Best Famous Belfast Poems

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

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• All Famous Belfast Poems

Written by Joseph Brodsky | Belfast Tune Here's a girl from a dangerous town She crops her dark hair short so that less of her has to frown when someine gets hurt. She folds her memories like a parachute. Dropped she collects the peat and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot here where they eat. Ah there's more sky in these parts than say ground. Hence her voice's pitch and her stare stains your retina like a gray bulb when you switch hemispheres and her knee-length quilt skirt's cut to catch the squal I dream of her either loved or killed because the town's too small.

Written by Robert Lowell | Identification In Belfast (I.R.A. Bombing) The British Army now carries two rifles, one with rubber rabbit-pellets for children, the other's of course for the Provisionals.... 'When they first showed me the boy, I thought oh good, it's not him because he's blonde— I imagine his hair was singed dark by the bomb. He had nothing on him to identify him, except this box of joke trick matches; he liked to have them on him, even at mass. The police were unhurried and wonderful, they let me go on trying to strike a match... I just wouldn't stop—you cling to anything— I couldn't believe I couldn't light one match— only joke matches... Then I knew he was Richard.'

Written by Paul Muldoon | Christos Two Workmen were carrying a sheet of asbestos down the main street of Dingle; it must have been nailed, at a slight angle, to the same-sized gap between Brandon and whichever's the next mountain. Nine o'clock. We watched the village dogs take turns to spritz the hotel's refuse-sacks. I remembered Tralee's unbiodegradable flags from the time of the hunger-strikes. We drove all day past mounds of sugar-beet, hay-stacks, silage-pits, building-sites, a thatched cottage even— all of them draped in black polythene and weighted against the north-east wind by concrete blocks, old tyres; bags of sand at a makeshift army post across the border. By the time we got to Belfast the whole of Ireland would be under wraps like, as I said, 'one of your man's landscapes'. 'Your man's? You don't mean Christo's?'

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Chant-Pagan Me that 'ave been what I've been -- Me that 'ave gone where I've gone -- Me that 'ave seen what I've seen -- 'Ow can I ever take on With awful old England again, An' 'ouses both sides of the street, And 'edges two sides of the lane, And the parson an' gentry between, An' touchin' my 'at when we meet -- Me that 'ave been what I've been? Me that 'ave watched 'arf a world 'Eave up all shiny with dew, Kopje on kop to the sun, An' as soon as the mist let 'em through Our 'elios winkin' like fun -- Three sides of a ninety-mile square, Over valleys as big as a shire -- "Are ye there? Are ye there? Are ye there?" An' then the blind drum of our fire . . . An' I'm rollin' 'is lawns for the Squire, Me! Me htat 'ave rode through the dark Forty mile, often, on end, Along the Ma'ollisberg Range, With only the stars for my mark An' only the night for my friend, An' things runnin' off as you pass, An' things jumpin' up in the grass, An' the silence, the shine an' the size Of the 'igh, unexpressible skies -- I am takin' some letters almost As much as a mile to the post, An' "mind you come back with the change!" Me! Me that saw Barberton took When we dropped through the clouds on their 'ead, An' they 'ove the guns over and fled -- Me that was through Di'mond I'll, An' Pieters an' Springs an' Belfast -- From Dundee to Vereeniging all -- Me that stuck out to the last (An' five bloomin' bars on my chest) -- I am doin' my Sunday-school best, By the 'elp of the Squire an' 'is wife (Not to mention the 'ousemaid an' cook), To come in an' 'ands up an' be still, An' honestly work for my bread, My livin' in that state of life To which it shall please God to call Me! Me that 'ave followed my trade In the place where the Lightnin's are made; "Twixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon -- Me that lay down an' got up Three years with the sky for my roof -- That 'ave ridden my 'unger an' thirst Six thousand raw mile on the hoof, With the Vaal and the Orange for cup, An' the Brandwater Basin for dish, -- Oh! it's 'ard to be'ave as they wish (Too 'ard, an' a little too soon), I'll 'ave to think over it first -- Me! I will arise an' get 'ence -- I will trek South and make sure If it's only my fancy or not That the sunshine of England is pale, And the breezes of England are stale, An' there's something' gone small with the lot. For I know of a sun an' a wind, An' some plains and a mountain be'ind, An' some graves by a barb-wire fence, An' a Dutchman I've fought 'oo might give Me a job where I ever inclined To look in an' offsaddle an' live Where there's neither a road nor a tree -- But only my Maker an' me, An I think it will kill me or cure, So I think I will go there an' see.