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Best Famous Anxiety Poems

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

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Poems are below...



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Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

Her Anxiety

 Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die, Alter at the best Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.
Such body lovers have, Such exacting breath, That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give, Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.
Written by Raymond Carver | Create an image from this poem

Fear

 Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek! Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.
Fear of anxiety! Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I've said that.
Written by Stephen Dunn | Create an image from this poem

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry

 Relax.
This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines make you sleepy or bored, give in to sleep, turn on the T.
V.
, deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand such things.
Its feelings cannot be hurt.
They exist somewhere in the poet, and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime.
Start it in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama, and can offer you violence if it is violence you like.
Look, there's a man on a sidewalk; the way his leg is quivering he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem and I know you're busy at the office or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together like the party's unbuttoned coats, slumped on the bed waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on; everyone has his expectations, but this is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser is dripping from a waterfall, deodorants are hissing into armpits of people you resemble, and the two lovers are dressing now, saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem can come up with, but clearly it's needed.
For it's apparent they will never see each other again and we need music for this because there was never music when he or she left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer than life.
I want you to look at it when anxiety zigzags your stomach and the last tranquilizer is gone and you need someone to tell you I'll be here when you want me like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much.
It will never say more than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case or in your house.
And if you're not asleep by now, or bored beyond sense, the poem wants you to laugh.
Laugh at yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on: Good.
Now here's what poetry can do.
Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly, You're beautiful for as long as you live.
Written by David Herbert Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Anxiety

 The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun, 
The crisping steam of a train 
Melts in the air, while two black birds 
Sweep past the window again.
Along the vacant road, a red Bicycle approaches; I wait In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy To leap down at our gate.
He has passed us by; but is it Relief that starts in my breast? Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still She has no rest.
Written by Raymond Carver | Create an image from this poem

Circulation

 And all at length are gathered in.
--LOUISE BOGAN By the time I came around to feeling pain and woke up, moonlight flooded the room.
My arm lay paralyzed, propped up like an old anchor under your back.
You were in a dream, you said later, where you'd arrived early for the dance.
But after a moment's anxiety you were okay because it was really a sidewalk sale, and the shoes you were wearing, or not wearing, were fine for that.
* "Help me," I said.
And tried to hoist my arm.
But it just lay there, aching, unable to rise on its own.
Even after you said, "What is it? What's wrong?" it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved by any expression of fear or amazement.
We shouted at it, and grew afraid when it didn't answer.
"It's gone to sleep," I said, and hearing those words knew how absurd this was.
But I couldn't laugh.
Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to raise it.
This can't be my arm is what I kept thinking as we thumped it, squeezed it, and prodded it back to life.
Shook it until that stinging went away.
We said a few words to each other.
I don't remember what.
Whatever reassuring things people who love each other say to each other given the hour and such odd circumstance.
I do remember you remarked how it was light enough in the room that you could see circles under my eyes.
You said I needed more regular sleep, and I agreed.
Each of us went to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed on our respective sides.
Pulled the covers up.
"Good night," you said, for the second time that night.
And fell asleep.
Maybe into that same dream, or else another.
* I lay until daybreak, holding both arms fast across my chest.
Working my fingers now and then.
While my thoughts kept circling around and around, but always going back where they'd started from.
That one inescapable fact: even while we undertake this trip, there's another, far more bizarre, we still have to make.
Written by Donald Hall | Create an image from this poem

Affirmation

 To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young, we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer pond, ignorant and content.
But a marriage, that began without harm, scatters into debris on the shore, and a friend from school drops cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us past middle age, our wife will die at her strongest and most beautiful.
New women come and go.
All go.
The pretty lover who announces that she is temporary is temporary.
The bold woman, middle-aged against our old age, sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand.
Another friend of decades estranges himself in words that pollute thirty years.
Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge and affirm that it is fitting and delicious to lose everything.
Written by Charlotte Bronte | Create an image from this poem

The Teachers Monologue

 The room is quiet, thoughts alone 
People its mute tranquillity; 
The yoke put on, the long task done,­ 
I am, as it is bliss to be, 
Still and untroubled.
Now, I see, For the first time, how soft the day O'er waveless water, stirless tree, Silent and sunny, wings its way.
Now, as I watch that distant hill, So faint, so blue, so far removed, Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill, That home where I am known and loved: It lies beyond; yon azure brow Parts me from all Earth holds for me; And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow Thitherward tending, changelessly.
My happiest hours, aye ! all the time, I love to keep in memory, Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime Decayed to dark anxiety.
Sometimes, I think a narrow heart Makes me thus mourn those far away, And keeps my love so far apart From friends and friendships of to-day; Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream I measure up so jealously, All the sweet thoughts I live on seem To vanish into vacancy: And then, this strange, coarse world around Seems all that's palpable and true; And every sight, and every sound, Combines my spirit to subdue To aching grief, so void and lone Is Life and Earth­so worse than vain, The hopes that, in my own heart sown, And cherished by such sun and rain As Joy and transient Sorrow shed, Have ripened to a harvest there: Alas ! methinks I hear it said, "Thy golden sheaves are empty air.
" All fades away; my very home I think will soon be desolate; I hear, at times, a warning come Of bitter partings at its gate; And, if I should return and see The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair; And hear it whispered mournfully, That farewells have been spoken there, What shall I do, and whither turn ? Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ? 'Tis not the air I wished to play, The strain I wished to sing; My wilful spirit slipped away And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor tear, Bright joy nor bitter woe, But just a song that sweet and clear, Though haply sad, might flow.
A quiet song, to solace me When sleep refused to come; A strain to chase despondency, When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot sing; All feels so cold and dead; No wild distress, no gushing spring Of tears in anguish shed; But all the impatient gloom of one Who waits a distant day, When, some great task of suffering done, Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure flies, And life consumes away, And youth's rejoicing ardour dies Beneath this drear delay; And Patience, weary with her yoke, Is yielding to despair, And Health's elastic spring is broke Beneath the strain of care.
Life will be gone ere I have lived; Where now is Life's first prime ? I've worked and studied, longed and grieved, Through all that rosy time.
To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,­ Is such my future fate ? The morn was dreary, must the eve Be also desolate ? Well, such a life at least makes Death A welcome, wished-for friend; Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith, To suffer to the end !
Written by Marge Piercy | Create an image from this poem

Belly Good

 A heap of wheat, says the Song of Songs 
but I've never seen wheat in a pile.
Apples, potatoes, cabbages, carrots make lumpy stacks, but you are sleek as a seal hauled out in the winter sun.
I can see you as a great goose egg or a single juicy and fully ripe peach.
You swell like a natural grassy hill.
You are symmetrical as a Hopewell mound, with the eye of the navel wide open, the eye of my apple, the pear's port window.
You're not supposed to exist at all this decade.
You're to be flat as a kitchen table, so children with roller skates can speed over you like those sidewalks of my childhood that each gave a different roar under my wheels.
You're required to show muscle striations like the ocean sand at ebb tide, but brick hard.
Clothing is not designed for women of whose warm and flagrant bodies you are a swelling part.
Yet I confess I meditate with my hands folded on you, a maternal cushion radiating comfort.
Even when I have been at my thinnest, you have never abandoned me but curled round as a sleeping cat under my skirt.
When I spread out, so do you.
You like to eat, drink and bang on another belly.
In anxiety I clutch you with nervous fingers as if you were a purse full of calm.
In my grandmother standing in the fierce sun I see your cauldron that held eleven children shaped under the tent of her summer dress.
I see you in my mother at thirty in her flapper gear, skinny legs and then you knocking on the tight dress.
We hand you down like a prize feather quilt.
You are our female shame and sunburst strength.
Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

Shake The Superflux!

 I like walking on streets as black and wet as this one
now, at two in the solemnly musical morning, when everyone else
in this town emptied of Lestrygonians and Lotus-eaters
is asleep or trying or worrying why
they aren't asleep, while unknown to them Ulysses walks
into the shabby apartment I live in, humming and feeling
happy with the avant-garde weather we're having,
the winds (a fugue for flute and oboe) pouring
into the windows which I left open although
I live on the ground floor and there have been
two burglaries on my block already this week,
do I quickly take a look to see
if the valuables are missing? No, that is I can't,
it's an epistemological quandary: what I consider
valuable, would they? Who are they, anyway? I'd answer that
with speculations based on newspaper accounts if I were
Donald E.
Westlake, whose novels I'm hooked on, but this first cigarette after twenty-four hours of abstinence tastes so good it makes me want to include it in my catalogue of pleasures designed to hide the ugliness or sweep it away the way the violent overflow of rain over cliffs cleans the sewers and drains of Ithaca whose waterfalls head my list, followed by crudites of carrots and beets, roots and all, with rained-on radishes, too beautiful to eat, and the pure pleasure of talking, talking and not knowing where the talk will lead, but willing to take my chances.
Furthermore I shall enumerate some varieties of tulips (Bacchus, Tantalus, Dardanelles) and other flowers with names that have a life of their own (Love Lies Bleeding, Dwarf Blue Bedding, Burning Bush, Torch Lily, Narcissus).
Mostly, as I've implied, it's the names of things that count; still, sometimes I wonder and, wondering, find the path of least resistance, the earth's orbit around the sun's delirious clarity.
Once you sniff the aphrodisiac of disaster, you know: there's no reason for the anxiety--or for expecting to be free of it; try telling Franz Kafka he has no reason to feel guilty; or so I say to well-meaning mongers of common sense.
They way I figure, you start with the names which are keys and then you throw them away and learn to love the locked rooms, with or without corpses inside, riddles to unravel, emptiness to possess, a woman to wake up with a kiss (who is she? no one knows) who begs your forgiveness (for what? you cannot know) and then, in the authoritative tone of one who has weathered the storm of his exile, orders you to put up your hands and beg the rain to continue as if it were in your power.
And it is, I feel it with each drop.
I am standing outside at the window, looking in on myself writing these words, feeling what wretches feel, just as the doctor ordered.
And that's what I plan to do, what the storm I was caught in reminded me to do, to shake the superflux, distribute my appetite, fast without so much as a glass of water, and love each bite I haven't taken.
I shall become the romantic poet whose coat of many colors smeared with blood, like a butcher's apron, left in the sacred pit or brought back to my father to confirm my death, confirms my new life instead, an alien prince of dungeons and dreams who sheds the disguise people recognize him by to reveal himself to his true brothers at last in the silence that stuns before joy descends, like rain.
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

'Tis well to drink, and leave anxiety

'Tis well to drink, and leave anxiety
For what is past, and what is yet to be;
Our prisoned spirits, lent us for a day,
A while from season's bondage shall go free!
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