Best Famous Bigotry Poems

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

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Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

JAMES SIMMONS R.I.P

 You were the one I wanted most to know

So like yet unlike, like fire and snow,

The casual voice, the sharp invective,

The barbed wit, the lapsed Irish Protestant

Who never gave a shit, crossed the palms

Of the great and good with coins hot with contempt

For the fakers and the tricksters whose poetry

Deftly bent to fashion’s latest slant.
You wrote from the heart, feelings on your sleeve, But feelings are all a master poet needs: You broke all the taboos, whores and fags and booze, While I sighed over books and began to snooze Until your voice broke through the haze Of a quarter century’s sleep.
“Wake up you git And bloody write!” I did and never stopped And like you told the truth about how bad poetry Rots the soul and slapped a New Gen face or two And kicked some arses in painful places, And so like you, got omitted from the posh anthologies Where Penguin and Picador fill the pages With the boring poetasters you went for in your rages, Ex-friends like Harrison who missed you out.
You never could see the envy in their enmity.
Longley was the worst, a hypocrite to boot, All you said about him never did come out; I’ve tried myself to nail others of that ilk Hither and thither they slide and slither And crawl out of the muck white as brides’ Fat with OBE’s, sinecures and sighs And Collected Poems no one buys.
Yet ‘Mainstrem’, your last but one collection, I had to wait months for, the last borrower Kept it for two years and likely I’ll do the same Your poetry’s like no other, no one could tame Your roaring fury or your searing pain.
You bared your soul in a most unfashionable way But everything in me says your verse will stay, Your love for your fourth and final wife, The last chance marriage that went right The children you loved so much but knew You wouldn’t live to see grown up, so caught Their growing pains and joys with a painter’s eye And lyric skill as fine as Wordsworth’s best they drank her welcome to his heritage of grey, grey-green, wet earth and shapes of stone.
Who weds a landscape will not die alone.
Those you castigated never forgave.
Omitted you as casually as passing an unmarked grave, Armitage, I name you, a blackguard and a knave, Who knows no more of poetry than McGonagall the brave, Yet tops the list of Faber’s ‘Best Poets of Our Age’.
Longley gave you just ten lines in ‘Irish Poets Now’ Most missed you out entirely for the troubles you gave Accusing like Zola those poetic whores Who sold themselves to fashion when time after time Your passions brought you to your knees, lashing At those poetasters when their puffed-up slime Won the medals and the prizes time after time And got them all the limelight while your books Were quietly ignored, the better you wrote, The fewer got bought.
Belatedly I found a poem of yours ‘Leeds 2’ In ‘Flashpoint’, a paint-stained worn out School anthology from 1962.
Out of the blue I wrote to you but the letter came back ‘Gone away N.
F.
A.
’ then I tried again and had a marvellous letter back Full of stories of the great and good and all their private sins, You knew where the bodies were buried.
Who put the knife in, who slept with who For what reward.
They never could shut you up Or put you in a pen or pay you off and then came Morley, Hulse and Kennedy’s ‘New Poetry’ Which did more damage to the course of poetry Than anything I’ve read - poets unembarrassed By the need to know more than what’s politically White as snow.
Constantine and Jackie Kay And Hoffman with the right connections.
Sweeney and O’Brien bleeding in all the politically Sensitive places, Peter Reading lifting Horror headlines from the Sun to make a splash.
Sansom and Maxwell, Jamie and Greenlaw.
Proving lack of talent is no barrier to fame If you lick the right arses and say how nice they taste.
Crawling up the ladder, declaring shit is grace.
A talented drunken public servant Has the world’s ear and hates me.
He ought to be in prison for misuse Of public funds and bigotry; But there’s some sparkle in his poetry.
You never flinched in the attack But gave the devils their due: The ‘Honest Ulsterman’ you founded Lost its honesty the day you withdrew But floundered on, publicly sighed and Ungraciously expired as soon as you died.
You went with fallen women, smoked and sang and boozed, Loved your many children, wrote poetry As good as Yeats but the ignominy you had to bear Bred an immortality impossible to share.
You showed us your own peccadilloes, Your early lust for fame, but you learned The cost of suffering, love and talent winning through, Your best books your last, just two, like the letters You wrote before your life was through.
The meeting you wanted could never happen: I didn’t know about the stroke That stilled your tongue and pen But if you passed your mantle on to me I’ll try and take up where you left off, Give praise where praise is due And blast the living daylights from those writers who Betray the sacred art of making poetry true To suffering and love, to passion and remorse And try to steer a flimsy world upon a saner course.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

67. Epistle to John Goldie in Kilmarnock

 O GOWDIE, terror o’ the whigs,
Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
 Girns an’ looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
 May seize you quick.
Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition! Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition: Fye: bring Black Jock, 1 her state physician, To see her water; Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion She’ll ne’er get better.
Enthusiasm’s past redemption, Gane in a gallopin’ consumption: Not a’ her quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption, Can ever mend her; Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, She’ll soon surrender.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, For every hole to get a stapple; But now she fetches at the thrapple, An’ fights for breath; Haste, gie her name up in the chapel, 2 Near unto death.
It’s you an’ Taylor 3 are the chief To blame for a’ this black mischief; But, could the L—d’s ain folk get leave, A toom tar barrel An’ twa red peats wad bring relief, And end the quarrel.
For me, my skill’s but very sma’, An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’; But quietlins-wise, between us twa, Weel may you speed! And tho’ they sud your sair misca’, Ne’er fash your head.
E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker! The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker; And still ’mang hands a hearty bicker O’ something stout; It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker, And helps his wit.
There’s naething like the honest nappy; Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy, Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy, ’Tween morn and morn, As them wha like to taste the drappie, In glass or horn? I’ve seen me dazed upon a time, I scarce could wink or see a styme; Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,— Ought less is little— Then back I rattle on the rhyme, As gleg’s a whittle.
Note 1.
The Rev.
J.
Russell, Kilmarnock.
—R.
B.
[back] Note 2.
Mr.
Russell’s Kirk.
—R.
B.
[back] Note 3.
Dr.
Taylor of Norwich.
—R.
B.
[back]
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 24: Oh servant Henry lectured till

 Oh servant Henry lectured till
the crows commenced and then
he bulbed his voice & lectured on some more.
This happened again & again, like war,— the Indian p.
a.
's, such as they were, a weapon on his side, for the birds.
Vexations held a field-monsoon.
He was Introduced, and then he was Summed-up.
He was put questions on race bigotry; he put no questions on race bigotry constantly.
The mad sun rose though on the ghats & the saddhu in maha mudra, the great River, and Henry was happy & beside him with excitement.
Beside himself, his possibilities; salaaming hours of half-blind morning while the rainy lepers salaamed back, smiles & a passion of their & his eyes flew in feelings not ever accorded solely to oneself.