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Best Famous Wedding Poems

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

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Famous poems below this ad
Written by Carol Ann Duffy |


 Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light like the careful undressing of love.
It will blind you with tears like a lover.
It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips, possessive and faithful as we are, for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring, if you like.
Its scent will cling to your fingers, cling to your knife.

Written by Sylvia Plath |

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten I manage it_____ A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin O my enemy.
Do I terrify?------- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand in foot ------ The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies These are my hands My knees.
I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut As a seashell.
They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out.
There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart--- It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--- You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Written by Emily Bronte |

A Day Dream

 On a sunny brae, alone I lay
One summer afternoon;
It was the marriage-time of May
With her young lover, June.
From her mother's heart, seemed loath to part That queen of bridal charms, But her father smiled on the fairest child He ever held in his arms.
The trees did wave their plumy crests, The glad birds caroled clear; And I, of all the wedding guests, Was only sullen there! There was not one, but wished to shun My aspect void of cheer; The very grey rocks, looking on, Asked, "What do you here?" And I could utter no reply; In sooth, I did not know Why I had brought a clouded eye To greet the general glow.
So, resting on a heathy bank, I took my heart to me; And we together sadly sank Into a reverie.
We thought, "When winter comes again, Where will these bright things be? All vanished, like a vision vain, An unreal mockery! The birds that now so blithely sing, Through deserts, frozen dry, Poor spectres of the perished spring, In famished troops, will fly.
And why should we be glad at all? The leaf is hardly green, Before a token of its fall Is on the surface seen!" Now, whether it were really so, I never could be sure; But as in fit of peevish woe, I stretched me on the moor.
A thousand thousand gleaming fires Seemed kindling in the air; A thousand thousand silvery lyres Resounded far and near: Methought, the very breath I breathed Was full of sparks divine, And all my heather-couch was wreathed By that celestial shine! And, while the wide earth echoing rung To their strange minstrelsy, The little glittering spirits sung, Or seemed to sing, to me.
"O mortal! mortal! let them die; Let time and tears destroy, That we may overflow the sky With universal joy! Let grief distract the sufferer's breast, And night obscure his way; They hasten him to endless rest, And everlasting day.
To thee the world is like a tomb, A desert's naked shore; To us, in unimagined bloom, It brightens more and more! And could we lift the veil, and give One brief glimpse to thine eye, Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live, Because they live to die.
" The music ceased; the noonday dream, Like dream of night, withdrew; But Fancy, still, will sometimes deem Her fond creation true.

More great poems below...

Written by Pablo Neruda |

Ode To Tomatoes

 The street
filled with tomatoes,
light is
its juice
through the streets.
In December, unabated, the tomato invades the kitchen, it enters at lunchtime, takes its ease on countertops, among glasses, butter dishes, blue saltcellars.
It sheds its own light, benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must murder it: the knife sinks into living flesh, red viscera a cool sun, profound, inexhaustible, populates the salads of Chile, happily, it is wed to the clear onion, and to celebrate the union we pour oil, essential child of the olive, onto its halved hemispheres, pepper adds its fragrance, salt, its magnetism; it is the wedding of the day, parsley hoists its flag, potatoes bubble vigorously, the aroma of the roast knocks at the door, it's time! come on! and, on the table, at the midpoint of summer, the tomato, star of earth, recurrent and fertile star, displays its convolutions, its canals, its remarkable amplitude and abundance, no pit, no husk, no leaves or thorns, the tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.

Written by Jackie Kay |

The Mother Poem (two)

 I always wanted to give birth
Do that incredible natural thing
That women do-I nearly broke down
When I heard we couldn't
And then my man said to me
Well there's always adoption
(we didn't have test tubes and the rest
then) and well even in the early sixties there was something
Scandalous about adopting
Telling the world your secret failure
Bringing up an alien child
Who knew what it would turn out to be?

But I wanted a baby badly
Didn't need to come from my womb
Or his seed for me to love it
And I had sisters who looked just like me
Didn't need carbon copy features
Blueprints for generations
It was my baby a baby a baby I wanted

So I watched my child grow
Always the first to hear her in the night
All this umbilical knot business is
Nonsense-the men can afford deeper sleeps
That's all.
I listened to hear her talk And when she did I heard my voice under hers And now some of her mannerisms Crack me up All them stories could have really had me Believing unless you are breast fed You'll never be close and the rest My daughter's warmth spills over me Leaves a gap When she's gone I think of her mother.
She remembers how I read her All those newspaper and magazine Cuttings about adoption She says her head's an encyclopedia Of sob stories: the ones that were never Told and committed suicide on their wedding nights I always believed in the telling anyhow You can't keep something like that secret I wanted her to think of her other mother Out there thinking that child I had will be Eight today nine today all the way up to God knows when.
I told my daughter; I bet your mother's never missed your birthday How could she Now when people say ah but It's not like having your own child though is it I say of course it is what else is it She's my child I have brought her up Told her stories wept at losses Laughed at her pleasures she is mine.
Well maybe that is why I don't Like all this talk about her being black I brought her up as my own As I would any other child Colour matters to the nuttters But she says my daughter says It matters to her.
I suppose there would have been things I couldn't have understood with any child We knew she was coloured They told us they had no babies at first And I chanced to say it didn't matter What colour it was and then they Said oh well are you sure in that case We have a baby for you To think she wasn't even thought of as a baby! My baby my baby.

Written by Walter Savage Landor |

The Three Roses

 When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part.
" Many summers have gone by Since a Second Rose and I (Rose from the same stem) have told This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day Carried home my tenderest lay: From her lap I now have heard Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine; Cold and torpid it must lie, Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.

Written by Marge Piercy |

What Are Big Girls Made Of?

 The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh 
of bone and sinew 
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel, her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed in the dark red lipstick of desire.
She visited in '68 still wearing skirts tight to the knees, dark red lipstick, while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt, lipstick pale as apricot milk, hair loose as a horse's mane.
Oh dear, I thought in my superiority of the moment, whatever has happened to poor Cecile? She was out of fashion, out of the game, disqualified, disdained, dis- membered from the club of desire.
Look at pictures in French fashion magazines of the 18th century: century of the ultimate lady fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet each way, while the waist is pinched and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache: hair like a museum piece, daily ornamented with ribbons, vases, grottoes, mountains, frigates in full sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh: a woman made of pain.
How superior we are now: see the modern woman thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning, fits herself into machines of weights and pulleys to heave and grunt, an image in her mind she can never approximate, a body of rosy glass that never wrinkles, never grows, never fades.
She sits at the table closing her eyes to food hungry, always hungry: a woman made of pain.
A cat or dog approaches another, they sniff noses.
They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick.
They fall in love as often as we do, as passionately.
But they fall in love or lust with furry flesh, not hoop skirts or push up bras rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs that poodles are clipped to topiary hedges.
If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads? Why should we want to scourge our softness to straight lines like a Mondrian painting? Why should we punish each other with scorn as if to have a large ass were worse than being greedy or mean? When will women not be compelled to view their bodies as science projects, gardens to be weeded, dogs to be trained? When will a woman cease to be made of pain?

Written by Robert Penn Warren |

True Love

 In silence the heart raves.
It utters words Meaningless, that never had A meaning.
I was ten, skinny, red-headed, Freckled.
In a big black Buick, Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat In front of the drugstore, sipping something Through a straw.
There is nothing like Beauty.
It stops your heart.
It Thickens your blood.
It stops your breath.
It Makes you feel dirty.
You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.
How could I exist in the same world with that brightness? Two years later she smiled at me.
She Named my name.
I thought I would wake up dead.
Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee Swagger of horsemen.
They were slick-faced.
Told jokes in the barbershop.
Did no work.
Their father was what is called a drunkard.
Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.
He never came down.
They brought everything up to him.
I did not know what a mortgage was.
His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.
When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing.
The sons propped him.
I saw the wedding.
There were Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable.
I thought I would cry.
I lay in bed that night And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.
The mortgage was foreclosed.
That last word was whispered.
She never came back.
The family Sort of drifted off.
Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.
But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once.
I didn't even know she knew it.

Written by Sidney Lanier |

The Wedding

 O marriage-bells, your clamor tells
Two weddings in one breath.
SHE marries whom her love compels: -- And I wed Goodman Death! My brain is blank, my tears are red; Listen, O God: -- "I will," he said: -- And I would that I were dead.
Come groomsman Grief and bridesmaid Pain Come and stand with a ghastly twain.
My Bridegroom Death is come o'er the meres To wed a bride with bloody tears.
Ring, ring, O bells, full merrily: Life-bells to her, death-bells to me: O Death, I am true wife to thee!

Written by Denise Levertov |


 My wedding-ring lies in a basket 
as if at the bottom of a well.
Nothing will come to fish it back up and onto my finger again.
It lies among keys to abandoned houses, nails waiting to be needed and hammered into some wall, telephone numbers with no names attached, idle paperclips.
It can't be given away for fear of bringing ill-luck.
It can't be sold for the marriage was good in its own time, though that time is gone.
Could some artificer beat into it bright stones, transform it into a dazzling circlet no one could take for solemn betrothal or to make promises living will not let them keep? Change it into a simple gift I could give in friendship?

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

The Sea to the Shore

 Lo, I have loved thee long, long have I yearned and entreated!
Tell me how I may win thee, tell me how I must woo.
Shall I creep to thy white feet, in guise of a humble lover ? Shall I croon in mild petition, murmuring vows anew ? Shall I stretch my arms unto thee, biding thy maiden coyness, Under the silver of morning, under the purple of night ? Taming my ancient rudeness, checking my heady clamor­ Thus, is it thus I must woo thee, oh, my delight? Nay, 'tis no way of the sea thus to be meekly suitor­ I shall storm thee away with laughter wrapped in my beard of snow, With the wildest of billows for chords I shall harp thee a song for thy bridal, A mighty lyric of love that feared not nor would forego! With a red-gold wedding ring, mined from the caves of sunset, Fast shall I bind thy faith to my faith evermore, And the stars will wait on our pleasure, the great north wind will trumpet A thunderous marriage march for the nuptials of sea and shore.

Written by Edward Field |

The Bride of Frankenstein

 The Baron has decided to mate the monster,
to breed him perhaps,
in the interests of pure science, his only god.
So he goes up into his laboratory which he has built in the tower of the castle to be as near the interplanetary forces as possible, and puts together the prettiest monster-woman you ever saw with a body like a pin-up girl and hardly any stitching at all where he sewed on the head of a raped and murdered beauty queen.
He sets his liquids burping, and coils blinking and buzzing, and waits for an electric storm to send through the equipment the spark vital for life.
The storm breaks over the castle and the equipment really goes crazy like a kitchen full of modern appliances as the lightning juice starts oozing right into that pretty corpse.
He goes to get the monster so he will be right there when she opens her eyes, for she might fall in love with the first thing she sees as ducklings do.
That monster is already straining at his chains and slurping, ready to go right to it: He has been well prepared for coupling by his pinching leering keeper who's been saying for weeks, "Ya gonna get a little nookie, kid," or "How do you go for some poontang, baby?" All the evil in him is focused on this one thing now as he is led into her very presence.
She awakens slowly, she bats her eyes, she gets up out of the equipment, and finally she stands in all her seamed glory, a monster princess with a hairdo like a fright wig, lightning flashing in the background like a halo and a wedding veil, like a photographer snapping pictures of great moments.
She stands and stares with her electric eyes, beginning to understand that in this life too she was just another body to be raped.
The monster is ready to go: He roars with joy at the sight of her, so they let him loose and he goes right for those knockers.
And she starts screaming to break your heart and you realize that she was just born: In spite of her big tits she was just a baby.
But her instincts are right -- rather death than that green slobber: She jumps off the parapet.
And then the monster's sex drive goes wild.
Thwarted, it turns to violence, demonstrating sublimation crudely; and he wrecks the lab, those burping acids and buzzing coils, overturning the control panel so the equipment goes off like a bomb, and the stone castle crumbles and crashes in the storm destroying them all .
Perhaps somehow the Baron got out of that wreckage of his dreams with his evil intact, if not his good looks, and more wicked than ever went on with his thrilling career.
And perhaps even the monster lived to roam the earth, his desire still ungratified; and lovers out walking in shadowy and deserted places will see his shape loom up over them, their doom -- and children sleeping in their beds will wake up in the dark night screaming as his hideous body grabs them.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

American Beauty

 For Ann London 

As you described your mastectomy in calm detail
and bared your chest so I might see
the puckered scar,
"They took a hatchet to your breast!" I said.
"What an Amazon you are.
" When we were girls we climbed Mt.
Tamalpais chewing bay leaves we had plucked along the way; we got high all right, from animal pleasure in each other, shouting to the sky.
On your houseboat we tried to ignore the impossible guy you had married to enrage your family, a typical ploy.
We were great fools let loose in the No Name bar on Sausalito's bay.
In San Francisco we'd perch on a waterfront pier chewing sourdough and cheese, swilling champagne, kicking our heels; crooning lewd songs, hooting like seagulls, we bayed with the seals.
Then you married someone in Mexico, broke up in two weeks, didn't bother to divorce, claimed it didn't count.
You dumped number three, fled to Albany to become a pedant.
Averse to domesticity, you read for your Ph.
Your four-year-old looked like a miniature John Lennon.
You fed him peanut butter from your jar and raised him on Beowulf and Grendal.
Much later in New York we reunited; in an elevator at Sak's a woman asked for your autograph.
You glowed like a star, like Anouk Aimee at forty, close enough.
Your pedantry found its place in the Women's Movement.
You rose fast, seen suddenly as the morning star; wrote the ERA found the right man at last, a sensitive artist; flying too high not to crash.
When the cancer caught you you went on talk shows to say you had no fear or faith.
In Baltimore we joked on your bed as you turned into a witty wraith.
When you died I cleaned out your bureau drawers: your usual disorder; an assortment of gorgeous wigs and prosthetic breasts tossed in garbage bags, to spare your gentle spouse.
Then the bequests you had made to every friend you had! For each of us a necklace or a ring.
A snapshot for me: We two, barefoot in chiffon, laughing amid blossoms your last wedding day.

Written by Richard Wilbur |

Wedding Toast

John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast, The water-pots poured wine in such amount That by his sober count There were a hundred gallons at the least.
It made no earthly sense, unless to show How whatsoever love elects to bless Brims to a sweet excess That can without depletion overflow.
Which is to say that what love sees is true; That this world's fullness is not made but found.
Life hungers to abound And pour its plenty out for such as you.
Now, if your loves will lend an ear to mine, I toast you both, good son and dear new daughter.
May you not lack for water, And may that water smack of Cana's wine.

Written by Vernon Scannell |

Lesson In Grammar


Perhaps I can make it plain by analogy.
Imagine a machine, not yet assembled, Each part being quite necessary To the functioning of the whole: if the job is fumbled And a vital piece mislaid The machine is quite valueless, The workers will not be paid.
It is just the same when constructing a sentence But here we must be very careful And lay stress on the extreme importance Of defining our terms: nothing is as simple As it seems at first regard.
"Sentence" might well mean to you The amorous rope or twelve years" hard.
No, by "sentence" we mean, quite simply, words Put together like the parts of a machine.
Now remember we must have a verb: verbs Are words of action like Murder, Love, or Sin.
But these might be nouns, depending On how you use them – Already the plot is thickening.
Except when the mood is imperative; that is to say A command is given like Pray, Repent, or Forgive (Dear me, these lessons get gloomier every day) Except, as I was saying, when the mood is gloomy – I mean imperative We need nouns, or else of course Pronouns; words like Maid, Man, Wedding or Divorce.
A sentence must make sense.
Sometimes I believe Our lives are ungrammatical.
I guess that some of you Have misplaced the direct object: the longer I live The less certain I feel of anything I do.
But now I begin To digress.
Write down these simple sentences:-- I am sentenced: I love: I murder: I sin.