10 Best Famous Blow By Blow Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Blow By Blow poems. This is a select list of the best famous Blow By Blow poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Blow By Blow poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of blow by blow poems.

• All Famous Blow By Blow Poems

 An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence

 You have the grit and the guts, I know; 
You are ready to answer blow for blow 
You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, 
But your honor ends with your own back-yard; 
Each man intent on his private goal, 
You have no feeling for the whole; 
What singly none would tolerate 
You let unpunished hit the state, 
Unmindful that each man must share 
The stain he lets his country wear, 
And (what no traveller ignores) 
That her good name is often yours. 


You are proud in the pride that feels its might; 
From your imaginary height 
Men of another race or hue 
Are men of a lesser breed to you: 
The neighbor at your southern gate 
You treat with the scorn that has bred his hate. 
To lend a spice to your disrespect 
You call him the "greaser". But reflect! 
The greaser has spat on you more than once; 
He has handed you multiple affronts; 
He has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed; 
He has gone untrounced for the blood he spilled; 
He has jeering used for his bootblack's rag 
The stars and stripes of the gringo's flag; 
And you, in the depths of your easy-chair -- 
What did you do, what did you care? 
Did you find the season too cold and damp 
To change the counter for the camp? 
Were you frightened by fevers in Mexico? 
I can't imagine, but this I know -- 
You are impassioned vastly more 
By the news of the daily baseball score 
Than to hear that a dozen countrymen 
Have perished somewhere in Darien, 
That greasers have taken their innocent lives 
And robbed their holdings and raped their wives. 


Not by rough tongues and ready fists 
Can you hope to jilt in the modern lists. 
The armies of a littler folk 
Shall pass you under the victor's yoke, 
Sobeit a nation that trains her sons 
To ride their horses and point their guns -- 
Sobeit a people that comprehends 
The limit where private pleasure ends 
And where their public dues begin, 
A people made strong by discipline 
Who are willing to give -- what you've no mind to -- 
And understand -- what you are blind to -- 
The things that the individual 
Must sacrifice for the good of all. 


You have a leader who knows -- the man 
Most fit to be called American, 
A prophet that once in generations 
Is given to point to erring nations 
Brighter ideals toward which to press 
And lead them out of the wilderness. 
Will you turn your back on him once again? 
Will you give the tiller once more to men 
Who have made your country the laughing-stock 
For the older peoples to scorn and mock, 
Who would make you servile, despised, and weak, 
A country that turns the other cheek, 
Who care not how bravely your flag may float, 
Who answer an insult with a note, 
Whose way is the easy way in all, 
And, seeing that polished arms appal 
Their marrow of milk-fed pacifist, 
Would tell you menace does not exist? 
Are these, in the world's great parliament, 
The men you would choose to represent 
Your honor, your manhood, and your pride, 
And the virtues your fathers dignified? 
Oh, bury them deeper than the sea 
In universal obloquy; 
Forget the ground where they lie, or write 
For epitaph: "Too proud to fight." 


I have been too long from my country's shores 
To reckon what state of mind is yours, 
But as for myself I know right well 
I would go through fire and shot and shell 
And face new perils and make my bed 
In new privations, if ROOSEVELT led; 
But I have given my heart and hand 
To serve, in serving another land, 
Ideals kept bright that with you are dim; 
Here men can thrill to their country's hymn, 
For the passion that wells in the Marseillaise 
Is the same that fires the French these days, 
And, when the flag that they love goes by, 
With swelling bosom and moistened eye 
They can look, for they know that it floats there still 
By the might of their hands and the strength of their will, 
And through perils countless and trials unknown 
Its honor each man has made his own. 
They wanted the war no more than you, 
But they saw how the certain menace grew, 
And they gave two years of their youth or three 
The more to insure their liberty 
When the wrath of rifles and pennoned spears 
Should roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers. 
They wanted the war no more than you, 
But when the dreadful summons blew 
And the time to settle the quarrel came 
They sprang to their guns, each man was game; 
And mark if they fight not to the last 
For their hearths, their altars, and their past: 
Yea, fight till their veins have been bled dry 
For love of the country that WILL not die. 


O friends, in your fortunate present ease 
(Yet faced by the self-same facts as these), 
If you would see how a race can soar 
That has no love, but no fear, of war, 
How each can turn from his private role 
That all may act as a perfect whole, 
How men can live up to the place they claim 
And a nation, jealous of its good name, 
Be true to its proud inheritance, 
Oh, look over here and learn from FRANCE!

 The drum of war thunders and thunders.
It calls: thrust iron into the living.
From every country
slave after slave
are thrown onto bayonet steel.
For the sake of what?
The earth shivers
hungry
and stripped.
Mankind is vapourised in a blood bath
only so 
someone
somewhere
can get hold of Albania.
Human gangs bound in malice,
blow after blow strikes the world
only for 
someone’s vessels 
to pass without charge 
through the Bosporus. 
Soon 
the world 
won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out.
And trampled down
only for someone,
to lay 
their hands on
Mesopotamia.
Why does
a boot 
crush the Earth — fissured and rough?
What is above the battles’ sky -
Freedom?
God?
Money!
When will you stand to your full height,
you,
giving them your life?
When will you hurl a question to their faces:
Why are we fighting?


Translated: by Lika Galkina with Jasper Goss, 2005.

 THE splendour falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 
They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

THE splendour falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes  
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow bugle blow set the wild echoes flying 5 
Blow bugle; answer echoes dying dying dying. 

O hark O hear! how thin and clear  
And thinner clearer farther going! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 10 
Blow let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blow bugle; answer echoes dying dying dying. 

O love they die in yon rich sky  
They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul 15 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow bugle blow set the wild echoes flying  
And answer echoes answer dying dying dying.

 I am in a crate, the crate that was ours,
full of white shirts and salad greens,
the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks,
and I wore movies in my eyes,
and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
and we played sheets, sheets, sheets
all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics.
But today I set the bed afire
and smoke is filling the room,
it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt,
and the icebox, a gluey white tooth.

I have on a mask in order to write my last words,
and they are just for you, and I will place them
in the icebox saved for vodka and tomatoes,
and perhaps they will last.
The dog will not. Her spots will fall off.
The old letters will melt into a black bee.
The night gowns are already shredding
into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple.
The bed -- well, the sheets have turned to gold --
hard, hard gold, and the mattress
is being kissed into a stone.

As for me, my dearest Foxxy,
my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox
and its hopeful eternity,
for isn't yours enough?
The one where you name
my name right out in P.R.?
If my toes weren't yielding to pitch
I'd tell the whole story --
not just the sheet story
but the belly-button story,
the pried-eyelid story,
the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story --
and shovel back our love where it belonged.

Despite my asbestos gloves,
the cough is filling me with black and a red powder seeps through my
veins,
our little crate goes down so publicly
and without meaning it, you see, meaning a solo act,
a cremation of the love,
but instead we seem to be going down right in the middle of a Russian
street,
the flames making the sound of
the horse being beaten and beaten,
the whip is adoring its human triumph
while the flies wait, blow by blow,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.

 'Twas in the United States of America some years ago
An aged father sat at his fireside with his heart full of woe,
And talking to his neighbour, Mr Allan, about his boy Bennie
That was to be shot because found asleep doing sentinel duty. 

"Inside of twenty-four hours, the telegram said,
And, oh! Mr Allan, he's dead, I am afraid.
Where is my brave Bennie now to me is a mystery."
"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr Allen, soothingly. 

"Yes, let us hope God is very merciful," said Mr Allan.
"Yes, yes," said Bennie's father, "my Bennie was a good man.
He said, 'Father, I'll go and fight for my country.
Go, then, Bennie,' I said, 'and God be with ye.' " 

Little Blossom, Bennie's sister, sat listening with a blanched cheek,
Poor soul, but she didn't speak,
Until a gentle tap was heard at the kitchen door,
Then she arose quickly and tripped across the floor. 

And opening the door, she received a letter from a neighbour's hand,
And as she looked upon it in amazement she did stand.
Then she cried aloud, "It is from my brother Bennie.
Yes, it is, dear father, as you can see." 

And as his father gazed upon it he thought Bennie was dead,
Then he handed the letter to Mr Allan and by him it was read,
And the minister read as follows: "Dear father, when this you see
I shall be dead and in eternity. 

"And, dear father, at first it seemed awful to me
The thought of being launched into eternity.
But, dear father, I'm resolved to die like a man,
And keep up my courage and do the best I can. 

"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother to look after her boy,
Who was his mother's pet and only joy.
But one night while on march Jemmie turned sick,
And if I hadn't lent him my arm he'd have dropped very quick. 

"And that night it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry,
And take poor Jemmie's place I did agree,
But I couldn't keep awake, father, I'm sorry to relate,
And I didn't know it, well, until it was too late. 

"Good-bye, dear father, God seems near me,
But I'm not afraid now to be launched into eternity.
No, dear father, I'm going to a world free from strife,
And see my Saviour there in a better, better life." 

That night, softly, little Blossom, Bennie's sister, stole out
And glided down the footpath without any doubt.
She was on her way to Washington, with her heart full of woe,
To try and save her brother's life, blow high, blow low. 

And when Blossom appeared before President Lincoln,
Poor child, she was looking very woebegone.
Then the President said, "My child, what do you want with me?"
"Please, Bennie's life, sir," she answered timidly. 

"Jemmie was sick, sir, and my brother took his place."
"What is this you say, child? Come here and let me see your face."
Then she handed him Bennie's letter, and he read if carefully,
And taking up his pen he wrote a few lines hastily. 

Then he said to Blossom, "To-morrow, Bennie will go with you."
And two days after this interview
Bennie and Blossom took their way to their green mountain home,
And poor little Blossom was footsore, but she didn't moan.


And a crowd gathered at the mill depot to welcome them back,
And to grasp the hand of his boy, Farmer Owen wasn't slack,
And tears flowed down his cheeks as he said fervently,
"The Lord be praised for setting my dear boy free."

 I do not know, whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.

I listened to the rustling 
of spring rain, 
washing the reddish buds 
of chestnut-trees, – 
and a tiny spring ran down 
into the valley from the hill – 
and I was missing 
the whiteness 
and the snow.

And in the yards, and on the slopes 
red-cheeked 
village maidens 
hung up the washings 
blown over by the wind 
and, leaning, 
stared a long while 
at the yellow tufts of sallow:

For love is like the wind, 
And love is like the water – 
it warms up with the spring, 
and freezes over – in the autumn.
But to me, I don't know why, 
whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.

I know – the wind 
will blow and blow the washings, 
and the rain 
will wash and wash the chestnut-trees, – 
but love, which melted with 
the snow – 
will not return.

Deep below the snow sleep 
words and feelings: 
for today, watching 
the dance of rain between the door – 
the rain of spring! – 
I saw another:

she walked by in the rain, 
and beautiful she was, 
and smiled:

For love is like the wind, 
and love is like the water – 
it warms up with the spring 
and freezes over – in the autumn, 
though to me, I don't know why, 
whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.

Translated by Clark Mills

 Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! 
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, 
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. 
These laid the world away; poured out the red 
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be 
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, 
That men call age; and those who would have been, 
Their sons, they gave, their immortality. 

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, 
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. 
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, 
And paid his subjects with a royal wage; 
And Nobleness walks in our ways again; 
And we have come into our heritage.

 AH! there be souls none understand; 
Like clouds, they cannot touch the land. 
Unanchored ships, they blow and blow, 
Sail to and fro, and then go down 
In unknown seas that none shall know, 
Without one ripple of renown. 

Call these not fools, the test of worth 
Is not the hold you have of earth. 
Ay, there be gentlest souls sea-blown 
That know not any harbor known. 
Now it may be the reason is, 
They touch on fairer shores than this.