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Best Famous Blow It Poems

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

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Written by Seamus Heaney | Create an image from this poem


 And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it More thoroughly.
You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open

Written by Jean Ingelow | Create an image from this poem


My heart is sick awishing and awaiting:
  The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his way;
And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through the grating
  Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day.
On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other,
  The strong terrible mountains he longed, he longed to be;
And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother,
  And till I said, "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me.
He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them,
  Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars,
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them,
  And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars.
He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces,
  And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar;
Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces,
  Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he wrote no more.
O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching!
  They never said so much as "He was a dear loved son;"
Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking:
  "Ah! wherefore did he leave us so—this, our only one."
They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed them,
  At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and change to be;
And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency affrayed them,
  Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took me.
It was three months and over since the dear lad had started:
  On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the view;
On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted,
  Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and the new.
Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping,
  And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye;
And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white wing swooping
  Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky.
Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather,
  Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town;
And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet feather
  Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down.
When I looked, I dared not sigh:—In the light of God's splendor,
  With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what am I?
But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign and tender,
  Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky.
O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble!
  On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek;
I was tired of my sorrow—O so faint, for it was double
  In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak!
And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding,
  And the dull ears with murmur of water satisfied;
But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading
  Across the bounds of waking life to the other side.
And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning,
  And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on;
And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning
  On the clear remote sea reaches; for the sun was gone.
Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water—
  A question as I took it, for soon an answer came
From the tall white ruined lighthouse: "If it be the old man's daughter
  That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then—who's to blame?"
I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken:
  A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea;
Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken,
  And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me.
I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him;
  "He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun;
Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him:
  Ay, the old man was a good man—and his work was done."
The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed,
  Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed,
And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted,
  Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost.
I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth
  The great hood below its mouth:" then the bird made reply.
"If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrew-mouse knoweth,
  And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye."
And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping;
  And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake,
"What I said was 'more's the pity;' if the heart be long past hoping,
  Let it say of death, 'I know it,' or doubt on and break.
"Men must die—one dies by day, and near him moans his mother,
  They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth:
And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other,
  And the snows give him a burial—and God loves them both.
"The first hath no advantage—it shall not soothe his slumber
  That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep;
For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber,
  That in a golden mesh of HIS callow eaglets sleep.
"Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it,
  And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too;
It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it,
  And he met it on the mountain—why then make ado?"
With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water,
  Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down;
And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, "the old man's daughter."
  And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town.
And I said, "Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited?"
  And I thought, "Is that the sea that lies so white and wan?
I have dreamed as I remember: give me time—I was reputed
  Once to have a steady courage—O, I fear 'tis gone!"
And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating
  So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood;
I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting,
  But I need not, need not tell it—where would be the good?
"Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother?
  For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still.
While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother,
  That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill?"
I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter,
  But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town.
What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter?
  He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down.
But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee:
  O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed!
From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee;
  I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head.
Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee!
  O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow,
Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee,
  And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow!
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Cocoon

 As far as I can see this autumn haze
That spreading in the evening air both way,
Makes the new moon look anything but new,
And pours the elm-tree meadow full of blue,
Is all the smoke from one poor house alone
With but one chimney it can call its own;
So close it will not light an early light,
Keeping its life so close and out of sign
No one for hours has set a foot outdoors
So much as to take care of evening chores.
The inmates may be lonely women-folk.
I want to tell them that with all this smoke They prudently are spinning their cocoon And anchoring it to an earth and moon From which no winter gale can hope to blow it,-- Spinning their own cocoon did they but know it.
Written by Richard Hugo | Create an image from this poem

Death Of The Kapowsin Tavern

 I can't ridge it back again from char.
Not one board left.
Only ash a cat explores and shattered glass smoked black and strung about from the explosion I believe in the reports.
The white school up for sale for years, most homes abandoned to the rocks of passing boys--the fire, helped by wind that blew the neon out six years before, simply ended lots of ending.
A damn shame.
Now, when the night chill of the lake gets in a troller's bones where can the troller go for bad wine washed down frantically with beer? And when wise men are in style again will one recount the two-mile glide of cranes from dead pines or the nameless yellow flowers thriving in the useless logs, or dots of light all night about the far end of the lake, the dawn arrival of the idiot with catfish--most of all, above the lake the temple and our sanctuary there? Nothing dies as slowly as a scene.
The dusty jukebox cracking through the cackle of a beered-up crone-- wagered wine--sudden need to dance-- these remain in the black debris.
Although I know in time the lake will send wind black enough to blow it all away.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Aim was Song

 Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Man came to tell it what was wrong: I hadn't found the place to blow; It blew too hard--the aim was song.
And listen--how it ought to go! He took a little in his mouth, And held it long enough for north To be converted into south, And then by measure blew it forth.
By measure.
It was word and note, The wind the wind had meant to be-- A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song--the wind could see.

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


Tek a cool night, good an' cleah,
Skiff o' snow upon de groun';
Jes' 'bout fall-time o' de yeah
W'en de leaves is dry an brown;
Tek a dog an' tek a axe,
Tek a lantu'n in yo' han',
Step light whah de switches cracks,
Fu' dey 's huntin' in de lan'.
Down thoo de valleys an' ovah de hills,
Into de woods whah de 'simmon-tree grows,
Wakin' an' skeerin' de po' whippo'wills,
Huntin' fu' coon an' fu' 'possum we goes.
Blow dat ho'n dah loud an' strong,
Call de dogs an' da'kies neah;
Mek its music cleah an' long,
[Pg 151]So de folks at home kin hyeah.
Blow it twell de hills an' trees
Sen's de echoes tumblin' back;
Blow it twell de back'ard breeze
Tells de folks we 's on de track.
Coons is a-ramblin' an' 'possums is out;
Look at dat dog; you could set on his tail!
Watch him now—steady,—min'—what you 's about,
Bless me, dat animal's got on de trail!
Listen to him ba'kin now!
Dat means bus'ness, sho 's you bo'n;
Ef he's struck de scent I 'low
Dat ere 'possum's sholy gone.
Knowed dat dog fu' fo'teen yeahs,
An' I nevah seed him fail
Wen he sot dem flappin' eahs
An' went off upon a trail.
Run, Mistah 'Possum, an' run, Mistah Coon,
No place is safe fu' yo' ramblin' to-night;
Mas' gin' de lantu'n an' God gin de moon,
An' a long hunt gins a good appetite.
Look hyeah, folks, you hyeah dat change?
Dat ba'k is sha'per dan de res'.
Dat ere soun' ain't nothin' strange,—
Dat dog's talked his level bes'.
Somep'n' 's treed, I know de soun'.
Dah now,—wha 'd I tell you? see!
Dat ere dog done run him down;
Come hyeah, he'p cut down dis tree.
Ah, Mistah 'Possum, we got you at las'—
Need n't play daid, laying dah on de groun';
Fros' an' de 'simmons has made you grow fas',—
Won't he be fine when he's roasted up brown!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Mary Ellen

 It's mighty quiet in the house
 Since Mary Ellen quit me cold;
I've swept the hearth and fed the mouse
 That's getting fat and overbold.
I've bought a pig's foot for the pot And soon I'll set the fire alight; Then I may eat or I may not, Depends upon my appetite.
Since Mary Ellen left me lone I haven't earned a bloody bob.
I sit and sigh, and mope and moan, And bellyache I quit my job.
My money's mostly gone,--I think I ought to save it up for food .
But no, I'll blow it in for drink, Then do a bunk for good.
I watch my mouse his whiskers preen; He watches me with wicked glee.
Today--oh God! It's years sixteen Since Mary Ellen wed with me.
Oh how the dear girl hated vermin! She left rat poison on the shelf .
Friend Mouse, your doom I new determine Then--how about myself?
Written by | Create an image from this poem

In This Place (An American Lyric)

There’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,
where America writes a lyric
you must whisper to say.

There’s a poem in this place—
in the heavy grace,
the lined face of this noble building,
collections burned and reborn twice.

There’s a poem in Boston’s Copley Square
where protest chants
tear through the air
like sheets of rain,
where love of the many
swallows hatred of the few.

There’s a poem in Charlottesville
where tiki torches string a ring of flame
tight round the wrist of night
where men so white they gleam blue—
seem like statues
where men heap that long wax burning
ever higher
where Heather Heyer
blooms forever in a meadow of resistance.

There’s a poem in the great sleeping giant
of Lake Michigan, defiantly raising
its big blue head to Milwaukee and Chicago—
a poem begun long ago, blazed into frozen soil,
strutting upward and aglow.

There’s a poem in Florida, in East Texas
where streets swell into a nexus
of rivers, cows afloat like mottled buoys in the brown,
where courage is now so common
that 23-year-old Jesus Contreras rescues people from floodwaters.

There’s a poem in Los Angeles
yawning wide as the Pacific tide
where a single mother swelters
in a windowless classroom, teaching
black and brown students in Watts
to spell out their thoughts
so her daughter might write
this poem for you.             

There's a lyric in California
where thousands of students march for blocks,
undocumented and unafraid;
where my friend Rosa finds the power to blossom
in deadlock, her spirit the bedrock of her community.
She knows hope is like a stubborn
ship gripping a dock,
a truth: that you can’t stop a dreamer
or knock down a dream.

How could this not be her city
su nación
our country
our America,
our American lyric to write—
a poem by the people, the poor,
the Protestant, the Muslim, the Jew,
the native, the immigrant,
the black, the brown, the blind, the brave,
the undocumented and undeterred,
the woman, the man, the nonbinary,
the white, the trans,
the ally to all of the above
and more?

Tyrants fear the poet.
Now that we know it
we can’t blow it.
We owe it
to show it
not slow it
although it
hurts to sew it
when the world
skirts below it.       

we must bestow it
like a wick in the poet
so it can grow, lit,
bringing with it
stories to rewrite—
the story of a Texas city depleted but not defeated
a history written that need not be repeated
a nation composed but not yet completed.

There’s a poem in this place—
a poem in America
a poet in every American
who rewrites this nation, who tells
a story worthy of being told on this minnow of an earth
to breathe hope into a palimpsest of time—
a poet in every American
who sees that our poem penned
doesn’t mean our poem’s end.

There’s a place where this poem dwells—
it is here, it is now, in the yellow song of dawn’s bell
where we write an American lyric
we are just beginning to tell.