10 Best Famous Bamboos Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Bamboos poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bamboos poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bamboos poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bamboos poems.

• All Famous Bamboos Poems

 A tiger comes to mind. The twilight here
Exalts the vast and busy Library
And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;
Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek
It wanders through its forest and its day
Printing a track along the muddy banks
Of sluggish streams whose names it does not know
(In its world there are no names or past
Or time to come, only the vivid now)
And makes its way across wild distances
Sniffing the braided labyrinth of smells
And in the wind picking the smell of dawn
And tantalizing scent of grazing deer;
Among the bamboo's slanting stripes I glimpse
The tiger's stripes and sense the bony frame
Under the splendid, quivering cover of skin.
Curving oceans and the planet's wastes keep us
Apart in vain; from here in a house far off
In South America I dream of you,
Track you, O tiger of the Ganges' banks.

It strikes me now as evening fills my soul
That the tiger addressed in my poem
Is a shadowy beast, a tiger of symbols
And scraps picked up at random out of books,
A string of labored tropes that have no life,
And not the fated tiger, the deadly jewel
That under sun or stars or changing moon
Goes on in Bengal or Sumatra fulfilling
Its rounds of love and indolence and death.
To the tiger of symbols I hold opposed
The one that's real, the one whose blood runs hot
As it cuts down a herd of buffaloes,
And that today, this August third, nineteen
Fifty-nine, throws its shadow on the grass;
But by the act of giving it a name,
By trying to fix the limits of its world,
It becomes a fiction not a living beast,
Not a tiger out roaming the wilds of earth.

We'll hunt for a third tiger now, but like
The others this one too will be a form
Of what I dream, a structure of words, and not
The flesh and one tiger that beyond all myths
Paces the earth. I know these things quite well,
Yet nonetheless some force keeps driving me
In this vague, unreasonable, and ancient quest,
And I go on pursuing through the hours
Another tiger, the beast not found in verse.

 As down Mount Emerald at eve I came,
The mountain moon went all the way with me.
Backward I looked, to see the heights aflame
With a pale light that glimmered eerily.

A little lad undid the rustic latch
As hand in hand your cottage we did gain,
Where green limp tendrils at our cloaks did catch,
And dim bamboos o'erhung a shadowy lane.

Gaily I cried, "Here may we rest our fill!"
Then choicest wines we quaffed; and cheerily
"The Wind among the Pines" we sang, until
A few faint stars hung in the Galaxy.

Merry were you, my friend: and drunk was I,
Blissfully letting all the world go by.

 The Song of Mowgli -- I, Mowgli, am singing. Let
 the jungle listen to the things I have done.
Shere Khan said he would kill -- would kill! At the
 gates in the twilight he would kill Mowgli, the
 Frog!
He ate and he drank. Drink deep, Shere Khan, for
 when wilt thou drink again? Sleep and dream
 of the kill.
I am alone on the grazing-grounds. Gray Brother,
 come to me! Come to me, Lone Wolf, for there
 is big game afoot.
Bring up the great bull-buffaloes, the blue-skinned
 herd-bulls with the angry eyes. Drive them to
 and fro as I order.
Sleepest thou still, Shere Khan? Wake, O wake!
 Here come I, and the bulls are behind.
Rama, the King of the Buffaloes, stamped with his
 foot. Waters of the Waingunga, whither went
 Shere Khan?
He is not Ikki to dig holes, nor Mao, the Peacock, that
 he should fly. He is not Mang, the Bat, to hang
 in the branches. Little bamboos that creak to-
 gether, tell me where he ran?
Ow! He is there. Ahoo! He is there. Under the
 feet of Rama lies the Lame One! Up, Shere
 Khan! Up and kill! Here is meat; break the
 necks of the bulls!
Hsh! He is asleep. We will not wake him, for his
 strength is very great. The kites have come down
 to see it. The black ants have come up to know
 it. There is a great assembly in his honour.
Alala! I have no cloth to wrap me. The kites will
 see that I am naked. I am ashamed to meet all
 these people.
Lend me thy coat, Shere Khan. Lend me thy gay
 striped coat that I may go to the Council Rock.
By the Bull that bought me I have made a promise -- 
 a little promise. Only thy coat is lacking before I
 keep my word.
With the knife -- with the knife that men use -- with
 the knife of the hunter, the man, I will stoop down
 for my gift.
Waters of the Waingunga, bear witness that Shere
 Khan gives me his coat for the love that he bears
 me. Pull, Gray Brother! Pull, Akela! Heavy is
 the hide of Shere Khan.
The Man Pack are angry. They throw stones and talk
 child's talk. My mouth is bleeding. Let us run
 away.
Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly
 with me, my brothers. We will leave the lights
 of the village and go to the low moon.
Waters of the Waingunga, the Man Pack have cast me
 out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of
 me. Why?
Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is
 shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why?
As Mang flies between the beasts and the birds so fly
 I between the village and the jungle. Why?
I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is
 very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with
 the stones from the village, but my heart is very
 light because I have come back to the jungle.
 Why?
These two things fight together in me as the snakes
 fight in the spring. The water comes out of my
 eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why?
I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under
 my feet.
All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan.
 Look -- look well, O Wolves!
Ahae! My heart is heavy with the things that I do
 not understand.

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
 And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us
 At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;
 Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
 Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.

 When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down.
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its
bagpipes among the bamboos.
Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to
come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand
in a corner.
When the rain come they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle
in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the
flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
are.
Haven't you see how eager they are to get there? Don't you
know why they are in such a hurry?
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they
have their mother as I have my own.

 Sitting alone
in the hush of the bamboo grove
I thrum my lute
and whistle lingering notes.
In the secrecy of the wood
no one can hear --
Only the clear moon
comes to shine on me.

A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains, 
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source. 
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance 
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men! 
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through; 
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path -- 
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees, 
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos.... 
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han; 
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people 
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River, 
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart, 
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon, 
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking. 
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble, 
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born. 
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning, 
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk.... 
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge; 
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away, 
No one in the cave knowing anything outside, 
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds. 
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune, 
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties, 
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers, 
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin. 
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind, 
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance. 
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain, 
A green river leads you, into a misty wood. 
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals -- 
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source? 

 Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning's white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night, 
We'll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.

 WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze, 
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight, 
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees, 
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night. 

And the harbour in the distance lies beneath a purple pall, 
And nearer, at the garden’s lowest fringe, 
Loud the water soughs and gurgles ’mid the rocks below the wall, 
Dark-heaving, with a dim uncanny tinge 

Of a green as pale as beryls, like the strange faint-coloured flame 
That burns around the Women of the Sea: 
And the strip of sky to westward which the camphorlaurels frame, 
Has turned to ash-of-rose and ivory— 

And a chorus rises valiantly from where the crickets hide, 
Close-shaded by the balsams drooping down— 
It is evening in a garden by the kindly water-side, 
A garden near the lights of Sydney town!

 After rain the empty mountain 
Stands autumnal in the evening, 
Moonlight in its groves of pine, 
Stones of crystal in its brooks. 
Bamboos whisper of washer-girls bound home, 
Lotus-leaves yield before a fisher-boat -- 
And what does it matter that springtime has gone, 
While you are here, O Prince of Friends?

 ("Entre deux rocs d'un noir d'ébène.") 
 
 {XXVII., November, 1828.} 


 Between two ebon rocks 
 Behold yon sombre den, 
 Where brambles bristle like the locks 
 Of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men! 
 
 Remote in ruddy fog 
 Still hear the tiger growl 
 At the lion and stripèd dog 
 That prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl; 
 
 Whilst other monsters fast 
 The hissing basilisk; 
 The hippopotamus so vast, 
 And the boa with waking appetite made brisk! 
 
 The orfrey showing tongue, 
 The fly in stinging mood, 
 The elephant that crushes strong 
 And elastic bamboos an the scorpion's brood; 
 
 And the men of the trees 
 With their families fierce, 
 Till there is not one scorching breeze 
 But brings here its venom—its horror to pierce— 
 
 Yet, rather there be lone, 
 'Mid all those horrors there, 
 Than hear the sickly honeyed tone 
 And see the swimming eyes of Noormahal the Fair! 
 
 {Footnote 1: Noormahal (Arabic) the light of the house; some of the 
 Orientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.}