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Best Famous Angered Poems

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

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Written by Du Fu | Create an image from this poem

Song of the Wagons

Wagons rumble rumble Hhorses whinny whinny Foot person bow arrow each at waist Father mother wife children go mutual see off Dust dust not see Xianyang bridge Pull clothes stamp foot bar way weep Weep sound directly up strike clouds clouds Road side passerby ask foot person Foot person only say mark down often Some from ten five north guard river Even until four ten west army fields Leave time village chief give bind head Return come head white go back garrison border Border post shed blood become sea water Warlike emperor expand border idea no end Gentleman not see Han homes hill east two hundred districts 1000 villages 10000 hamlets grow thorns trees Though be strong women hold hoe plough Seed grow dyked field not order Besides again Qin soldier withstand bitter fighting Be driven not different dogs and chickens Venerable elder though be ask Battle person dare state bitterness Even like this year winter Not stop pass west soldier District official urgent demand tax Tax tax way how pay True know produce males bad Contrast be produce females good Produce female still get married neighbour Produce male bury follow hundred grass Gentleman not see Qinghai edge Past come white skeleton no person gather New ghost vexed injustice old ghosts weep Heaven dark rain wet sound screech screech
The wagons rumble and roll, The horses whinny and neigh, The conscripts each have bows and arrows at their waists. Their parents, wives and children run to see them off, So much dust's stirred up, it hides the Xianyang bridge. They pull clothes, stamp their feet and, weeping, bar the way, The weeping voices rise straight up and strike the clouds. A passer-by at the roadside asks a conscript why, The conscript answers only that drafting happens often. "At fifteen, many were sent north to guard the river, Even at forty, they had to till fields in the west. When we went away, the elders bound our heads, Returning with heads white, we're sent back off to the frontier. At the border posts, shed blood becomes a sea, The martial emperor's dream of expansion has no end. Have you not seen the two hundred districts east of the mountains, Where thorns and brambles grow in countless villages and hamlets? Although there are strong women to grasp the hoe and the plough, They grow some crops, but there's no order in the fields. What's more, we soldiers of Qin withstand the bitterest fighting, We're always driven onwards just like dogs and chickens. Although an elder can ask me this, How can a soldier dare to complain? Even in this winter time, Soldiers from west of the pass keep moving. The magistrate is eager for taxes, But how can we afford to pay? We know now having boys is bad, While having girls is for the best; Our girls can still be married to the neighbours, Our sons are merely buried amid the grass. Have you not seen on the border of Qinghai, The ancient bleached bones no man's gathered in? The new ghosts are angered by injustice, the old ghosts weep, Moistening rain falls from dark heaven on the voices' screeching."


Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

For James Simmons

 Sitting in outpatients

With my own minor ills

Dawn’s depression lifts

To the lilt of amitryptilene,

A double dose for a day’s journey

To a distant ward.



The word was out that Simmons

Had died eighteen months after

An aneurism at sixty seven.



The meeting he proposed in his second letter

Could never happen: a few days later

A Christmas card in Gaelic - Nollaig Shona -

Then silence, an unbearable chasm

Of wondering if I’d inadvertently offended.



A year later a second card explained the silence:

I joined the queue of mourners:

It was August when I saw the Guardian obituary

Behind glass in the Poetry Library.



How astonishing the colour photo,

The mane of white hair,

The proud mien, the wry smile,

Perfect for a bust by Epstein

Or Gaudier Brjeska a century earlier.



I stood by the shelves

Leafing through your books

With their worn covers,

Remarking the paucity

Of recent borrowings

And the ommisions

From the anthologies.

“I’m a bit out of fashion

But still bringing out books

Armitage didn’t put me in at all

The egregarious Silkin

Tried to get off with my wife -

May he rest in peace.





I can’t remember what angered me

About Geoffrey Hill, quite funny

In a nervous, melancholic way,

A mask you wouldn’t get behind.



Harrison and I were close for years

But it sort of faded when he wrote

He wanted to hear no more

Of my personal life.

I went to his reading in Galway

Where he walked in his cosy regalia

Crossed the length of the bar

To embrace me, manic about the necessity

Of doing big shows in the Balkans.

I taught him all he knows, says aging poet!

And he’s forgotten the best bits,

He knows my work, how quickly

vanity will undo a man.



Tom Blackburn was Gregory Fellow

In my day, a bit mad

But a good and kind poet.”



I read your last book

The Company of Children,

You sent me to review -

Your best by so far

It seemed an angel

Had stolen your pen -

The solitary aging singer

Whispering his last song.
Written by A S J Tessimond | Create an image from this poem

Cats

 Cats no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes
Less than themselves; will not be pinned

To rules or routes for journeys; counter
Attack with non-resistance; twist
Enticing through the curving fingers
And leave an angered empty fist.

They wait obsequious as darkness
Quick to retire, quick to return;
Admit no aim or ethics; flatter
With reservations; will not learn

To answer to their names; are seldom
Truly owned till shot or skinned.
Cats no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Magna Carta

 I'll tell of the Magna Charter
As were signed at the Barons' command 
On Runningmead Island in t' middle of t' Thames 
By King John, as were known as "Lack Land." 

Some say it were wrong of the Barons 
Their will on the King so to thrust, 
But you'll see if you look at both sides of the case 
That they had to do something, or bust. 

For John, from the moment they crowned him, 
Started acting so cunning and sly, 
Being King, of course, he couldn't do wrong, 
But, by gum, he'd a proper good try. 

He squandered the ratepayers' money, 
All their cattle and corn did he take, 
'Til there wasn't a morsel of bread in the land, 
And folk had to manage on cake. 

The way he behaved to young Arthur 
Went to show as his feelings was bad; 
He tried to get Hubert to poke out his eyes, 
Which is no way to treat a young lad. 

It were all right him being a tyrant 
To vassals and folks of that class, 
But he tried on his tricks with the Barons an' all, 
And that's where he made a 'faux pas'. 

He started bombarding their castles, 
And burning them over their head, 
'Til there wasn't enough castles left to go round, 
And they had to sleep six in a bed. 

So they went to the King in a body, 
And their spokesman, Fitzwalter by name, 
He opened the 'ole in his 'elmet and said, 
Conciliatory like, " What's the game?"

The King starts to shilly and shally, 
He sits and he haws and he hums, 
'Til the Barons in rage started gnashing their teeth, 
And them with no teeth gnashed their gums 

Said Fitz, through the 'ole in his 'elmet, 
"It was you as put us in this plight." 
And the King having nothing to say to this, murmured 
"Leave your address and I'll write".

This angered the gallant Fitzwalter;
He stamped on the floor with his foot, 
And were starting to give John a rare ticking off, 
When the 'ole in his 'elmet fell shut. 

"We'll get him a Magna Charter,"
Said Fitz when his face he had freed; 
Said the Barons "That's right and if one's not enough, 
Get a couple and happen they'll breed.'' 

So they set about making a Charter, 
When at finish they'd got it drawn up, 
It looked like a paper on cattle disease, 
Or the entries for t' Waterloo Cup. 

Next day, King John, all unsuspecting, 
And having the afternoon free,
To Runningmead Island had taken a boat, 
And were having some shrimps for his tea. 

He'd just pulled the 'ead off a big 'un, 
And were pinching its tail with his thumb, 
When up came a barge load of Barons, who said, 
"We thought you'd be here so we've come" 

When they told him they'd brought Magna Charter, 
The King seemed to go kind of limp, 
But minding his manners he took off his hat 
And said " Thanks very much, have a shrimp." 

" You'd best sign at once," said Fitzwalter, 
" If you don't, I'll tell thee for a start
The next coronation will happen quite soon, 
And you won't be there to take part." 

So they spread Charter out on t' tea table, 
And John signed his name like a lamb, 
His writing in places was sticky and thick 
Through dipping his pen in the jam. 

And it's through that there Magna Charter, 
As were signed by the Barons of old, 
That in England to-day we can do what we like, 
So long as we do what we're told.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

The Favorite Sultana

 ("N'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive.") 
 
 {XII., Oct. 27, 1828.} 


 To please you, Jewess, jewel! 
 I have thinned my harem out! 
 Must every flirting of your fan 
 Presage a dying shout? 
 
 Grace for the damsels tender 
 Who have fear to hear your laugh, 
 For seldom gladness gilds your lips 
 But blood you mean to quaff. 
 
 In jealousy so zealous, 
 Never was there woman worse; 
 You'd have no roses but those grown 
 Above some buried corse. 
 
 Am I not pinioned firmly? 
 Why be angered if the door 
 Repulses fifty suing maids 
 Who vainly there implore? 
 
 Let them live on—to envy 
 My own empress of the world, 
 To whom all Stamboul like a dog 
 Lies at the slippers curled. 
 
 To you my heroes lower 
 Those scarred ensigns none have cowed; 
 To you their turbans are depressed 
 That elsewhere march so proud. 
 
 To you Bassora offers 
 Her respect, and Trebizonde 
 Her carpets richly wrought, and spice 
 And gems, of which you're fond. 
 
 To you the Cyprus temples 
 Dare not bar or close the doors; 
 For you the mighty Danube sends 
 The choicest of its stores. 
 
 Fear you the Grecian maidens, 
 Pallid lilies of the isles? 
 Or the scorching-eyed sand-rover 
 From Baalbec's massy piles? 
 
 Compared with yours, oh, daughter 
 Of King Solomon the grand, 
 What are round ebon bosoms, 
 High brows from Hellas' strand? 
 
 You're neither blanched nor blackened, 
 For your tint of olive's clear; 
 Yours are lips of ripest cherry, 
 You are straight as Arab spear. 
 
 Hence, launch no longer lightning 
 On these paltry slaves of ours. 
 Why should your flow of tears be matched 
 By their mean life-blood showers? 
 
 Think only of our banquets 
 Brought and served by charming girls, 
 For beauties sultans must adorn 
 As dagger-hilts the pearls. 


 







Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry