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Best Famous Anonymous Poems

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

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Poems are below...


12
Written by Matsuo Basho | Create an image from this poem

The old pond

 Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:

Furuike ya 
kawazu tobikomu 
mizu no oto

 -- Basho



Literal Translation

Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya, 
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into) 
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)






 The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
 sound of water.
Translated by Robert Hass Old pond.
.
.
a frog jumps in water's sound.
Translated by William J.
Higginson An old silent pond.
.
.
A frog jumps into the pond, splash! Silence again.
Translated by Harry Behn There is the old pond! Lo, into it jumps a frog: hark, water's music! Translated by John Bryan The silent old pond a mirror of ancient calm, a frog-leaps-in splash.
Translated by Dion O'Donnol old pond frog leaping splash Translated by Cid Corman Antic pond-- frantic frog jumps in-- gigantic sound.
Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond MAFIA HIT MAN POET: NOTE FOUND PINNED TO LAPEL OF DROWNED VICTIM'S DOUBLE-BREASTED SUIT!!! 'Dere wasa dis frogg Gone jumpa offa da logg Now he inna bogg.
' -- Anonymous Translated by George M.
Young, Jr.
Old pond leap -- splash a frog.
Translated by Lucien Stryck The old pond, A frog jumps in:.
Plop! Translated by Allan Watts The old pond, yes, and A frog is jumping into The water, and splash.
Translated by G.
S.
Fraser
Written by Anonymous | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Joy

Wild and fearful in his cavern
Hid the naked troglodyte,
And the homeless nomad wandered
Laying waste the fertile plain.
Menacing with spear and arrow In the woods the hunter strayed .
.
.
Woe to all poor wreteches stranded On those cruel and hostile shores! From the peak of high Olympus Came the mother Ceres down, Seeeking in those savage regions Her lost daughter Prosperine.
But the Goddess found no refuge, Found no kindly welcome there, And no temple bearing witness To the worship of the gods.
From the fields and from the vineyards Came no fruit to deck the feasts, Only flesh of blood-stained victims Smouldered on the alter-fires, And where'er the grieving goddess Turns her melancholy gaze, Sunk in vilest degradation Man his loathsomeness displays.
Would he purge his soul from vileness And attain to light and worth, He must turn and cling forever To his ancient Mother Earth.
Joy everlasting fostereth The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame.
'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade toward the light and solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sage's sight.
At bounteous nature's kindly breast, All things that breath drink Joy, And bird and beasts and creaping things All follow where she leads.
Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angels -- visions of God's throne, To insects -- sensual lust.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Suicide Note

 "You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is 
a matter of my life" - Artaud

"At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers 
to my daughters and their daughters" - Anonymous

Better, 
despite the worms talking to 
the mare's hoof in the field; 
better, 
despite the season of young girls 
dropping their blood; 
better somehow 
to drop myself quickly 
into an old room.
Better (someone said) not to be born and far better not to be born twice at thirteen where the boardinghouse, each year a bedroom, caught fire.
Dear friend, I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell.
I will be a light thing.
I will enter death like someone's lost optical lens.
Life is half enlarged.
The fish and owls are fierce today.
Life tilts backward and forward.
Even the wasps cannot find my eyes.
Yes, eyes that were immediate once.
Eyes that have been truly awake, eyes that told the whole story— poor dumb animals.
Eyes that were pierced, little nail heads, light blue gunshots.
And once with a mouth like a cup, clay colored or blood colored, open like the breakwater for the lost ocean and open like the noose for the first head.
Once upon a time my hunger was for Jesus.
O my hunger! My hunger! Before he grew old he rode calmly into Jerusalem in search of death.
This time I certainly do not ask for understanding and yet I hope everyone else will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps on the surface of Echo Lake; when moonlight, its bass note turned up loud, hurts some building in Boston, when the truly beautiful lie together.
I think of this, surely, and would think of it far longer if I were not… if I were not at that old fire.
I could admit that I am only a coward crying me me me and not mention the little gnats, the moths, forced by circumstance to suck on the electric bulb.
But surely you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him.
So I will go now without old age or disease, wildly but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, “Where are we going?” We were riding (if I'd only known) to this.
Dear friend, please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone.
I do not even expect my mother's mouth.
I know that I have died before— once in November, once in June.
How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies.
Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice.
New York City will not mind.
At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day.
Written by Billy Collins | Create an image from this poem

Marginalia

 Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.
Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - "Nonsense.
" "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like why wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.
Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.
Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes.
" "Bull's-eye.
" "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines.
And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs.
Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward.
We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge.
Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird signing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves.
And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.
Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- "Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.
"
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Exorcists

 And I solemnly swear
on the chill of secrecy
that I know you not, this room never,
the swollen dress I wear,
nor the anonymous spoons that free me,
nor this calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover.
For all these present, before that wandering ghost, that yellow moth of my summer bed, I say: this small event is not.
So I prepare, am dosed in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid.
I was brown with August, the clapping waves at my thighs and a storm riding into the cove.
We swam while the others beached and burst for their boarded huts, their hale cries shouting back to us and the hollow slam of the dory against the float.
Black arms of thunder strapped upon us, squalled out, we breathed in rain and stroked past the boat.
We thrashed for shore as if we were trapped in green and that suddenly inadequate stain of lightning belling around our skin.
Bodies in air we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack.
It was yellow inside, the sound of the underwing of the sun.
I swear, I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac of summer loves, I know you not.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Demon

 A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand
over the demon's mouth sometimes.
.
.
-- D.
H.
Lawrence I mentioned my demon to a friend and the friend swam in oil and came forth to me greasy and cryptic and said, "I'm thinking of taking him out of hock.
I pawned him years ago.
" Who would buy? The pawned demon, Yellowing with forgetfulness and hand at his throat? Take him out of hock, my friend, but beware of the grief that will fly into your mouth like a bird.
My demon, too often undressed, too often a crucifix I bring forth, too often a dead daisy I give water to too often the child I give birth to and then abort, nameless, nameless.
.
.
earthless.
Oh demon within, I am afraid and seldom put my hand up to my mouth and stitch it up covering you, smothering you from the public voyeury eyes of my typewriter keys.
If I should pawn you, what bullion would they give for you, what pennies, swimming in their copper kisses what bird on its way to perishing? No.
No.
I accept you, you come with the dead who people my dreams, who walk all over my desk (as in Mother, cancer blossoming on her Best & Co.
tits-- waltzing with her tissue paper ghost) the dead, who give sweets to the diabetic in me, who give bolts to the seizure of roses that sometimes fly in and out of me.
Yes.
Yes.
I accept you, demon.
I will not cover your mouth.
If it be man I love, apple laden and foul or if it be woman I love, sick unto her blood and its sugary gasses and tumbling branches.
Demon come forth, even if it be God I call forth standing like a carrion, wanting to eat me, starting at the lips and tongue.
And me wanting to glide into His spoils, I take bread and wine, and the demon farts and giggles, at my letting God out of my mouth anonymous woman at the anonymous altar.
Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

Account Of A Visit From St. Nicholas

 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house, 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St.
Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danc'd in their heads, And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap— When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below; When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St.
Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name: "Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen, "On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem1; "To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! "Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of Toys—and St.
Nicholas too: And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St.
Nicholas came with a bound: He was dress'd all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys was flung on his back, And he look'd like a peddler just opening his pack: His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry, His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow.
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly That shook when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly: He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And fill'd all the stockings; then turn'd with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle: But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight— Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
NOTES: In the year 2000, Don Foster, an English professor at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York, used external and internal evidence to show that Clement Clarke Moore could not have been the author of this poem, but that it was probably the work of Livingston, and that Moore had written another, and almost forgotten, Christmas piece, "Old Santeclaus.
" Foster's analysis of this deception appears in his Author Unknown: On the Trail of Anonymous (New York: Henry Holt, 2000): 221-75.
22.
1Later revised to "Donder and Blitzen" by Clement Clarke Moore when he took credit for the poem in Poems (New York: Bartlett and Welford, 1844).
Source: http://www.
library.
utoronto.
ca/utel/rp/poems/livingston1.
html
Written by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | Create an image from this poem

Standardization

 When, darkly brooding on this Modern Age, 
The journalist with his marketable woes 
Fills up once more the inevitable page 
Of fatuous, flatulent, Sunday-paper prose; 

Whenever the green aesthete starts to whoop 
With horror at the house not made with hands 
And when from vacuum cleaners and tinned soup 
Another pure theosophist demands 

Rebirth in other, less industrial stars 
Where huge towns thrust up in synthetic stone 
And films and sleek miraculous motor cars 
And celluloid and rubber are unknown; 

When from his vegetable Sunday School 
Emerges with the neatly maudlin phrase 
Still one more Nature poet, to rant or drool 
About the "Standardization of the Race"; 

I see, stooping among her orchard trees, 
The old, sound Earth, gathering her windfalls in, 
Broad in the hams and stiffening at the knees, 
Pause and I see her grave malicious grin.
For there is no manufacturer competes With her in the mass production of shapes and things.
Over and over she gathers and repeats The cast of a face, a million butterfly wings.
She does not tire of the pattern of a rose.
Her oldest tricks still catch us with surprise.
She cannot recall how long ago she chose The streamlined hulls of fish, the snail's long eyes, Love, which still pours into its ancient mould The lashing seed that grows to a man again, From whom by the same processes unfold Unending generations of living men.
She has standardized his ultimate needs and pains.
Lost tribes in a lost language mutter in His dreams: his science is tethered to their brains, His guilt merely repeats Original Sin.
And beauty standing motionless before Her mirror sees behind her, mile on mile, A long queue in an unknown corridor, Anonymous faces plastered with her smile.
Written by Anonymous | Create an image from this poem

THANKSGIVING

There’s not a leaf within the bower,—
There’s not a bird upon the tree,—
There’s not a dewdrop on the flower,—
But bears the impress, Lord, of Thee.
[Pg 008]
Thy power the varied leaf designed,
And gave the bird its thrilling tone;
Thy hand the dewdrops’ tints combined,
Till like a diamond’s blaze they shone.
Yes, dewdrops, leaves and buds, and all,—
The smallest, like the greatest things,—
The sea’s vast space, the earth’s wide ball,
Alike proclaim Thee, King of kings!But man alone, to bounteous Heaven,
Thanksgiving’s conscious strains can raise:
To favored man, alone, ’tis given,
To join the angelic choir in praise.
Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

Apollo Musagete Poetry And The Leader Of The Muses

 Nothing is given which is not taken.
Little or nothing is taken which is not freely desired, freely, truly and fully.
"You would not seek me if you had not found me": this is true of all that is supremely desired and admired.
.
.
"An enigma is an animal," said the hurried, harried schoolboy: And a horse divided against itself cannot stand; And a moron is a man who believes in having too many wives: what harm is there in that? O the endless fecundity of poetry is equaled By its endless inexhaustible freshness, as in the discovery of America and of poetry.
Hence it is clear that the truth is not strait and narrow but infinite: All roads lead to Rome and to poetry and to poem, sweet poem and from, away and towards are the same typography.
Hence the poet must be, in a way, stupid and naive and a little child; Unless ye be as a little child ye cannot enter the kingdom of poetry.
Hence the poet must be able to become a tiger like Blake; a carousel like Rilke.
Hence he must be all things to be free, for all impersonations a doormat and a monument to all situations possible or actual The cuckold, the cuckoo, the conqueror, and the coxcomb.
It is to him in the zoo that the zoo cries out and the hyena: "Hello, take off your hat, king of the beasts, and be seated, Mr.
Bones.
" And hence the poet must seek to be essentially anonymous.
He must die a little death each morning.
He must swallow his toad and study his vomit as Baudelaire studied la charogne of Jeanne Duval.
The poet must be or become both Keats and Renoir and Keats as Renoir.
Mozart as Figaro and Edgar Allan Poe as Ophelia, stoned out of her mind drowning in the river called forever river and ever.
.
.
Keats as Mimi, Camille, and an aging gourmet.
He must also refuse the favors of the unattainable lady (As Baudelaire refused Madame Sabatier when the fair blonde summoned him, For Jeanne Duval was enough and more than enough, although she cuckolded him With errand boys, servants, waiters; reality was Jeanne Duval.
Had he permitted Madame Sabatier to teach the poet a greater whiteness, His devotion and conception of the divinity of Beauty would have suffered an absolute diminution.
) The poet must be both Casanova and St.
Anthony, He must be Adonis, Nero, Hippolytus, Heathcliff, and Phaedre, Genghis Kahn, Genghis Cohen, and Gordon Martini Dandy Ghandi and St.
Francis, Professor Tenure, and Dizzy the dean and Disraeli of Death.
He would have worn the horns of existence upon his head, He would have perceived them regarding the looking-glass, He would have needed them the way a moose needs a hatrack; Above his heavy head and in his loaded eyes, black and scorched, He would have seen the meaning of the hat-rack, above the glass Looking in the dark foyer.
For the poet must become nothing but poetry, He must be nothing but a poem when he is writing Until he is absent-minded as the dead are Forgetful as the nymphs of Lethe and a lobotomy.
.
.
("the fat weed that rots on Lethe wharf").
12