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Best Famous Armed To The Teeth Poems

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Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

At the Top of My voice

 My most respected
 comrades of posterity!
Rummaging among
 these days’ 
 petrified crap,
exploring the twilight of our times,
 will inquire about me too.
And, possibly, your scholars will declare, with their erudition overwhelming a swarm of problems; once there lived a certain champion of boiled water, and inveterate enemy of raw water.
Professor, take off your bicycle glasses! I myself will expound those times and myself.
I, a latrine cleaner and water carrier, by the revolution mobilized and drafted, went off to the front from the aristocratic gardens of poetry - the capricious wench She planted a delicious garden, the daughter, cottage, pond and meadow.
Myself a garden I did plant, myself with water sprinkled it.
some pour their verse from water cans; others spit water from their mouth - the curly Macks, the clever jacks - but what the hell’s it all about! There’s no damming al this up - beneath the walls they mandoline: “Tara-tina, tara-tine, tw-a-n-g.
” It’s no great honor, then, for my monuments to rise from such roses above the public squares, where consumption coughs, where whores, hooligans and syphilis walk.
Agitprop sticks in my teeth too, and I’d rather compose romances for you - more profit in it and more charm.
But I subdued myself, setting my heel on the throat of my own song.
Listen, comrades of posterity, to the agitator the rabble-rouser.
Stifling the torrents of poetry, I’ll skip the volumes of lyrics; as one alive, I’ll address the living.
I’ll join you in the far communist future, I who am no Esenin super-hero.
My verse will reach you across the peaks of ages, over the heads of governments and poets.
My verse will reach you not as an arrow in a cupid-lyred chase, not as worn penny Reaches a numismatist, not as the light of dead stars reaches you.
My verse by labor will break the mountain chain of years, and will present itself ponderous, crude, tangible, as an aqueduct, by slaves of Rome constructed, enters into our days.
When in mounds of books, where verse lies buried, you discover by chance the iron filings of lines, touch them with respect, as you would some antique yet awesome weapon.
It’s no habit of mine to caress the ear with words; a maiden’s ear curly-ringed will not crimson when flicked by smut.
In parade deploying the armies of my pages, I shall inspect the regiments in line.
Heavy as lead, my verses at attention stand, ready for death and for immortal fame.
The poems are rigid, pressing muzzle to muzzle their gaping pointed titles.
The favorite of all the armed forces the cavalry of witticisms ready to launch a wild hallooing charge, reins its chargers still, raising the pointed lances of the rhymes.
and all these troops armed to the teeth, which have flashed by victoriously for twenty years, all these, to their very last page, I present to you, the planet’s proletarian.
The enemy of the massed working class is my enemy too inveterate and of long standing.
Years of trial and days of hunger ordered us to march under the red flag.
We opened each volume of Marx as we would open the shutters in our own house; but we did not have to read to make up our minds which side to join, which side to fight on.
Our dialectics were not learned from Hegel.
In the roar of battle it erupted into verse, when, under fire, the bourgeois decamped as once we ourselves had fled from them.
Let fame trudge after genius like an inconsolable widow to a funeral march - die then, my verse, die like a common soldier, like our men who nameless died attacking! I don’t care a spit for tons of bronze; I don’t care a spit for slimy marble.
We’re men of kind, we’ll come to terms about our fame; let our common monument be socialism built in battle.
Men of posterity examine the flotsam of dictionaries: out of Lethe will bob up the debris of such words as “prostitution,” “tuberculosis,” “blockade.
” For you, who are now healthy and agile, the poet with the rough tongue of his posters, has licked away consumptives’ spittle.
With the tail of my years behind me, I begin to resemble those monsters, excavated dinosaurs.
Comrade life, let us march faster, march faster through what’s left of the five-year plan.
My verse has brought me no rubles to spare: no craftsmen have made mahogany chairs for my house.
In all conscience, I need nothing except a freshly laundered shirt.
When I appear before the CCC of the coming bright years, by way of my Bolshevik party card, I’ll raise above the heads of a gang of self-seeking poets and rogues, all the hundred volumes of my communist-committed books.
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Grif of the Bloody Hand

 In an immense wood in the south of Kent,
There lived a band of robbers which caused the people discontent;
And the place they infested was called the Weald,
Where they robbed wayside travellers and left them dead on the field.
Their leader was called Grif, of the Bloody Hand, And so well skilled in sword practice there's few could him withstand; And sometimes they robbed villages when nothing else could be gained, In the year of 1336, when King Edward the III.
The dress the robbers wore was deep coloured black, And in courage and evil deeds they didn't lack; And Grif.
Of the Bloody Hand, called them his devils, Because they were ever ready to perform all kinds of ills.
'Twas towards the close of a very stormy day, A stranger walked through the wood in search of Grif, without dismay; And as the daylight faded he quickened his pace and ran, Never suspecting that in his rear he was followed by a man.
And as the man to the stranger drew near, He demanded in a gruff voice, what seek you here; And when the stranger saw him he trembled with fear, Because upon his head he wore a steel helmet, and in his hand he bore a spear.
What seek you here repeated the dark habited man, Come, sir, speak out, and answer me if you can; Are you then one of the devils demanded the stranger faintly, That I am said the man, now what matters that to thee.
Then repeated the stranger, sir, you have put me to a stand, But if I guess aright, you are Grif, of the Bloody Hand; That I am replied Grif, and to confess it I'm not afraid, Oh! Well then I require your service and you'll be well paid.
But first I must know thy name, I, that's the point, Then you shall have the help of my band conjoint; Before any of my men on your mission goes, Well then replied the stranger call me Martin Dubois.
Well sir, come tell me what you want as quick as you can, Well then replied Dubois do you know one Halbert Evesham That dwells in the little village of Brenchley, Who has a foster child called Violet Evesham of rare beauty.
And you seek my aid to carry her off, Ha! Ha! A love affair, nay do not think I scoff; For you shall enjoy her sir before this time to-morrow, If that will satisfy you, or help to drown your sorrow.
And now sir what is your terms with me, Before I carry off Violet Evesham from the village of Brenchley; Well Grif, one thousand marks shall be the pay, 'Tis agreed then cried Grif, and you shall enjoy her without delay.
Then the bargains struck, uttered Grif, how many men will you require, Come sir, speak, you can have all of my band if you desire; Oh, thanks sir, replied Dubois, I consider four men will do, That's to say sir, if the four men's courage be true.
And to-morrow sir send the men to Brenchley without delay, And remember one thousand marks will be the pay; And the plan I propose is to carry her to the wood, And I will be there to receive her, the plan is good.
And on the next morning Grif, of the bloody Hand, Told off four of his best men and gave them strict command; To carry off Violet Evesham from the village of Brenchley, And to go about it fearlessly and to make no delay.
And when ye have captured her carry her to the wood, Now remember men I wish my injunctions to be understood; All right, captain, we'll do as we've been told, And carry her off all right for the sake of the gold.
So on the next morning before the villagers were out of bed, The four robbers marched into the village of Brenchley without any dread; And boldly entered Violet Evesham's house and carried her, away, While loudly the beautiful girl shrieked in dismay.
But when her old father missed her through the village he ran, And roused the villagers to a man; And a great number of them gathered, and Wat Tyler at their head, And all armed to the teeth, and towards the wood they quickly sped.
And once within the wood Wat Tyler cried, where is Violet Evesham, Then Grif, of the Bloody Hand cried, what ails the man; My dear sir I assure you that Violet Evesham is not here.
Therefore good people I advise ye to retire from here.
No! I'll not back cried Wat Tyler, until I rescue Violet Evesham, Therefore liar, and devil, defend thyself if you can; Ay replied Grif, that I will thou braggart loon, And with my sword you silly boy prepare to meet thy doom.
Then they rained their blows on each other as thick as hail, Until at last Grif's strength began to fail; Then Wat leaped upon him and threw him to the ground, Then his men fled into the wood that were standing around.
Then the villagers shouted hurrah for Wat Tyler and victory, And to search for Violet Evesham they willingly did agree; And they searched the wood and found her at the foot of a tree, And when she was taken home the villagers danced with glee.
And 'tis said Wat Tyler married Violet Evesham, And there was great rejoicing among the villagers at the marriage so grand; And Wat Tyler captured Dubois, and bound him to a tree, And left him there struggling hard to gain his liberty.