Best Famous Aus Poems

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

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• All Famous Aus Poems

Written by Adrienne Rich | Victory Something spreading underground won't speak to us under skin won't declare itself not all life-forms want dialogue with the machine-gods in their drama hogging down the deep bush clear-cutting refugees from ancient or transient villages into our opportunistic fervor to search crazily for a host a lifeboat Suddenly instead of art we're eyeing organisms traced and stained on cathedral transparencies cruel blues embroidered purples succinct yellows a beautiful tumor • I guess you're not alone I fear you're alone There's, of course, poetry: awful bridge rising over naked air: I first took it as just a continuation of the road: "a masterpiece of engineering praised, etc." then on the radio: "incline too steep for ease of, etc." Drove it nonetheless because I had to this being how— So this is how I find you: alive and more • As if (how many conditionals must we suffer?) I'm driving to your side —an intimate collusion— packed in the trunk my bag of foils for fencing with pain glasses of varying spectrum for sun or fog or sun-struck rain or bitterest night my sack of hidden poetries, old glue shredding from their spines my time exposure of the Leonids over Joshua Tree As if we're going to win this O because • If you have a sister I am not she nor your mother nor you my daughter nor are we lovers or any kind of couple except in the intensive care of poetry and death's master plan architecture-in-progress draft elevations of a black-and-white mosaic dome the master left on your doorstep with a white card in black calligraphy: Make what you will of this As if leaving purple roses • If (how many conditionals must we suffer?) I tell you a letter from the master is lying on my own doorstep glued there with leaves and rain and I haven't bent to it yet if I tell you I surmise he writes differently to me: Do as you will, you have had your life many have not signing it in his olden script: Meister aus Deutschland • In coldest Europe end of that war frozen domes iron railings frozen stoves lit in the streets memory banks of cold the Nike of Samothrace on a staircase wings in blazing backdraft said to me : : to everyone she met Displaced, amputated never discount me Victory indented in disaster striding at the head of stairs for Tory Dent

Written by Joseph Freiherr Von Eichendorff | Mondnacht (Night Of The Moon) Es war, als hätt' der Himmel Die Erde still geküsst Dass sie im Blütenschimmer Von ihm nun träumen müsst Die Luft ging durch die Felder Die Ähren wogten sacht Es rauschten leis die Wälder So sternklar war die Nacht Und meine Seele spannte Weit ihre Flügel aus Flog durch die stillen Lande Als flöge sie nach Haus It was as though the sky had silently kissed the earth, so that it now had to dream of sky in shimmers of flowers. The air went through the fields, the corn-ears leaned heavy down the woods swished softly— so clear with stars was the night And my soul stretched its wings out wide, flew through the silent lands as though it were flying home.

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | The Burial Of The Dead April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10 And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20 You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30 Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? "You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; "They called me the hyacinth girl." —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40 Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. 50 Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, 60 Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson! "You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70 "That corpse you planted last year in your garden, "Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? "Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? Line 42 Od'] Oed'— Editor. "Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, "Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! "You! hypocrite lecteur!— mon semblable,— mon frere!"

Written by Ingeborg Bachmann | Menschenlos Verwunschnes Wolkenschloß, in dem wir treiben... Wer weiß, ob wir nicht schon durch viele Himmel so ziehen mit verglasten Augen? Wir, in die Zeit verbannt und aus dem Raum gestoßen, wir, Flieger durch die Nacht und Bodenlose. Wer weiß, ob wir nicht schon um Gott geflogen, und, weil wir pfeilschnell schäumten ohne ihn zu sehen und unsre Samen weiterschleuderten, um in noch dunkleren Geschlechtern fortzuleben, jetzt schuldhaft treiben? Wer weiß, ob wir nicht lange, lang schon sterben? Der Wolkenball mit uns strebt immer höher. Die dünne Luft lähmt heute schon die Hände, und wenn die Stimme bricht und unser Atem steht...? Bleibt Verwunschenheit für letzte Augenblicke?