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Best Famous Aaron Poems

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Written by Wislawa Szymborska | Create an image from this poem

Still

 In sealed box cars travel
names across the land,
and how far they will travel so,
and will they ever get out,
don't ask, I won't say, I don't know.

The name Nathan strikes fist against wall,
the name Isaac, demented, sings,
the name Sarah calls out for water for
the name Aaron that's dying of thirst.

Don't jump while it's moving, name David.
You're a name that dooms to defeat,
given to no one, and homeless,
too heavy to bear in this land.

Let your son have a Slavic name,
for here they count hairs on the head,
for here they tell good from evil
by names and by eyelids' shape.

Don't jump while it's moving. Your son will be Lech.
Don't jump while it's moving. Not time yet.
Don't jump. The night echoes like laughter
mocking clatter of wheels upon tracks.

A cloud made of people moved over the land,
a big cloud gives a small rain, one tear,
a small rain—one tear, a dry season.
Tracks lead off into black forest.

Cor-rect, cor-rect clicks the wheel. Gladeless forest.
Cor-rect, cor-rect. Through the forest a convoy of clamors.
Cor-rect, cor-rect. Awakened in the night I hear
cor-rect, cor-rect, crash of silence on silence.


Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Aaron Hatfield

 Better than granite, Spoon River,
Is the memory-picture you keep of me
Standing before the pioneer men and women
There at Concord Church on Communion day.
Speaking in broken voice of the peasant youth
Of Galilee who went to the city
And was killed by bankers and lawyers;
My voice mingling with the June wind
That blew over wheat fields from Atterbury;
While the white stones in the burying ground
Around the Church shimmered in the summer sun.
And there, though my own memories
Were too great to bear, were you, O pioneers,
With bowed heads breathing forth your sorrow
For the sons killed in battle and the daughters
And little children who vanished in life's morning,
Or at the intolerable hour of noon.
But in those moments of tragic silence,
When the wine and bread were passed,
Came the reconciliation for us --
Us the ploughmen and the hewers of wood,
Us the peasants, brothers of the peasant of Galilee --
To us came the Comforter
And the consolation of tongues of flame!
Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Psalm 132

 v.5,13-18 
L. M.
At the settlement of a church, or the ordination of a minister.

Where shall we go to seek and find
An habitation for our God,
A dwelling for th' Eternal Mind,
Among the sons of flesh and blood?

The God of Jacob chose the hill
Of Zion for his ancient rest;
And Zion is his dwelling still,
His church is with his presence blessed.

Here will I fix my gracious throne,
And reign for ever, saith the Lord;
Here shall my power and love be known,
And blessings shall attend my word.

Here will I meet the hungry poor,
And fill their souls with living bread;
Sinners that wait before my door
With sweet provision shall be fed.

Girded with truth, and clothed with grace,
My priests, my ministers, shall shine
Not Aaron in his costly dress
Made an appearance so divine.

The saints, unable to contain
Their inward joys, shall shout and sing;
The Son of David here shall reign,
And Zion triumph in her King.

[Jesus shall see a num'rous seed
Born here t' uphold his glorious name;
His crown shall flourish on his head,
While all his foes are clothed with shame.]
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Aaron Stark

 Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, --
Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.
A miser was he, with a miser's nose,
And eyes like little dollars in the dark.
His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;
And when he spoke there came like sullen blows
Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,
As if a cur were chary of its bark.

Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,
Year after year he shambled through the town, --
A loveless exile moving with a staff;
And oftentimes there crept into his ears
A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, --
And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.
Written by George Herbert | Create an image from this poem

Aaron

 Holiness on the head,
Light and perfection on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To led them unto life and rest.
Thus are true Aarons dressed. 

Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest.
Poor priest thus am I dressed. 

Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
another music, making live not dead,
without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well dressed. 

Christ is my only head,
My alone only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me even dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new dressed. 

So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tuned by Christ, (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest)
Come people; Aaron's dressed.


Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

Pc

 for Aaron Fogel 

Politically-correct 
personal computers 
point and click. 

President Clinton
(codename Peacock) 
can't protect 
crack pushing 
Communist Party 
cops pursuing 
a care package 
of peasant consciousness
in a car park. 

Poverty's a crime,
and capital punishment
par for the course,
in this penal code. 

A plausible cliffhanger 
can't cure the paralyzed, 
prevent cancer, 
or prepare California 
for Perry Como, 
that peerless crooner. 

Pitcher and catcher confer.
O cornet player, play 
"Pomp and Circumstance" 
please, in the partly cloudy 
cool Pacific.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Hare Drummer

 Do the boys and girls still go to Siever's
For cider, after school, in late September?
Or gather hazel nuts among the thickets
On Aaron Hatfield's farm when the frosts begin?
For many times with the laughing girls and boys
Played I along the road and over the hills
When the sun was low and the air was cool,
Stopping to club the walnut tree
Standing leafless against a flaming west.
Now, the smell of the autumn smoke,
And the dropping acorns,
And the echoes about the vales
Bring dreams of life. They hover over me.
They question me:
Where are those laughing comrades?
How many are with me, how many
In the old orchards along the way to Siever's,
And in the woods that overlook
The quiet water?
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Sierra Kid

 "I've been where it hurts." the Kid 

He becomes Sierra Kid

 I passed Slimgullion, Morgan Mine, 
 Camp Seco, and the rotting Lode. 
 Dark walls of sugar pine --, 
 And where I left the road 

 I left myself behind; 
 Talked to no one, thought 
 Of nothing. When my luck ran out 
 Lived on berries, nuts, bleached grass. 
 Driven by the wind 
 Through great Sonora pass, 

 I found an Indian's teeth; 
 Turned and climbed again 
 Without direction, compass, path, 
 Without a way of coming down, 
 Until I stopped somewhere 
 And gave the place a name. 

 I called the forests mine; 
 Whatever I could hear 
 I took to be a voice: a man 
 Was something I would never hear.

He faces his second winter in the Sierra

 A hard brown bug, maybe a beetle, 
 Packing a ball of sparrow **** -- 
 What shall I call it? 
 **** beetle? Why's it pushing here 
 At this great height in the thin air 
 With its ridiculous waddle 

 Up the hard side of Hard Luck Hill? 
 And the furred thing that frightened me -- 
 Bobcat, coyote, wild dog -- 
 Flat eyes in winter bush, stiff tail 
 Holding his ground, a rotted log. 
 Grass snakes that wouldn't die, 

 And night hawks hanging on the rim 
 Of what was mine. I know them now; 
 They have absorbed a mind 
 Which must endure the freezing snow 
 They endure and, freezing, find 
 A clear sustaining stream.

He learns to lose

 She was afraid 
 Of everything, 
 The little Digger girl. 
 Pah Utes had killed 
 Her older brother 
 Who may have been her lover 
 The way she cried 
 Over his ring -- 

 The heavy brass 
 On the heavy hand. 
 She carried it for weeks 
 Clenched in her fist 
 As if it might 
 Keep out the loneliness 
 Or the plain fact 
 That he was gone. 

 When the first snows 
 Began to fall 
 She stopped her crying, picked 
 Berries, sweet grass, 
 Mended her clothes 
 And sewed a patchwork shawl. 
 We slept together 
 But did not speak. 

 It may have been 
 The Pah Utes took 
 Her off, perhaps her kin. 
 I came back 
 To find her gone 
 With half the winter left 
 To face alone -- 
 The slow grey dark 

 Moving along 
 The dark tipped grass 
 Between the numbed pines. 
 Night after night 
 For four long months 
 My face to her dark face 
 We two had lain 
 Till the first light.

Civilization comes to Sierra Kid

 They levelled Tater Hill 
 And I was sick. 
 First sun, and the chain saws 
 Coming on; blue haze, 
 Dull blue exhaust 
 Rising, dust rising, and the smell. 

 Moving from their thatched huts 
 The crazed wood rats 
 By the thousand; grouse, spotted quail 
 Abandoning the hills 
 For the sparse trail 
 On which, exposed, I also packed. 

 Six weeks. I went back down 
 Through my own woods 
 Afraid of what I knew they'd done. 
 There, there, an A&P, 
 And not a tree 
 For Miles, and mammoth hills of goods. 

 Fat men in uniforms, 
 Young men in aprons 
 With one face shouting, "He is mad!" 
 I answered: "I am Lincoln, 
 Aaron Burr, 
 The aging son of Appleseed. 

 "I am American 
 And I am cold." 
 But not a one would hear me out. 
 Oh God, what have I seen 
 That was not sold! 
 They shot an old man in the gut.

Mad, dying, Sierra Kid enters the capital

 What have I changed? 
 I unwound burdocks from my hair 
 And scalded stains 
 Of the black grape 
 And hid beneath long underwear 
 The yellowed tape. 

 Who will they find 
 In the dark woods of the dark mind 
 Now I have gone 
 Into the world? 
 Across the blazing civic lawn 
 A shadow's hurled 

 And I must follow. 
 Something slides beneath my vest 
 Like melted tallow, 
 Thick but thin, 
 Burning where it comes to rest 
 On what was skin. 

 Who will they find? 
 A man with no eyes in his head? 
 Or just a mind 
 Calm and alone? 
 Or just a mouth, silent, dead, 
 The lips half gone? 

 Will they presume 
 That someone once was half alive 
 And that the air 
 Was massive where 
 The sickening pyracanthus thrive 
 Staining his tomb? 

 I came to touch 
 The great heart of a dying state. 
 Here is the wound! 
 It makes no sound. 
 All that we learn we learn too late, 
 And it's not much.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Norman Baron

 et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut
que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de
maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de
posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui
avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de
l'Angleterre.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered
And the castle-turret shook,

In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,
From the missal on his knee;

And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster
Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held, that night their Christmas wassail;
Many a carol, old and saintly,
Sang the minstrels and the waits;

And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly,
Knocking at the castle-gates.

Till at length the lays they chanted
Reached the chamber terror-haunted,
Where the monk, with accents holy,
Whispered at the baron's ear.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As he paused awhile and listened,
And the dying baron slowly
Turned his weary head to hear.

"Wassail for the kingly stranger
Born and cradled in a manger!
King, like David, priest, like Aaron,
Christ is born to set us free!"

And the lightning showed the sainted
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
"Miserere, Domine!"

In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.

All the pomp of earth had vanished,
Falsehood and deceit were banished,
Reason spake more loud than passion,
And the truth wore no disguise.

Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures,
By his hand were freed again.

And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,
And the monk replied, "Amen!"

Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal,
Mingling with the common dust:

But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

The Unknown

 Ye aspiring ones, listen to the story of the unknown
Who lies here with no stone to mark the place.
As a boy reckless and wanton,
Wandering with gun in hand through the forest
Near the mansion of Aaron Hatfield,
I shot a hawk perched on the top
Of a dead tree.
He fell with guttural cry
At my feet, his wing broken.
Then I put him in a cage
Where he lived many days cawing angrily at me
When I offered him food.
Daily I search the realms of Hades
For the soul of the hawk,
That I may offer him the friendship
Of one whom life wounded and caged.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry