Home » Famous Poems » Best » Aural

Best Famous Aural Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Aural poems, articles about Aural poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Aural poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Music To Me Is Like Days

 Once played to attentive faces 
music has broken its frame 
its bodice of always-weak laces 
the entirely promiscuous art 
pours out in public spaces 
accompanying everything, the selections 
of sex and war, the rejections. 
To jeans-wearers in zipped sporrans 
it transmits an ideal body 
continuously as theirs age. Warrens 
of plastic tiles and mesh throats 
dispense this aural money 
this sleek accountancy of notes 
deep feeling adrift from its feelers 
thought that means everything at once 
like a shrugging of cream shoulders 
like paintings hung on park mesh 
sonore doom soneer illy chesh 
they lost the off switch in my lifetime 
the world reverberates with Muzak 
and Prozac. As it doesn't with poe-zac 
(I did meet a Miss Universe named Verstak). 
Music to me is like days 
I rarely catch who composed them 
if one's sublime I think God 
my life-signs suspend. I nod 
it's like both Stilton and cure 
from one harpsichord-hum: 
penicillium - 
then I miss the Köchel number. 
I scarcely know whose performance 
of a limpid autumn noon is superior 
I gather timbre outranks rhumba. 
I often can't tell days apart 
they are the consumers, not me 
in my head collectables decay 
I've half-heard every piece of music 
the glorious big one with voice 
the gleaming instrumental one, so choice 
the hypnotic one like weed-smoke at a party 
and the muscular one out of farty 
cars that goes Whudda Whudda 
Whudda like the compound oil heart 
of a warrior not of this planet.

Written by Alan Seeger |

Tithonus

 So when the verdure of his life was shed, 
With all the grace of ripened manlihead, 
And on his locks, but now so lovable, 
Old age like desolating winter fell, 
Leaving them white and flowerless and forlorn: 
Then from his bed the Goddess of the Morn 
Softly withheld, yet cherished him no less 
With pious works of pitying tenderness; 
Till when at length with vacant, heedless eyes, 
And hoary height bent down none otherwise 
Than burdened willows bend beneath their weight 
Of snow when winter winds turn temperate, -- 
So bowed with years -- when still he lingered on: 
Then to the daughter of Hyperion 
This counsel seemed the best: for she, afar 
By dove-gray seas under the morning star, 
Where, on the wide world's uttermost extremes, 
Her amber-walled, auroral palace gleams, 
High in an orient chamber bade prepare 
An everlasting couch, and laid him there, 
And leaving, closed the shining doors. But he, 
Deathless by Jove's compassionless decree, 
Found not, as others find, a dreamless rest. 
There wakeful, with half-waking dreams oppressed, 
Still in an aural, visionary haze 
Float round him vanished forms of happier days; 
Still at his side he fancies to behold 
The rosy, radiant thing beloved of old; 
And oft, as over dewy meads at morn, 
Far inland from a sunrise coast is borne 
The drowsy, muffled moaning of the sea, 
Even so his voice flows on unceasingly, -- 
Lisping sweet names of passion overblown, 
Breaking with dull, persistent undertone 
The breathless silence that forever broods 
Round those colossal, lustrous solitudes. 
Times change. Man's fortune prospers, or it falls. 
Change harbors not in those eternal halls 
And tranquil chamber where Tithonus lies. 
But through his window there the eastern skies 
Fall palely fair to the dim ocean's end. 
There, in blue mist where air and ocean blend, 
The lazy clouds that sail the wide world o'er 
Falter and turn where they can sail no more. 
There singing groves, there spacious gardens blow -- 
Cedars and silver poplars, row on row, 
Through whose black boughs on her appointed night, 
Flooding his chamber with enchanted light, 
Lifts the full moon's immeasurable sphere, 
Crimson and huge and wonderfully near.

Written by Robert William Service |

My Consolation

 'Nay; I don't need a hearing aid'
 I told Mama-in-law;
'For if I had I'd be afraid
 Of your eternal jaw;
Although at me you often shout,
 I'm undisturbed;
To tell the truth I can't make out
 A single word.'

And it's the same with others who
 Attempt to gab at me;
I listen to their point of view
 And solemnly agree.
To story stale and silly joke
 Stone deaf's my ear;
Each day a dozen stupid folk
 I fail to hear.

So silence that should be my grief
 Is my escape and shield;
From spiteful speech and base relief
 My aural sense is sealed.
And in my cosy cot of peace
 I close the door.
Praising the gods for rich relief
 From fool and bore.