies and cake instead of fruit.
The Queen remained the fairest in the land.
It was hard on Snow, having such a glamorous mom.
She rebelled by wearing torn shawls and baggy gowns.
Her mother would sometimes say, "Snow darling, why don't you pull back your hair? Show those pretty eyes?" or "Come on, I'll take you shopping.
" Snow preferred staying in her safe room, looking out of her window at the deer leaping across the lawn.
Or she'd practice her dance moves with invisible princes.
And the Queen, busy being Queen, didn't like to push it.
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Kinky

 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.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

The Present

 The day comes slowly in the railyard 
behind the ice factory.
It broods on one cinder after another until each glows like lead or the eye of a dog possessed of no inner fire, the brown and greasy pointer who raises his muzzle a moment and sighing lets it thud down on the loading dock.
In no time the day has crossed two sets of tracks, a semi-trailer with no tractor, and crawled down three stories of the bottling plant at the end of the alley.
It is now less than five hours until mid-day when nothing will be left in doubt, each scrap of news, each banished carton, each forgotten letter, its ink bled of lies, will stare back at the one eye that sees it all and never blinks.
But for now there is water settling in a clean glass on the shelf beside the razor, the slap of bare feet on the floor above.
Soon the scent of rivers borne across roof after roof by winds without names, the aroma of opened beds better left closed, of mouths without teeth, of light rustling among the mice droppings at the back of a bin of potatoes.
* The old man who sleeps among the cases of empty bottles in a little nest of rags and newspapers at the back of the plant is not an old man.
He is twenty years younger than I am now putting this down in permanent ink on a yellow legal pad during a crisp morning in October.
When he fell from a high pallet, his sleeve caught on a nail and spread his arms like a figure out of myth.
His head tore open on a spear of wood, and he swore in French.
No, he didn't want a doctor.
He wanted toilet paper and a drink, which were fetched.
He used the tiny bottle of whisky to straighten out his eyes and the toilet paper to clean his pants, fouled in the fall, and he did both with seven teenage boys looking on in wonder and fear.
At last the blood slowed and caked above his ear, and he never once touched the wound.
Instead, in a voice no one could hear, he spoke to himself, probably in French, and smoked sitting back against a pallet, his legs thrust out on the damp cement floor.
* In his white coveralls, crisp and pressed, Teddy the Polack told us a fat tit would stop a toothache, two a headache.
He told it to anyone who asked, and grinned -- the small eyes watering at the corners -- as Alcibiades might have grinned when at last he learned that love leads even the body beloved to a moment in the present when desire calms, the skin glows, the soul takes the light of day, even a working day in 1944.
For Baharozian at seventeen the present was a gift.
Seeing my ashen face, the cold sweats starting, he seated me in a corner of the boxcar and did both our jobs, stacking the full cases neatly row upon row and whistling the songs of Kate Smith.
In the bathroom that night I posed naked before the mirror, the new cross of hair staining my chest, plunging to my groin.
That was Wednesday, for every Wednesday ended in darkness.
* One of those teenage boys was my brother.
That night as we lay in bed, the lights out, we spoke of Froggy, of how at first we thought he would die and how little he seemed to care as the blood rose to fill and overflow his ear.
Slowly the long day came over us and our breath quieted and eased at last, and we slept.
When I close my eyes now his bare legs glow before me again, pure and lovely in their perfect whiteness, the buttocks dimpled and firm.
I see again the rope of his sex, unwrinkled, flushed and swaying, the hard flat belly as he raises his shirt to clean himself.
He gazes at no one or nothing, but seems instead to look off into a darkness I hadn't seen, a pool of shadow that forms before his eyes, in my memory now as solid as onyx.
* I began this poem in the present because nothing is past.
The ice factory, the bottling plant, the cindered yard all gave way to a low brick building a block wide and windowless where they designed gun mounts for personnel carriers that never made it to Korea.
My brother rises early, and on clear days he walks to the corner to have toast and coffee.
Seventeen winters have melted into an earth of stone, bottle caps, and old iron to carry off the hard remains of Froggy Frenchman without a blessing or a stone to bear it.
A little spar of him the size of a finger, pointed and speckled as though blood-flaked, washed ashore from Lake Erie near Buffalo before the rest slipped down the falls out into the St.
Lawrence.
He could be at sea, he could be part of an ocean, by now he could even be home.
This morning I rose later than usual in a great house full of sunlight, but I believe it came down step by step on each wet sheet of wooden siding before it crawled from the ceiling and touched my pillow to waken me.
When I heave myself out of this chair with a great groan of age and stand shakily, the three mice still in the wall.
From across the lots the wind brings voices I can't make out, scraps of song or sea sounds, daylight breaking into dust, the perfume of waiting rain, of onions and potatoes frying.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Scab Maids On Speed

 My first job was when I was about 15.
I had met a girl named Hope who became my best friend.
Hope and I were flunking math class so we became speed freaks.
This honed our algebra skills and we quickly became whiz kids.
For about 5 minutes.
Then, our brains started to fry and we were just teenage speed freaks.
Then, we decided to to seek gainful employment.
We got hired on as part time maids at the Holiday Inn while a maid strike was happening.
We were scab maids on speed and we were coming to clean your room.
We were subsequently fired for pilfering a Holiday Inn guest's quaalude stash which we did only because we never thought someone would have the nerve to call the front desk and say; THE MAIDS STOLE MY LUUDES MAN.
But someone did - or so we surmised - because we were fired.
I supppose maybe we were fired because we never actually CLEANED but rather just turned on the vacuum so it SOUNDED like we were cleaning as we picked the pubic hairs off the sheets and out of the tub then passed out on the bed and caught up on the sleep we'd missed from being up all night speeding.
When we got fired, we became waitresses at an International House of Pancakes.
We were much happier there.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

And One For My Dame

 A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker, he could sell one hundred wet-down bales of that white stuff.
He could clock the miles and the sales and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word had been tried over and over, at any rate, on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef: a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war! How suddenly gauche I was with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home my father was in love with maps while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and Japs.
Except when he hid in his bedroom on a three-day drunk, he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk, his matched luggage and pocketed a confirmed reservation, his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.
S.
, its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road, his heart pushed from neck to back, his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband, as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool: boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull to the thread and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino, a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling, Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame, your sample cases branded with my father's name, your itinerary open, its tolls ticking and greedy, its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
Written by Pam Ayres | Create an image from this poem

They Should Have Asked My Husband

You know this world is complicated, imperfect and oppressed
And it’s not hard to feel timid, apprehensive and depressed.
It seems that all around us tides of questions ebb and flow
And people want solutions but they don’t know where to go.

Opinions abound but who is wrong and who is right.
People need a prophet, a diffuser of the light.
Someone they can turn to as the crises rage and swirl.
Someone with the remedy, the wisdom, and the pearl.

Well . . . they should have asked my ‘usband, he’d have told’em then and there.
His thoughts on immigration, teenage mothers, Tony Blair,
The future of the monarchy, house prices in the south
The wait for hip replacements, BSE and foot and mouth.

Yes . . . they should have asked my husband he can sort out any mess
He can rejuvenate the railways he can cure the NHS
So any little niggle, anything you want to know
Just run it past my husband, wind him up and let him go.

Congestion on the motorways, free holidays for thugs
The damage to the ozone layer, refugees and drugs.
These may defeat the brain of any politician bloke
But present it to my husband and he’ll solve it at a stroke.

He’ll clarify the situation; he will make it crystal clear
You’ll feel the glazing of your eyeballs, and the bending of your ear.
Corruption at the top, he’s an authority on that
And the Mafia, Gadafia and Yasser Arafat.

Upon these areas he brings his intellect to shine
In a great compelling voice that’s twice as loud as yours or mine.
I often wonder what it must be like to be so strong,
Infallible, articulate, self-confident …… and wrong.

When it comes to tolerance – he hasn’t got a lot
Joyriders should be guillotined and muggers should be shot.
The sound of his own voice becomes like music to his ears
And he hasn’t got an inkling that he’s boring us to tears.

My friends don’t call so often, they have busy lives I know
But its not everyday you want to hear a windbag suck and blow.
Encyclopaedias, on them we never have to call
Why clutter up the bookshelf when my husband knows it all!

© Pam Ayres 2012
Official Website
http://pamayres.com/
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 22: Of 1826

 I am the little man who smokes & smokes.
I am the girl who does know better but.
I am the king of the pool.
I am so wise I had my mouth sewn shut.
I am a government official & a goddamned fool.
I am a lady who takes jokes.
I am the enemy of the mind.
I am the auto salesman and lóve you.
I am a teenage cancer, with a plan.
I am the blackt-out man.
I am the woman powerful as a zoo.
I am two eyes screwed to my set, whose blind— It is the Fourth of July.
Collect: while the dying man, forgone by you creator, who forgives, is gasping 'Thomas Jefferson still lives' in vain, in vain, in vain.
I am Henry Pussy-cat! My whiskers fly.