Best Famous Alligator Poems

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

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Written by Federico García Lorca | Create an image from this poem

City That Does Not Sleep

 In the sky there is nobody asleep.
Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth.
Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse who has moaned for three years because of a dry countryside on his knee; and that boy they buried this morning cried so much it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream.
Careful! Careful! Careful! We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist; flesh exists.
Kisses tie our mouths in a thicket of new veins, and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
One day the horses will live in the saloons and the enraged ants will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.
Another day we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful! The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm, and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge, or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe, we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting, where the bear's teeth are waiting, where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting, and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky.
Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes, a whip, boys, a whip! Let there be a landscape of open eyes and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world.
No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night, open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Shit List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity

 You'll rejoice at how many kinds of shit there are:
gosling shit (which J.
Williams said something was as green as), fish shit (the generality), trout shit, rainbow trout shit (for the nice), mullet shit, sand dab shit, casual sloth shit, elephant shit (awesome as process or payload), wildebeest shit, horse shit (a favorite), caterpillar shit (so many dark kinds, neatly pelleted as mint seed), baby rhinoceros shit, splashy jaybird shit, mockingbird shit (dive-bombed with the aim of song), robin shit that oozes white down lawnchairs or down roots under roosts, chicken shit and chicken mite shit, pelican shit, gannet shit (wholesome guano), fly shit (periodic), cockatoo shit, dog shit (past catalog or assimilation), cricket shit, elk (high plains) shit, and tiny scribbled little shrew shit, whale shit (what a sight, deep assumption), mandril shit (blazing blast off), weasel shit (wiles' waste), gazelle shit, magpie shit (total protein), tiger shit (too acid to contemplate), moral eel and manta ray shit, eerie shark shit, earthworm shit (a soilure), crab shit, wolf shit upon the germicidal ice, snake shit, giraffe shit that accelerates, secretary bird shit, turtle shit suspension invites, remora shit slightly in advance of the shark shit, hornet shit (difficult to assess), camel shit that slaps the ghastly dry siliceous, frog shit, beetle shit, bat shit (the marmoreal), contemptible cat shit, penguin shit, hermit crab shit, prairie hen shit, cougar shit, eagle shit (high totem stuff), buffalo shit (hardly less lofty), otter shit, beaver shit (from the animal of alluvial dreams)—a vast ordure is a broken down cloaca—macaw shit, alligator shit (that floats the Nile along), louse shit, macaque, koala, and coati shit, antelope shit, chuck-will's-widow shit, alpaca shit (very high stuff), gooney bird shit, chigger shit, bull shit (the classic), caribou shit, rasbora, python, and razorbill shit, scorpion shit, man shit, laswing fly larva shit, chipmunk shit, other-worldly wallaby shit, gopher shit (or broke), platypus shit, aardvark shit, spider shit, kangaroo and peccary shit, guanaco shit, dolphin shit, aphid shit, baboon shit (that leopards induce), albatross shit, red-headed woodpecker (nine inches long) shit, tern shit, hedgehog shit, panda shit, seahorse shit, and the shit of the wasteful gallinule.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Longings for Home

 O MAGNET-SOUTH! O glistening, perfumed South! My South! 
O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse, and love! Good and evil! O all dear to me! 
O dear to me my birth-things—All moving things, and the trees where I was
 born—the
 grains,
 plants, rivers; 
Dear to me my own slow sluggish rivers where they flow, distant, over flats of silvery
 sands,
 or
 through swamps; 
Dear to me the Roanoke, the Savannah, the Altamahaw, the Pedee, the Tombigbee, the Santee,
 the
 Coosa, and the Sabine;
O pensive, far away wandering, I return with my Soul to haunt their banks again; 
Again in Florida I float on transparent lakes—I float on the Okeechobee—I cross
 the
 hummock land, or through pleasant openings, or dense forests; 
I see the parrots in the woods—I see the papaw tree and the blossoming titi; 
Again, sailing in my coaster, on deck, I coast off Georgia—I coast up the Carolinas, 
I see where the live-oak is growing—I see where the yellow-pine, the scented
 bay-tree, the
 lemon and orange, the cypress, the graceful palmetto;
I pass rude sea-headlands and enter Pamlico Sound through an inlet, and dart my vision
 inland; 
O the cotton plant! the growing fields of rice, sugar, hemp! 
The cactus, guarded with thorns—the laurel-tree, with large white flowers; 
The range afar—the richness and barrenness—the old woods charged with mistletoe
 and
 trailing moss, 
The piney odor and the gloom—the awful natural stillness, (Here in these dense swamps
 the
 freebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive slave has his conceal’d hut;)
O the strange fascination of these half-known, half-impassable swamps, infested by
 reptiles,
 resounding with the bellow of the alligator, the sad noises of the night-owl and the
 wild-cat,
 and
 the whirr of the rattlesnake; 
The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all the forenoon—singing through the
 moon-lit
 night, 
The humming-bird, the wild turkey, the raccoon, the opossum; 
A Tennessee corn-field—the tall, graceful, long-leav’d corn—slender,
 flapping,
 bright
 green with tassels—with beautiful ears, each well-sheath’d in its husk; 
An Arkansas prairie—a sleeping lake, or still bayou;
O my heart! O tender and fierce pangs—I can stand them not—I will depart; 
O to be a Virginian, where I grew up! O to be a Carolinian! 
O longings irrepressible! O I will go back to old Tennessee, and never wander more!
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Dr. sam

 TO MISS GRACE KING

Down in the old French quarter,
Just out of Rampart street,
I wend my way
At close of day
Unto the quaint retreat
Where lives the Voodoo Doctor
By some esteemed a sham,
Yet I'll declare there's none elsewhere
So skilled as Doctor Sam
With the claws of a deviled crawfish,
The juice of the prickly prune,
And the quivering dew
From a yarb that grew
In the light of a midnight moon!

I never should have known him
But for the colored folk
That here obtain
And ne'er in vain
That wizard's art invoke;
For when the Eye that's Evil
Would him and his'n damn,
The negro's grief gets quick relief
Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam.
With the caul of an alligator, The plume of an unborn loon, And the poison wrung From a serpent's tongue By the light of a midnight moon! In all neurotic ailments I hear that he excels, And he insures Immediate cures Of weird, uncanny spells; The most unruly patient Gets docile as a lamb And is freed from ill by the potent skill Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam; Feathers of strangled chickens, Moss from the dank lagoon, And plasters wet With spider sweat In the light of a midnight moon! They say when nights are grewsome And hours are, oh! so late, Old Sam steals out And hunts about For charms that hoodoos hate! That from the moaning river And from the haunted glen He silently brings what eerie things Give peace to hoodooed men:-- The tongue of a piebald 'possum, The tooth of a senile 'coon, The buzzard's breath that smells of death, And the film that lies On a lizard's eyes In the light of a midnight moon!
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Florida

 The state with the prettiest name,
the state that floats in brackish water,
held together by mangrave roots
that bear while living oysters in clusters, 
and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons, 
dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks
like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass.
The state full of long S-shaped birds, blue and white, and unseen hysterical birds who rush up the scale every time in a tantrum.
Tanagers embarrassed by their flashiness, and pelicans whose delight it is to clown; who coast for fun on the strong tidal currents in and out among the mangrove islands and stand on the sand-bars drying their damp gold wings on sun-lit evenings.
Enormous turtles, helpless and mild, die and leave their barnacled shells on the beaches, and their large white skulls with round eye-sockets twice the size of a man's.
The palm trees clatter in the stiff breeze like the bills of the pelicans.
The tropical rain comes down to freshen the tide-looped strings of fading shells: Job's Tear, the Chinese Alphabet, the scarce Junonia, parti-colored pectins and Ladies' Ears, arranged as on a gray rag of rotted calico, the buried Indian Princess's skirt; with these the monotonous, endless, sagging coast-line is delicately ornamented.
Thirty or more buzzards are drifting down, down, down, over something they have spotted in the swamp, in circles like stirred-up flakes of sediment sinking through water.
Smoke from woods-fires filters fine blue solvents.
On stumps and dead trees the charring is like black velvet.
The mosquitoes go hunting to the tune of their ferocious obbligatos.
After dark, the fireflies map the heavens in the marsh until the moon rises.
Cold white, not bright, the moonlight is coarse-meshed, and the careless, corrupt state is all black specks too far apart, and ugly whites; the poorest post-card of itself.
After dark, the pools seem to have slipped away.
The alligator, who has five distinct calls: friendliness, love, mating, war, and a warning-- whimpers and speaks in the throat of the Indian Princess.
Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

Peter

 Strong and slippery,
built for the midnight grass-party
confronted by four cats, he sleeps his time away--
the detached first claw on the foreleg corresponding
to the thumb, retracted to its tip; the small tuft of fronds
or katydid-legs above each eye numbering all units
in each group; the shadbones regularly set about the mouth
to droop or rise in unison like porcupine-quills.
He lets himself be flattened out by gravity, as seaweed is tamed and weakened by the sun, compelled when extended, to lie stationary.
Sleep is the result of his delusion that one must do as well as one can for oneself, sleep--epitome of what is to him the end of life.
Demonstrate on him how the lady placed a forked stick on the innocuous neck-sides of the dangerous southern snake.
One need not try to stir him up; his prune-shaped head and alligator-eyes are not party to the joke.
Lifted and handled, he may be dangled like an eel or set up on the forearm like a mouse; his eyes bisected by pupils of a pin's width, are flickeringly exhibited, then covered up.
May be? I should have said might have been; when he has been got the better of in a dream-- as in a fight with nature or with cats, we all know it.
Profound sleep is not with him a fixed illusion.
Springing about with froglike accuracy, with jerky cries when taken in hand, he is himself again; to sit caged by the rungs of a domestic chair would be unprofitable--human.
What is the good of hypocrisy? it is permissible to choose one's employment, to abandon the nail, or roly-poly, when it shows signs of being no longer a pleasure, to score the nearby magazine with a double line of strokes.
He can talk but insolently says nothing.
What of it? When one is frank, one's very presence is a compliment.
It is clear that he can see the virtue of naturalness, that he does not regard the published fact as a surrender.
As for the disposition invariably to affront, an animal with claws should have an opportunity to use them.
The eel-like extension of trunk into tail is not an accident.
To leap, to lengthen out, divide the air, to purloin, to pursue.
To tell the hen: fly over the fence, go in the wrong way in your perturbation--this is life; to do less would be nothing but dishonesty.
Written by Wallace Stevens | Create an image from this poem

Nomad Exquisite

As the immense dew of Florida
Brings forth
The big-finned palm
And green vine angering for life,

As the immense dew of Florida
Brings forth hymn and hymn
From the beholder,
Beholding all these green sides
And gold sides of green sides,

And blessed mornings,
Meet for the eye of the young alligator,
And lightning colors
So, in me, comes flinging
Forms, flames, and the flakes of flames.
Written by Kenneth Patchen | Create an image from this poem

The Artists Duty

 So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame
To extend all boundaries
To fog them in right over the plate
To kill only what is ridiculous
To establish problem
To ignore solutions
To listen to no one
To omit nothing
To contradict everything
To generate the free brain
To bear no cross
To take part in no crucifixion
To tinkle a warning when mankind strays
To explode upon all parties
To wound deeper than the soldier
To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all

To verify the irrational
To exaggerate all things
To inhibit everyone
To lubricate each proportion
To experience only experience

To set a flame in the high air
To exclaim at the commonplace alone
To cause the unseen eyes to open

To admire only the abrsurd
To be concerned with every profession save his own
To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty
To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator
To lift the flesh above the suffering
To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit

To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss

To HAPPEN

It is the artist’s duty to be alive
To drag people into glittering occupations

To blush perpetually in gaping innocence
To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence
To burrow beneath the subconscious
To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason
To obey each outrageous inpulse
To commit his company to all enchantments.
Written by Donald Hall | Create an image from this poem

The Alligator Bride

 The clock of my days winds down.
The cat eats sparrows outside my window.
Once, she brought me a small rabbit which we devoured together, under the Empire Table while the men shrieked repossessing the gold umbrella.
Now the beard on my clock turns white.
My cat stares into dark corners missing her gold umbrella.
She is in love with the Alligator Bride.
Ah, the tiny fine white teeth! The Bride, propped on her tail in white lace stares from the holes of her eyes.
Her stuck-open mouth laughs at minister and people.
On bare new wood fourteen tomatoes, a dozen ears of corn, six bottles of white wine, a melon, a cat, broccoli and the Alligator Bride.
The color of bubble gum, the consistency of petroleum jelly, wickedness oozes from the palm of my left hand.
My cat licks it.
I watch the Alligator Bride.
Big houses like shabby boulders hold themselves tight in gelatin.
I am unable to daydream.
The sky is a gun aimed at me.
I pull the trigger.
The skull of my promises leans in a black closet, gapes with its good mouth for a teat to suck.
A bird flies back and forth in my house that is covered by gelatin and the cat leaps at it missing.
Under the Empire Table the Alligator Bride lies in her bridal shroud.
My left hand leaks on the Chinese carpet.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

THE QUADROON GIRL

 The Slaver in the broad lagoon
Lay moored with idle sail;
He waited for the rising moon,
And for the evening gale.
Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bayou.
Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime.
The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go.
He said, "My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon; I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon.
Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood.
Her eyes were large, and full of light, Her arms and neck were bare; No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And her own long, raven hair.
And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint.
"The soil is barren,--the farm is old"; The thoughtful planter said; Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strife With such accursed gains: For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins.
But the voice of nature was too weak; He took the glittering gold! Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold.
The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land!
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