Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous 7Th Grade Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous 7Th Grade poems. This is a select list of the best famous 7Th Grade poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous 7Th Grade poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of 7th grade poems.

Search for the best famous 7Th Grade poems, articles about 7Th Grade poems, poetry blogs, or anything else 7Th Grade poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...



Written by Mark Doty | Create an image from this poem

Turtle Swan

 Because the road to our house
is a back road, meadowlands punctuated
by gravel quarry and lumberyard,
there are unexpected travelers
some nights on our way home from work.
Once, on the lawn of the Tool and Die Company, a swan; the word doesn't convey the shock of the thing, white architecture rippling like a pond's rain-pocked skin, beak lifting to hiss at my approach.
Magisterial, set down in elegant authority, he let us know exactly how close we might come.
After a week of long rains that filled the marsh until it poured across the road to make in low woods a new heaven for toads, a snapping turtle lumbered down the center of the asphalt like an ambulatory helmet.
His long tail dragged, blunt head jutting out of the lapidary prehistoric sleep of shell.
We'd have lifted him from the road but thought he might bend his long neck back to snap.
I tried herding him; he rushed, though we didn't think those blocky legs could hurry-- then ambled back to the center of the road, a target for kids who'd delight in the crush of something slow with the look of primeval invulnerability.
He turned the blunt spear point of his jaws, puffing his undermouth like a bullfrog, and snapped at your shoe, vising a beakful of-- thank God-- leather.
You had to shake him loose.
We left him to his own devices, talked on the way home of what must lead him to new marsh or old home ground.
The next day you saw, one town over, remains of shell in front of the little liquor store.
I argued it was too far from where we'd seen him, too small to be his.
.
.
though who could tell what the day's heat might have taken from his body.
For days he became a stain, a blotch that could have been merely oil.
I did not want to believe that was what we saw alive in the firm center of his authority and right to walk the center of the road, head up like a missionary moving certainly into the country of his hopes.
In the movies in this small town I stopped for popcorn while you went ahead to claim seats.
When I entered the cool dark I saw straight couples everywhere, no single silhouette who might be you.
I walked those two aisles too small to lose anyone and thought of a book I read in seventh grade, "Stranger Than Science," in which a man simply walked away, at a picnic, and was, in the act of striding forward to examine a flower, gone.
By the time the previews ended I was nearly in tears-- then realized the head of one-half the couple in the first row was only your leather jacket propped in the seat that would be mine.
I don't think I remember anything of the first half of the movie.
I don't know what happened to the swan.
I read every week of some man's lover showing the first symptoms, the night sweat or casual flu, and then the wasting begins and the disappearance a day at a time.
I don't know what happened to the swan; I don't know if the stain on the street was our turtle or some other.
I don't know where these things we meet and know briefly, as well as we can or they will let us, go.
I only know that I do not want you --you with your white and muscular wings that rise and ripple beneath or above me, your magnificent neck, eyes the deep mottled autumnal colors of polished tortoise-- I do not want you ever to die.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Child Bearers

 Jean, death comes close to us all,
flapping its awful wings at us
and the gluey wings crawl up our nose.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle, mine pushed into gnawing a stilbestrol cancer I passed on like hemophilia, or yours in the seventh grade, with her spleen smacked in by the balance beam.
And we, mothers, crumpled, and flyspotted with bringing them this far can do nothing now but pray.
Let us put your three children and my two children, ages ranging from eleven to twenty-one, and send them in a large air net up to God, with many stamps, real air mail, and huge signs attached: SPECIAL HANDLING.
DO NOT STAPLE, FOLD OR MUTILATE! And perhaps He will notice and pass a psalm over them for keeping safe for a whole, for a whole God-damned life-span.
And not even a muddled angel will peek down at us in our foxhole.
And He will not have time to send down an eyedropper of prayer for us, the mothering thing of us, as we drip into the soup and drown in the worry festering inside us, lest our children go so fast they go.