Best Famous Blacked Poems

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

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• All Famous Blacked Poems

Written by Barry Tebb | Incompatabilities For Brenda Williams La lune diminue; divin septembre. Divine September the moon wanes. Pierre Jean Jouve Themes for poems and the detritus of dreams coalesce: This is one September I shall not forget. The grammar-school caretaker always had the boards re-blacked And the floors waxed, but I never shone. The stripes of the red and black blazer Were prison-grey. You could never see things that way: Your home had broken windows to the street. You had the mortification of lice in your hair While I had the choice of Brylcreem or orange pomade. Four children, an alcoholic father and An Irish immigrant mother. Failure’s metaphor. I did not make it like Alan Bennett, Who still sends funny postcards About our Leeds childhood. Of your’s, you could never speak And found my nostalgia Wholly inappropriate. Forgetting your glasses for the eleven plus, No money for the uniform for the pass at thirteen. It wasn’t - as I imagined - shame that kept you from telling But fear of the consequences for your mother Had you sobbed the night’s terrors Of your father’s drunken homecomings, Your mother sat with the door open In all weathers while you, the oldest, Waited with her, perhaps Something might have been done. He never missed a day’s work digging graves, Boasting he could do a six-footer Single-handed in two hours flat. That hackneyed phrase ‘He drank all his wages’ Doesn’t convey his nightly rages The flow of obscenities about menstruation While the three younger ones were in bed And you waited with your mother To walk the streets of Seacroft. “Your father murdered your mother” As Auntie Margaret said, Should a witness Need indicting. Your mother’s growing cancer went diagnosed, but unremarked Until the final days She was too busy auxiliary nursing Or working in the Lakeside Caf?. It was her wages that put bread and jam And baked beans into your stomachs. Her final hospitalisation Was the arena for your father’s last rage Her fare interfering with the night’s drinking; He fought in the Burma Campaign but won no medals. Some kind of psychiatric discharge- ‘paranoia’ Lurked in his papers. The madness went undiagnosed Until his sixtieth birthday. You never let me meet him Even after our divorce. In the end you took me on a visit with the children. A neat flat with photographs of grandchildren, Stacks of wood for the stove, washing hung precisely In the kitchen, a Sunday suit in the wardrobe. An unwrinkling of smiles, the hard handshake Of work-roughened hands. One night he smashed up the tidy flat. The TV screen was powder The clock ticked on the neat lawn ‘Murder in Seacroft Hospital’ Emblazoned on the kitchen wall. I went with you and your sister in her car to Roundhay Wing. Your sister had to leave for work or sleep You had to back to meet the children from school. For Ward 42 it wasn’t an especially difficult admission. My first lesson: I shut one set of firedoors while the charge nurse Bolted the other but after five minutes his revolt Was over and he signed the paper. The nurse on nights had a sociology degree And an interest in borderline schizophrenia. After lightsout we chatted about Kohut and Kernberg And Melanie Klein. Your father was occasionally truculent, Barricading himself in on one home leave. Nothing out of the way For a case of that kind. The old ladies on the estate sighed, Single men were very scarce. Always a gentleman, tipping His cap to the ladies. There seems to be objections in the family to poetry Or at least to the kind that actually speaks And fails to lie down quietly on command. Yours seems to have set mine alight- I must get something right.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Accomplished Facts EVERY year Emily Dickinson sent one friend the first arbutus bud in her garden. In a last will and testament Andrew Jackson remembered a friend with the gift of George Washington’s pocket spy-glass. Napoleon too, in a last testament, mentioned a silver watch taken from the bedroom of Frederick the Great, and passed along this trophy to a particular friend. O. Henry took a blood carnation from his coat lapel and handed it to a country girl starting work in a bean bazaar, and scribbled: “Peach blossoms may or may not stay pink in city dust.” So it goes. Some things we buy, some not. Tom Jefferson was proud of his radishes, and Abe Lincoln blacked his own boots, and Bismarck called Berlin a wilderness of brick and newspapers. So it goes. There are accomplished facts. Ride, ride, ride on in the great new blimps— Cross unheard-of oceans, circle the planet. When you come back we may sit by five hollyhocks. We might listen to boys fighting for marbles. The grasshopper will look good to us. So it goes …

Written by Robert Browning | Master Hugues Of Saxe-Gotha An imaginary composer.] I. Hist, but a word, fair and soft! Forth and be judged, Master Hugues! Answer the question I've put you so oft: What do you mean by your mountainous fugues? See, we're alone in the loft,--- II. I, the poor organist here, Hugues, the composer of note, Dead though, and done with, this many a year: Let's have a colloquy, something to quote, Make the world prick up its ear! III. See, the church empties apace: Fast they extinguish the lights. Hallo there, sacristan! Five minutes' grace! Here's a crank pedal wants setting to rights, Baulks one of holding the base. IV. See, our huge house of the sounds, Hushing its hundreds at once, Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds! O you may challenge them, not a response Get the church-saints on their rounds! V. (Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt? ---March, with the moon to admire, Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about, Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire, Put rats and mice to the rout--- VI. Aloys and Jurien and Just--- Order things back to their place, Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust, Rub the church-plate, darn the sacrament-lace, Clear the desk-velvet of dust.) VII. Here's your book, younger folks shelve! Played I not off-hand and runningly, Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve? Here's what should strike, could one handle it cunningly: HeIp the axe, give it a helve! VIII. Page after page as I played, Every bar's rest, where one wipes Sweat from one's brow, I looked up and surveyed, O'er my three claviers yon forest of pipes Whence you still peeped in the shade. IX. Sure you were wishful to speak? You, with brow ruled like a score, Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek, Like two great breves, as they wrote them of yore, Each side that bar, your straight beak! X. Sure you said---``Good, the mere notes! ``Still, couldst thou take my intent, ``Know what procured me our Company's votes--- ``A master were lauded and sciolists shent, ``Parted the sheep from the goats!'' XI. Well then, speak up, never flinch! Quick, ere my candle's a snuff ---Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost inch--- _I_ believe in you, but that's not enough: Give my conviction a clinch! XII. First you deliver your phrase ---Nothing propound, that I see, Fit in itself for much blame or much praise--- Answered no less, where no answer needs be: Off start the Two on their ways. XIII. Straight must a Third interpose, Volunteer needlessly help; In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose, So the cry's open, the kennel's a-yelp, Argument's hot to the close. XIV. One dissertates, he is candid; Two must discept,--has distinguished; Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did; Four protests; Five makes a dart at the thing wished: Back to One, goes the case bandied. XV. One says his say with a difference More of expounding, explaining! All now is wrangle, abuse, and vociferance; Now there's a truce, all's subdued, self-restraining: Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence. XVI. One is incisive, corrosive: Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant; Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive; Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant, Five ... O Danaides, O Sieve! XVII. Now, they ply axes and crowbars; Now, they prick pins at a tissue Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue? Where is our gain at the Two-bars? XVIII. _Est fuga, volvitur rota._ On we drift: where looms the dim port? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota; Something is gained, if one caught but the import--- Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha! XIX. What with affirming, denying, Holding, risposting, subjoining, All's like ... it's like ... for an instance I'm trying ... There! See our roof, its gilt moulding and groining Under those spider-webs lying! XX. So your fugue broadens and thickens, Greatens and deepens and lengthens, Till we exclaim---``But where's music, the dickens? ``Blot ye the gold, while your spider-web strengthens ``---Blacked to the stoutest of tickens?'' XXI. I for man's effort am zealous: Prove me such censure unfounded! Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous--- Hopes 'twas for something, his organ-pipes sounded, Tiring three boys at the bellows? XXII. Is it your moral of Life? Such a web, simple and subtle, Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, Death ending all with a knife? XXIII. Over our heads truth and nature--- Still our life's zigzags and dodges, Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature--- God's gold just shining its last where that lodges, Palled beneath man's usurpature. XXIV. So we o'ershroud stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland; Nothings grow something which quietly closes Heaven's earnest eye: not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes. XXV. Ah but traditions, inventions, (Say we and make up a visage) So many men with such various intentions, Down the past ages, must know more than this age! Leave we the web its dimensions! XXVI. Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf, Proved a mere mountain in labour? Better submit; try again; what's the clef? 'Faith, 'tis no trifle for pipe and for tabor--- Four flats, the minor in F. XXVII. Friend, your fugue taxes the finger Learning it once, who would lose it? Yet all the while a misgiving will linger, Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it--- Nature, thro' cobwebs we string her. XXVIII. Hugues! I advise _Me Pn_ (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena! Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ, Blare out the _mode Palestrina._ XXIX. While in the roof, if I'm right there, ... Lo you, the wick in the socket! Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there! Down it dips, gone like a rocket. What, you want, do you, to come unawares, Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers, And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs? Do I carry the moon in my pocket? * 1 A fugue is a short melody. * 2 Keyboard of organ. * 3 A note in music. * 4 The daughters of Danaus, condemned to pour water * into a sieve. * 5 The Spanish casuist, so severely mauled by Pascal. * 6 A quick return in fencing. * 7 A closely woven fabric. * 8 _Giovanni P. da Palestrina_, celebrated musician (1524-1594).

Written by Dylan Thomas | There Was A Saviour There was a saviour Rarer than radium, Commoner than water, crueller than truth; Children kept from the sun Assembled at his tongue To hear the golden note turn in a groove, Prisoners of wishes locked their eyes In the jails and studies of his keyless smiles. The voice of children says From a lost wilderness There was calm to be done in his safe unrest, When hindering man hurt Man, animal, or bird We hid our fears in that murdering breath, Silence, silence to do, when earth grew loud, In lairs and asylums of the tremendous shout. There was glory to hear In the churches of his tears, Under his downy arm you sighed as he struck, O you who could not cry On to the ground when a man died Put a tear for joy in the unearthly flood And laid your cheek against a cloud-formed shell: Now in the dark there is only yourself and myself. Two proud, blacked brothers cry, Winter-locked side by side, To this inhospitable hollow year, O we who could not stir One lean sigh when we heard Greed on man beating near and fire neighbour But wailed and nested in the sky-blue wall Now break a giant tear for the little known fall, For the drooping of homes That did not nurse our bones, Brave deaths of only ones but never found, Now see, alone in us, Our own true strangers' dust Ride through the doors of our unentered house. Exiled in us we arouse the soft, Unclenched, armless, silk and rough love that breaks all rocks.