Best Famous Birdless Poems

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

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• All Famous Birdless Poems

Written by Kathleen Raine | Millenial Hymn to Lord Shiva Earth no longer hymns the Creator, the seven days of wonder, the Garden is over — all the stories are told, the seven seals broken all that begins must have its ending, our striving, desiring, our living and dying, for Time, the bringer of abundant days is Time the destroyer — In the Iron Age the Kali Yuga To whom can we pray at the end of an era but the Lord Shiva, the Liberator, the purifier? Our forests are felled, our mountains eroded, the wild places where the beautiful animals found food and sanctuary we have desolated, a third of our seas, a third of our rivers we have polluted and the sea-creatures dying. Our civilization’s blind progress in wrong courses through wrong choices has brought us to nightmare where what seems, is, to the dreamer, the collective mind of the twentieth century — this world of wonders not divine creation but a big bang of blind chance, purposeless accident, mother earth’s children, their living and loving, their delight in being not joy but chemistry, stimulus, reflex, valueless, meaningless, while to our machines we impute intelligence, in computers and robots we store information and call it knowledge, we seek guidance by dialling numbers, pressing buttons, throwing switches, in place of family our companions are shadows, cast on a screen, bodiless voices, fleshless faces, where was the Garden a Disney-land of virtual reality, in place of angels the human imagination is peopled with foot-ballers film-stars, media-men, experts, know-all television personalities, animated puppets with cartoon faces — To whom can we pray for release from illusion, from the world-cave, but Time the destroyer, the liberator, the purifier? The curse of Midas has changed at a touch, a golden handshake earthly paradise to lifeless matter, where once was seed-time, summer and winter, food-chain, factory farming, monocrops for supermarkets, pesticides, weed-killers birdless springs, endangered species, battery-hens, hormone injections, artificial insemination, implants, transplants, sterilization, surrogate births, contraception, cloning, genetic engineering, abortion, and our days shall be short in the land we have sown with the Dragon’s teeth where our armies arise fully armed on our killing-fields with land-mines and missiles, tanks and artillery, gas-masks and body-bags, our air-craft rain down fire and destruction, our space-craft broadcast lies and corruption, our elected parliaments parrot their rhetoric of peace and democracy while the truth we deny returns in our dreams of Armageddon, the death-wish, the arms-trade, hatred and slaughter profitable employment of our thriving cities, the arms-race to the end of the world of our postmodern, post-Christian, post-human nations, progress to the nihil of our spent civilization. But cause and effect, just and inexorable law of the universe no fix of science, nor amenable god can save from ourselves the selves we have become — At the end of history to whom can we pray but to the destroyer, the liberator, the purifier? In the beginning the stars sang together the cosmic harmony, but Time, imperceptible taker-away of all that has been, all that will be, our heart-beat your drum, our dance of life your dance of death in the crematorium, our high-rise dreams, Valhalla, Utopia, Xanadu, Shangri-la, world revolution Time has taken, and soon will be gone Cambridge, Princeton and M.I.T., Nalanda, Athens and Alexandria all for the holocaust of civilization — To whom shall we pray when our vision has faded but the world-destroyer, the liberator, the purifier? But great is the realm of the world-creator, the world-sustainer from whom we come, in whom we move and have our being, about us, within us the wonders of wisdom, the trees and the fountains, the stars and the mountains, all the children of joy, the loved and the known, the unknowable mystery to whom we return through the world-destroyer, — Holy, holy at the end of the world the purging fire of the purifier, the liberator!

Written by Jorie Graham | Underneath (9) Spring Up, up you go, you must be introduced. You must learn belonging to (no-one) Drenched in the white veil (day) The circle of minutes pushed gleaming onto your finger. Gaps pocking the brightness where you try to see in. Missing: corners, fields, completeness: holes growing in it where the eye looks hardest. Below, his chest, a sacred weightless place and the small weight of your open hand on it. And these legs, look, still yours, after all you've done with them. Explain the six missing seeds. Explain muzzled. Explain tongue breaks thin fire in eyes. Learn what the great garden-(up, up you go)-exteriority, exhales: the green never-the-less the green who-did-you-say-you-are and how it seems to stare all the time, that green, until night blinds it temporarily. What is it searching for all the leaves turning towards you. Breath the emptiest of the freedoms. When will they notice the hole in your head (they won't). When will they feel for the hole in your chest (never). Up, go. Let being-seen drift over you again, sticky kindness. Those wet strangely unstill eyes filling their heads- thinking or sight?- all waiting for the true story- your heart, beating its little song: explain. . . Explain requited Explain indeed the blood of your lives I will require explain the strange weight of meanwhile and there exists another death in regards to which we are not immortal variegated dappled spangled intricately wrought complicated obstruse subtle devious scintillating with change and ambiguity Summer Explain two are Explain not one (in theory) (and in practice) blurry, my love, like a right quotation, wanting so to sink back down, you washing me in soil now, my shoulders dust, my rippling dust, Look I'll scrub the dirt listen. Up here how will I (not) hold you. Where is the dirt packed in again around us between us obliterating difference Must one leave off Explain edges (tongue breaks) (thin fire) (in eyes) And bless. And blame. (Moonless night. Vase in the kitchen) Fall Explain duty to remain to the end. Duty not to run away from the good. The good. (Beauty is not an issue.) A wise man wants? A master. Winter Oh my beloved I speak of the absolute jewels. Dwelling in place for example. In fluted listenings. In panting waters human-skinned to the horizon. Muzzled the deep. Fermenting the surface. Wrecks left at the bottom, yes. Space birdless. Light on it a woman on her knees-her having kneeled everywhere already. God's laughter unquenchable. Back there its river ripped into pieces, length gone, buried in parts, in sand. Believe me I speak now for the sand. Here at the front end, the narrator. At the front end, the meanwhile: God's laughter. Are you still waiting for the true story? (God's laughter) The difference between what is and could be? (God's laughter) In this dance the people do not move. Deferred defied obstructed hungry, organized around a radiant absence. In His dance the people do not move.

Written by Philip Larkin | Next Please Always too eager for the future, we Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; every day Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear Sparkling armada of promises draw near. How slow they are! And how much time they waste, Refusing to make haste! Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked, Each rope distinct, Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden **** Arching our way, it never anchors; it's No sooner present than it turns to past. Right to the last We think each one will heave to and unload All good into our lives, all we are owed For waiting so devoutly and so long. But we are wrong: Only one ship is seeking us, a black- Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break.

Written by Philip Levine | An Ending Early March. The cold beach deserted. My kids home in a bare house, bundled up and listening to rock music pirated from England. My wife waiting for me in a bar, alone for an hour over her sherry, and none of us knows why I have to pace back and forth on this flat and birdless stretch of gleaming sand while the violent air shouts out its rags of speech. I recall the calm warm sea of Florida 30 years ago, and my brother and I staring out in the hope that someone known and loved would return out of air and water and no more, a miracle a kid could half-believe, could see as something everyday and possible. Later I slept alone and dreamed of the home I never had and wakened in the dark. A silver light sprayed across the bed, and the little rented room ticked toward dawn. I did not rise. I did not go to the window and address the moon. I did not cry or cry out against the hour or the loneliness that still was mine, for I had grown into the man I am, and I knew better. A sudden voice calls out my name or a name I think is mine. I turn. The waves have darkened; the sky's descending all around me. I read once that the sea would come to be the color of heaven. They would be two seas tied together, and between the two a third, the sea of my own heart. I read and believed nothing. This little beach at the end of the world is anywhere, and I stand in a stillness that will last forever or until the first light breaks beyond these waters. Don't be scared, the book said, don't flee as wave after wave the breakers rise in darkness toward their ghostly crests, for he has set a limit to the sea and he is at your side. The sea and I breathe in and out as one. Maybe this is done at last or for now, this search for what is never here. Maybe all that ancient namesake sang is true. The voice I hear now is my own night voice, going out and coming back in an old chant that calms me, that calms -- for all I know -- the waves still lost out there.

Written by James Joyce | Tutto è Sciolto A birdless heaven, seadusk, one lone star Piercing the west, As thou, fond heart, love's time, so faint, so far, Rememberest. The clear young eyes' soft look, the candid brow, The fragrant hair, Falling as through the silence falleth now Dusk of the air. Why then, remembering those shy Sweet lures, repine When the dear love she yielded with a sigh Was all but thine?

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Prelude to an Unwritten Masterpiece You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers; Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns; And Youth against the sun-rise ... ‘Not profound; ‘But such a haunting music in the sound: ‘Do it once more; it helps us to forget’. Last night I dreamt an old recurring scene— Some complex out of childhood; (sex, of course!) I can’t remember how the trouble starts; And then I’m running blindly in the sun Down the old orchard, and there’s something cruel Chasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuit Of clumsy anger ... Crash! I’m through the fence And thrusting wildly down the wood that’s dense With woven green of safety; paths that wind Moss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind, One thwarted yell; then silence. I’ve escaped. That’s where it used to stop. Last night I went Onward until the trees were dark and huge, And I was lost, cut off from all return By swamps and birdless jungles. I’d no chance Of getting home for tea. I woke with shivers, And thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers. Some day I’ll build (more ruggedly than Doughty) A dark tremendous song you’ll never hear. My beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiter On bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year. And some will say, ‘His work has grown so dreary.’ Others, ‘He used to be a charming writer’. And you, my friend, will query— ‘Why can’t you cut it short, you pompous blighter?’

Written by Philip Levine | The End Of Your Life First light. This misted field is the world, that man slipping the greased bolt back and forth, that man tunneled with blood the dark smudges of whose eyes call for sleep, calls for quiet, and the woman down your line, the woman who screamed the loudest, will be quiet. The rushes, the grassless shale, the dust, whiten like droppings. One blue grape hyacinth whistles in the thin and birdless air without breath. Ten minutes later a lost dog poked for rabbits, the stones slipped, a single blade of grass stiffened in sun; where the wall broke a twisted fig thrust its arms ahead like a man in full light blinded. In the full light the field your eyes held became grain by grain the slope of father mountain, one stone of earth set in the perfect blackness.