Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Blab Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Blab poems, articles about Blab poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Blab poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Big Boots Of Pain

 There can be certain potions 
needled in the clock 
for the body's fall from grace, 
to untorture and to plead for. 
These I have known 
and would sell all my furniture 
and books and assorted goods 
to avoid, and more, more. 

But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid 
the pain that begins in the crib 
with its bars or perhaps 
with your first breath 
when the planets drill 
your future into you 
for better of worse 
as you marry life 
and the love that gets doled out 
or doesn't. 

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon 
of pain, that it drops downward 
to the past where it mixes 
with last year's cupful 
and downward into a decade's quart 
and downward into a lifetime's ocean. 
I alternate treading water 
and deadman's float. 

The teaspoon ought to be hearable 
if it didn't mix into the reruns 
and thus enlarge into what it is not, 
a sea pest's sting turning promptly 
into the shark's neat biting off 
of a leg because the soul 
wears a magnifying glass. 
Kicking the heart 
with pain's big boots running up and down 
the intestines like a motorcycle racer. 

Yet one does get out of bed 
and start over, plunge into the day 
and put on a hopeful look 
and does not allow fear to build a wall 
between you and an old friend 
or a new friend and reach out your hand, 
shutting down the thought that 
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly. 
One learns not to blab about all this 
except to yourself or the typewriter keys 
who tell no one until they get brave 
and crawl off onto the printed page. 

I'm getting bored with it, 
I tell the typewriter, 
this constantly walking around 
in wet shoes and then, surprise! 
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting 
stamped in red over the word HOPE. 
And I who keep falling thankfully 
into each new pillow of belief, 
finding my Mercy Street, 
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love, 
am beginning to wonder just what 
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928. 
The pillows are ripped away, 
the hand guillotined, 
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh, 
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker 
and leaving me in silence, 
where, without music, 
I become a cracked orphan. 

Well, 
one gets out of bed 
and the planets don't always hiss 
or muck up the day, each day. 
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon, 
perhaps it is a medicine 
that will cure the soul 
of its greed for love 
next Thursday.


Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

A Confidence

Uncle John, he makes me tired;
Thinks 'at he's jest so all-fired
Smart, 'at he kin pick up, so,
Ever'thing he wants to know.
Tried to ketch me up last night,
But you bet I would n't bite.
I jest kep' the smoothes' face,
But I led him sich a chase,
Could n't corner me, you bet—
I skipped all the traps he set.
Makin' out he wan'ed to know
Who was this an' that girl's beau;
So 's he 'd find out, don't you see,
Who was goin' 'long with me.
But I answers jest ez sly,
An' I never winks my eye,
Tell he hollers with a whirl,
"Look here, ain't you got a girl?"
Y' ought 'o seen me spread my eyes,
Like he 'd took me by surprise,
An' I said, "Oh, Uncle John,
Never thought o' havin' one."
An' somehow that seemed to tickle
Him an' he shelled out a nickel.
Then you ought to seen me leave
Jest a-laffin' in my sleeve.
Fool him—well, I guess I did;
He ain't on to this here kid.
Got a girl! well, I guess yes,
Got a dozen more or less,
But I got one reely one,[Pg 74]
Not no foolin' ner no fun;
Fur I 'm sweet on her, you see,
An' I ruther guess 'at she
Must be kinder sweet on me,
So we 're keepin' company.
Honest Injun! this is true,
Ever' word I 'm tellin' you!
But you won't be sich a scab
Ez to run aroun' an' blab.
Mebbe 't ain't the way with you,
But you know some fellers do.
Spoils a girl to let her know
'At you talk about her so.
Don't you know her? her name 's Liz,
Nicest girl in town she is.
Purty? ah, git out, you gilly—
Liz 'ud purt 'nigh knock you silly.
Y' ought 'o see her when she 's dressed
All up in her Sunday best,
All the fellers nudgin' me,
An' a-whisperin', gemunee!
Betcher life 'at I feel proud
When she passes by the crowd.
'T 's kinder nice to be a-goin'
With a girl 'at makes some showin'—
One you know 'at hain't no snide,
Makes you feel so satisfied.
An' I 'll tell you she 's a trump,
Never even seen her jump
Like some silly girls 'ud do,
When I 'd hide and holler "Boo!"
She 'd jest laff an' say "Git out!
What you hollerin' about?"
When some girls 'ud have a fit
That 'un don't git skeered a bit,
Never makes a bit o' row
When she sees a worm er cow.
Them kind 's few an' far between;
Bravest girl I ever seen.
Tell you 'nuther thing she 'll do,
Mebbe you won't think it 's true,
But if she 's jest got a dime
She 'll go halvers ever' time.
Ah, you goose, you need n't laff;
That's the kinder girl to have.
If you knowed her like I do,
Guess you 'd kinder like her too.
Tell you somep'n' if you 'll swear
You won't tell it anywhere.
Oh, you got to cross yer heart
Earnest, truly, 'fore I start.
Well, one day I kissed her cheek;
Gee, but I felt cheap an' weak,
'Cause at first she kinder flared,
'N', gracious goodness! I was scared.
But I need n't been, fer la!
Why, she never told her ma.
That's what I call grit, don't you?
Sich a girl's worth stickin' to.
Written by John Clare | Create an image from this poem

The Landrail

 How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain

We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn

And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain

Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out

If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through

Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds

They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get

And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky

And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long

The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up

Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on

Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they weed the wheat
Discover where they lay

And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest

In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round

A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Whistle Of Sandy McGraw

 You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine,
 Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a',
But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine
 The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.
Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?"
 And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad;
Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun',
 And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad.
Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert,
 And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame;
And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert
 O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame.
For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt
 You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw,
And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt,
 For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw.

 * * * * *

At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank
 We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale,
Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank
 And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail:
Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke;
 Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout,
When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke
 The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out.
`The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray
 We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw,
And oh we fair revelled in glory that day,
 Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw.

 * * * * *

At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht,
 On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot;
And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht;
 And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot;
When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh,
 And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw:
"Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I.
 "I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw.
"'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack,
 It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn
There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ."
 "Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone.
Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel,
 And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around,
And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell,
 And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound.
And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!"
 When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma';
And there in a crater, collected and cool,
 Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw.
Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be,
 And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche;
Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me,
 And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh.
The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play.
 It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!"
And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray
 Wee Sandy wis playin' The Watch on the Rhine.

 * * * * *

The last scene o' a' -- 'twas the day that we took
 That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell.
It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook,
 And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell.
And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand,
 And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs,
When upward we shot at the word o' command,
 And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs.
And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer,
 And a' wis destruction, confusion and din,
And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near,
 And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in.
So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there,
 And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!"
And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air,
 And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad.
And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . .
 When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw,
And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men,
 For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw.
Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please:
 "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he;
"But noo I can play in the street for bawbees,
 Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee."
And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain,
 He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play;
And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain:
 The floors o' the forest are a' wede away.
Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand
 Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid:
"I'll -- no -- play -- nae -- mair ----" feebly doon frae his hand
 Slipped the wee penny whistle and -- Sandy wis deid.

 * * * * *

And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads,
 Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw;
But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads,
 Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Elemental Drifts

 1
ELEMENTAL drifts! 
How I wish I could impress others as you have just been impressing me! 

As I ebb’d with an ebb of the ocean of life, 
As I wended the shores I know, 
As I walk’d where the ripples continually wash you, Paumanok,
Where they rustle up, hoarse and sibilant, 
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways, 
I, musing, late in the autumn day, gazing off southward, 
Alone, held by this eternal Self of me, out of the pride of which I utter my poems, 
Was seiz’d by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
In the rim, the sediment, that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe. 

Fascinated, my eyes, reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender winrows, 
Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten, 
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide: 
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
Paumanok, there and then, as I thought the old thought of likenesses, 
These you presented to me, you fish-shaped island, 
As I wended the shores I know, 
As I walk’d with that eternal Self of me, seeking types. 

2
As I wend to the shores I know not,
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck’d, 
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me, 
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer, 
I, too, but signify, at the utmost, a little wash’d-up drift, 
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift. 

O baffled, balk’d, bent to the very earth, 
Oppress’d with myself that I have dared to open my mouth, 
Aware now, that, amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me, I have not once had the
 least
 idea who or what I am, 
But that before all my insolent poems the real ME stands yet untouch’d, untold,
 altogether
 unreach’d,
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows, 
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written, 
Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath. 

Now I perceive I have not understood anything—not a single object—and that no
 man
 ever can. 

I perceive Nature, here in sight of the sea, is taking advantage of me, to dart upon me,
 and
 sting me,
Because I have dared to open my mouth, to sing at all. 

3
You oceans both! I close with you; 
We murmur alike reproachfully, rolling our sands and drift, knowing not why, 
These little shreds indeed, standing for you and me and all. 

You friable shore, with trails of debris!
You fish-shaped island! I take what is underfoot; 
What is yours is mine, my father. 

I too Paumanok, 
I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been wash’d on your shores;

I too am but a trail of drift and debris,
I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island. 

I throw myself upon your breast, my father, 
I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me, 
I hold you so firm, till you answer me something. 

Kiss me, my father,
Touch me with your lips, as I touch those I love, 
Breathe to me, while I hold you close, the secret of the murmuring I envy. 

4
Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,) 
Cease not your moaning, you fierce old mother, 
Endlessly cry for your castaways—but fear not, deny not me,
Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet, as I touch you, or gather from you. 

I mean tenderly by you and all, 
I gather for myself, and for this phantom, looking down where we lead, and following me
 and
 mine. 

Me and mine! 
We, loose winrows, little corpses,
Froth, snowy white, and bubbles, 
(See! from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last! 
See—the prismatic colors, glistening and rolling!) 
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments, 
Buoy’d hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell; 
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil; 
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown; 
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random; 
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature;
Just as much, whence we come, that blare of the cloud-trumpets; 
We, capricious, brought hither, we know not whence, spread out before you, 
You, up there, walking or sitting, 
Whoever you are—we too lie in drifts at your feet.



Book: Reflection on the Important Things