Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Ablution Poems

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

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

See Also:

Poems are below...



Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Tale Of A Tub

 The photographic chamber of the eye
records bare painted walls, while an electric light
lays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw;
such poverty assaults the ego; caught
naked in the merely actual room,
the stranger in the lavatory mirror
puts on a public grin, repeats our name
but scrupulously reflects the usual terror.
Just how guilty are we when the ceiling reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl maintains it has no more holy calling than physical ablution, and the towel dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk in its explicit folds? or when the window, blind with steam, will not admit the dark which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow? Twenty years ago, the familiar tub bred an ample batch of omens; but now water faucets spawn no danger; each crab and octopus -- scrabbling just beyond the view, waiting for some accidental break in ritual, to strike -- is definitely gone; the authentic sea denies them and will pluck fantastic flesh down to the honest bone.
We take the plunge; under water our limbs waver, faintly green, shuddering away from the genuine color of skin; can our dreams ever blur the intransigent lines which draw the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact intrudes even when the revolted eye is closed; the tub exists behind our back; its glittering surfaces are blank and true.
Yet always the ridiculous nude flanks urge the fabrication of some cloth to cover such starkness; accuracy must not stalk at large: each day demands we create our whole world over, disguising the constant horror in a coat of many-colored fictions; we mask our past in the green of Eden, pretend future's shining fruit can sprout from the navel of this present waste.
In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches; in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
Written by John Keats | Create an image from this poem

Last Sonnet

BRIGHT Star! would I were steadfast as thou art¡ª 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night  
And watching with eternal lids apart  
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite  
The moving waters at their priest-like task 5 
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores  
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors¡ª 
No¡ªyet still steadfast still unchangeable  
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast 10 
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell  
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest  
Still still to hear her tender-taken breath  
And so live ever¡ªor else swoon to death.
Written by John Keats | Create an image from this poem

His Last Sonnet

 Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art! - 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors - 
No -yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever -or else swoon to death.
Written by Obi Nwakanma | Create an image from this poem

The Horsemen

for Christopher Okigbo 
Emrnanuel Ifeajuna & 
Chukwuma Nzeogwu

I

It was a room above the alcove
in a city renewed by junipers

And by desires.
.
.
Stripped of words, the moments recalled; where the tower, lo, was in sight: memories undaunted by sound or flames of the amethyst, spoke to me; spoke to me like the preacher from… I recall this moment staggering through the wind, when its breath hissed at the earth; as we leaned out of the window in that moment when the first light streaked, joyous, out of the unalterable street.
.
.
Then, tuned to the immanent choir of the grassland, untangling from the sea - Then, stripped to the last detail, from her sinewed skin, disheveled in the light, one aria from the immaculate concertina - before her rebirth a tongue licked through the core of my soul ii Strange men in dark garments riding in slow, weary steps, paces of a far and distant journey - in measured gestures The clatter of hooves on the stone of the street; wakened from the depths of their tombs, long dead ghosts, memories of a carnage - There was fear bred in that silence, nothing triumphant in their last march nothing triumphant where once a plot is weaved, a rider rides into anonymity: what is it that they seek - These silent riders? Glory? Memory? What is it that they want among those who have fallen from their swords? Piety? Ablution? Anonymity? It is not enough to bury the sword in the fold of the embrace; nor is it wise, even prudent, to seek meaning in past deeds when those deeds are immortal, or of an impure genealogy - What do they seek in the bowel of the tide; in that place, where Onishe, spirit-mother, swallowed the ravishers of her children? Graves? Graves in the tide? iii Theirs are troubled gestures full of potent wishes.
…are those wishes - for as they came, those riders, each hoof in the ascent; each eye veiled by remorse, or anger or a forlorn thought - for as they came, weighed down by ancient baggage, a skin of water, a measure of wheat, some penicillin, in case of epidemic a stretcher to fetch the dead; an hourglass, and then the gloved idol, the one that ordered the massacre - who rode ahead of the light; muttered a command: 'halt!'.
From The Horsemen and Other Poems
Written by John Keats | Create an image from this poem

Bright Star Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art

 Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
 Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
 Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
 Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Bokardo

 Well, Bokardo, here we are; 
Make yourself at home.
Look around—you haven’t far To look—and why be dumb? Not the place that used to be, Not so many things to see; But there’s room for you and me.
And you—you’ve come.
Talk a little; or, if not, Show me with a sign Why it was that you forgot What was yours and mine.
Friends, I gather, are small things In an age when coins are kings; Even at that, one hardly flings Friends before swine.
Rather strong? I knew as much, For it made you speak.
No offense to swine, as such, But why this hide-and-seek? You have something on your side, And you wish you might have died, So you tell me.
And you tried One night last week? You tried hard? And even then Found a time to pause? When you try as hard again, You’ll have another cause.
When you find yourself at odds With all dreamers of all gods, You may smite yourself with rods— But not the laws.
Though they seem to show a spite Rather devilish, They move on as with a might Stronger than your wish.
Still, however strong they be, They bide man’s authority: Xerxes, when he flogged the sea, May’ve scared a fish.
It’s a comfort, if you like, To keep honor warm, But as often as you strike The laws, you do no harm.
To the laws, I mean.
To you— That’s another point of view, One you may as well indue With some alarm.
Not the most heroic face To present, I grant; Nor will you insure disgrace By fearing what you want.
Freedom has a world of sides, And if reason once derides Courage, then your courage hides A deal of cant.
Learn a little to forget Life was once a feast; You aren’t fit for dying yet, So don’t be a beast.
Few men with a mind will say, Thinking twice, that they can pay Half their debts of yesterday, Or be released.
There’s a debt now on your mind More than any gold? And there’s nothing you can find Out there in the cold? Only—what’s his name?—Remorse? And Death riding on his horse? Well, be glad there’s nothing worse Than you have told.
Leave Remorse to warm his hands Outside in the rain.
As for Death, he understands, And he will come again.
Therefore, till your wits are clear, Flourish and be quiet—here.
But a devil at each ear Will be a strain? Past a doubt they will indeed, More than you have earned.
I say that because you need Ablution, being burned? Well, if you must have it so, Your last flight went rather low.
Better say you had to know What you have learned.
And that’s over.
Here you are, Battered by the past.
Time will have his little scar, But the wound won’t last.
Nor shall harrowing surprise Find a world without its eyes If a star fades when the skies Are overcast.
God knows there are lives enough, Crushed, and too far gone Longer to make sermons of, And those we leave alone.
Others, if they will, may rend The worn patience of a friend Who, though smiling, sees the end, With nothing done.
But your fervor to be free Fled the faith it scorned; Death demands a decency Of you, and you are warned.
But for all we give we get Mostly blows? Don’t be upset; You, Bokardo, are not yet Consumed or mourned.
There’ll be falling into view Much to rearrange; And there’ll be a time for you To marvel at the change.
They that have the least to fear Question hardest what is here; When long-hidden skies are clear, The stars look strange.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

77. Epitaph on John Dove Innkeeper

 HERE lies Johnie Pigeon;
What was his religion?
 Whae’er desires to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
 For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!


Strong ale was ablution,
Small beer persecution,
 A dram was memento mori;
But a full-flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
 And port was celestial glory.