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Best Famous Blown Away Poems

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

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Written by Charles Simic | Create an image from this poem

White

 A New Version: 1980

 What is that little black thing I see there
 in the white?
 Walt Whitman


One

Out of poverty
To begin again: 

With the color of the bride
And that of blindness,

Touch what I can
Of the quick,

Speak and then wait,
As if this light

Will continue to linger
On the threshold.
All that is near, I no longer give it a name.
Once a stone hard of hearing, Once sharpened into a knife.
.
.
Now only a chill Slipping through.
Enough glow to kneel by and ask To be tied to its tail When it goes marrying Its cousins, the stars.
Is it a cloud? If it's a cloud it will move on.
The true shape of this thought, Migrant, waning.
Something seeks someone, It bears him a gift Of himself, a bit Of snow to taste, Glimpse of his own nakedness By which to imagine the face.
On a late afternoon of snow In a dim badly-aired grocery, Where a door has just rung With a short, shrill echo, A little boy hands the old, Hard-faced woman Bending low over the counter, A shiny nickel for a cupcake.
Now only that shine, now Only that lull abides.
That your gaze Be merciful, Sister, bride Of my first hopeless insomnia.
Kind nurse, show me The place of salves.
Teach me the song That makes a man rise His glass at dusk Until a star dances in it.
Who are you? Are you anybody A moonrock would recognize? There are words I need.
They are not near men.
I went searching.
Is this a deathmarch? You bend me, bend me, Oh toward what flower! Little-known vowel, Noose big for us all.
As strange as a shepherd In the Arctic Circle.
Someone like Bo-peep.
All his sheep are white And he can't get any sleep Over lost sheep.
And he's got a flute Which says Bo-peep, Which says Poor boy, Take care of your snow-sheep.
to A.
S.
Hamilton Then all's well and white, And no more than white.
Illinois snowbound.
Indiana with one bare tree.
Michigan a storm-cloud.
Wisconsin empty of men.
There's a trap on the ice Laid there centuries ago.
The bait is still fresh.
The metal glitters as the night descends.
Woe, woe, it sings from the bough.
Our Lady, etc.
.
.
You had me hoodwinked.
I see your brand new claws.
Praying, what do I betray By desiring your purity? There are old men and women, All bandaged up, waiting At the spiked, wrought-iron gate Of the Great Eye and Ear Infirmery.
We haven't gone far.
.
.
Fear lives there too.
Five ears of my fingertips Against the white page.
What do you hear? We hear holy nothing Blindfolding itself.
It touched you once, twice, And tore like a stitch Out of a new wound.
Two What are you up to son of a gun? I roast on my heart's dark side.
What do you use as a skewer sweetheart? I use my own crooked backbone.
What do you salt yourself with loverboy? I grind the words out of my spittle.
And how will you know when you're done chump? When the half-moons on my fingernails set.
With what knife will you carve yourself smartass? The one I hide in my tongue's black boot.
Well, you can't call me a wrestler If my own dead weight has me pinned down.
Well, you can't call me a cook If the pot's got me under its cover.
Well, you can't call me a king if the flies hang their hats in my mouth.
Well, you can't call me smart, When the rain's falling my cup's in the cupboard.
Nor can you call me a saint, If I didn't err, there wouldn't be these smudges.
One has to manage as best as one can.
The poppies ate the sunset for supper.
One has to manage as best as one can.
Who stole my blue thread, the one I tied around my pinky to remember? One has to manage as best as one can.
The flea I was standing on, jumped.
One has to manage as best as one can.
I think my head went out for a walk.
One has to manage as best as one can.
This is breath, only breath, Think it over midnight! A fly weighs twice as much.
The struck match nods as it passes, But when I shout, Its true name sticks in my throat.
It has to be cold So the breath turns white, And then mother, who's fast enough To write his life on it? A song in prison And for prisoners, Made of what the condemned Have hidden from the jailers.
White--let me step aside So that the future may see you, For when this sheet is blown away, What else is left But to set the food on the table, To cut oneself a slice of bread? In an unknown year Of an algebraic century, An obscure widow Wrapped in the colors of widowhood, Met a true-blue orphan On an indeterminate street-corner.
She offered him A tiny sugar cube In the hand so wizened All the lines said: fate.
Do you take this line Stretching to infinity? I take this chipped tooth On which to cut it in half.
Do you take this circle Bounded by a single curved line? I take this breath That it cannot capture.
Then you may kiss the spot Where her bridal train last rustled.
Winter can come now, The earth narrow to a ditch-- And the sky with its castles and stone lions Above the empty plains.
The snow can fall.
.
.
What other perennials would you plant, My prodigals, my explorers Tossing and turning in the dark For those remote, finely honed bees, The December stars? Had to get through me elsewhere.
Woe to bone That stood in their way.
Woe to each morsel of flesh.
White ants In a white anthill.
The rustle of their many feet Scurrying--tiptoing too.
Gravedigger ants.
Village-idiot ants.
This is the last summoning.
Solitude--as in the beginning.
A zero burped by a bigger zero-- It's an awful licking I got.
And fear--that dead letter office.
And doubt--that Chinese shadow play.
Does anyone still say a prayer Before going to bed? White sleeplessness.
No one knows its weight.
What The White Had To Say For how could anything white be distinct from or divided from whiteness? Meister Eckhart Because I am the bullet That has gone through everyone already, I thought of you long before you thought of me.
Each one of you still keeps a blood-stained handkerchief In which to swaddle me, but it stays empty And even the wind won't remain in it long.
Cleverly you've invented name after name for me, Mixed the riddles, garbled the proverbs, Shook you loaded dice in a tin cup, But I do not answer back even to your curses, For I am nearer to you than your breath.
One sun shines on us both through a crack in the roof.
A spoon brings me through the window at dawn.
A plate shows me off to the four walls While with my tail I swing at the flies.
But there's no tail and the flies are your thoughts.
Steadily, patiently I life your arms.
I arrange them in the posture of someone drowning, And yet the sea in which you are sinking, And even this night above it, is myself.
Because I am the bullet That has baptized each one of your senses, Poems are made of our lusty wedding nights.
.
.
The joy of words as they are written.
The ear that got up at four in the morning To hear the grass grow inside a word.
Still, the most beautiful riddle has no answer.
I am the emptiness that tucks you in like a mockingbird's nest, The fingernail that scratched on your sleep's blackboard.
Take a letter: From cloud to onion.
Say: There was never any real choice.
One gaunt shadowy mother wiped our asses, The same old orphanage taught us loneliness.
Street-organ full of blue notes, I am the monkey dancing to your grinding-- And still you are afraid-and so, It's as if we had not budged from the beginning.
Time slopes.
We are falling head over heels At the speed of night.
That milk tooth You left under the pillow, it's grinning.
1970-1980 This currently out-of-print edition: Copyright ©1980 Logbridge-Rhodes, Inc.
An earlier version of White was first published by New Rivers Press in 1972.


Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Irony

 An arid daylight shines along the beach
Dried to a grey monotony of tone,
And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon
The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach
Sparkles a wet, reviving sea.
Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints and knuckles hardened each to each.
And they are dead while waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.
Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze.
Only the shells and stones can wait to be Washed bright.
For living things, who suffer pain, May not endure till time can bring them ease.
Written by Judith Wright | Create an image from this poem

The Old Prison

 The rows of cells are unroofed, 
a flute for the wind's mouth, 
who comes with a breath of ice 
from the blue caves of the south.
O dark and fierce day: the wind like an angry bee hunts for the black honey in the pits of the hollow sea.
Waves of shadow wash the empty shell bone-bare, and like a bone it sings a bitter song of air.
Who built and laboured here? The wind and the sea say -Their cold nest is broken and they are blown away- They did not breed nor love, each in his cell alone cried as the wind now cries through this flute of stone.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

No Brigadier throughout the Year

 No Brigadier throughout the Year
So civic as the Jay --
A Neighbor and a Warrior too
With shrill felicity
Pursuing Winds that censure us
A February Day,
The Brother of the Universe
Was never blown away --
The Snow and he are intimate --
I've often seem them play
When Heaven looked upon us all
With such severity
I felt apology were due
To an insulted sky
Whose pompous frown was Nutriment
To their Temerity --
The Pillow of this daring Head
Is pungent Evergreens --
His Larder -- terse and Militant --
Unknown -- refreshing things --
His Character -- a Tonic --
His future -- a Dispute --
Unfair an Immortality
That leaves this Neighbor out --
Written by Lawrence Ferlinghetti | Create an image from this poem

Number 20

 The pennycandystore beyond the El
is where I first
  fell in love
    with unreality
Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom
of that september afternoon
A cat upon the counter moved among
    the licorice sticks
  and tootsie rolls
 and Oh Boy Gum

Outside the leaves were falling as they died

A wind had blown away the sun

A girl ran in 
Her hair was rainy
Her breasts were breathless in the little room

Outside the leaves were falling
   and they cried
     Too soon! too soon!


Written by Lawrence Ferlinghetti | Create an image from this poem

The Pennycandystore Beyond The El

 The pennycandystore beyond the El
is where i first 
 fell in love
 with unreality
Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom
of that september afternoon
A cat upon the counter moved among
 the licorice sticks
 and tootsie rolls
 and Oh Boy Gum

Outside the leaves were falling as they died

A wind had blown away the sun

A girl ran in
Her hair was rainy
Her breasts were breathless in the little room

Outside the leaves were falling
 and they cried
 Too soon! too soon!
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

jack – beyond the digits

 so here we are at last at the ten-boy
never to be the single-figure-aged-again boy
and all the trailing clouds that cling to the not-big child
can be blown away - you're up in your own sky now
clear-blue on some days (if on others windy and wild)

now you'll have to see yourself as the tall-boy
the take-it-on-the-chin and care-for-all boy
and looking at what's to be done and getting down
to doing it without boring parents laying down the law
it's your walk from hereon to your own new town

then you'll be able to grow into that free-boy
not hankering to be that sit-on-your-mother's-knee boy
and you'll find yourself with keys to fit in every door
you've been denied or dreamed of (keys towards the man)
and a richer jack will sprout from the jack you were before

so aquarian and water-dog and feb-the-fourth-boy
the i've-got-to-figure-out-my-south-from-north-boy
now you've double-jumped may your life bloom well
be kind to sweet matthew and let that deep sun shine
that's been nuzzling inside you in its young-boy shell

and we wish a happy birthday to the ten-boy
to the video-games and freaky-foresters'-den-boy
to the boy who takes pity on his dad's bald head
whose laziness is legion - seasoned with sharp wit
a boy who's perfect when he's fast asleep in bed
and awake not quite an angel but at least well-fed
Written by Bliss Carman | Create an image from this poem

The Vagabonds

 We are the vagabonds of time, 
And rove the yellow autumn days, 
When all the roads are gray with rime 
And all the valleys blue with haze.
We came unlooked for as the wind Trooping across the April hills, When the brown waking earth had dreams Of summer in the Wander Kills.
How far afield we joyed to fare, With June in every blade and tree! Now with the sea-wind in our hair We turn our faces to the sea.
We go unheeded as the stream That wanders by the hill-wood side, Till the great marshes take his hand And lead him to the roving tide.
The roving tide, the sleeping hills, These are the borders of that zone Where they may fare as fancy wills Whom wisdom smiles and calls her own.
It is a country of the sun, Full of forgotten yesterdays, When Time takes Summer in his care, And fills the distance of her gaze.
It stretches from the open sea To the blue mountains and beyond; The world is Vagabondia To him who is a vagabond.
In the beginning God made man Out of the wandering dust, men say; And in the end his life shall be A wandering wind and blown away.
We are the vagabonds of time, Willing to let the world go by, With joy supreme, with heart sublime, And valor in the kindling eye.
We have forgotten where we slept, And guess not where we sleep to-night, Whether among the lonely hills In the pale streamers' ghostly light We shall lie down and hear the frost Walk in the dead leaves restlessly, Or somewhere on the iron coast Learn the oblivion of the sea.
It matters not.
And yet I dream Of dreams fulfilled and rest somewhere Before this restless heart is stilled And all its fancies blown to air.
Had I my will! .
.
.
The sun burns down And something plucks my garment's hem: The robins in their faded brown Would lure me to the south with them.
'Tis time for vagabonds to make The nearest inn.
Far on I hear The voices of the Northern hills Gather the vagrants of the year.
Brave heart, my soul! Let longings be! We have another day to wend.
For dark or waylay what care we Who have the lords of time to friend? And if we tarry or make haste, The wayside sleep can hold no fear.
Shall fate unpoise, or whim perturb, The calm-begirt in dawn austere? There is a tavern, I have heard, Not far, and frugal, kept by One Who knows the children of the Word, And welcomes each when day is done.
Some say the house is lonely set In Northern night, and snowdrifts keep The silent door; the hearth is cold, And all my fellows gone to sleep.
.
.
.
Had I my will! I hear the sea Thunder a welcome on the shore; I know where lies the hostelry And who should open me the door.
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Starling

 "`I can't get 
out', said the starling.
" Sterne's `Sentimental Journey'.
Forever the impenetrable wall Of self confines my poor rebellious soul, I never see the towering white clouds roll Before a sturdy wind, save through the small Barred window of my jail.
I live a thrall With all my outer life a clipped, square hole, Rectangular; a fraction of a scroll Unwound and winding like a worsted ball.
My thoughts are grown uneager and depressed Through being always mine, my fancy's wings Are moulted and the feathers blown away.
I weary for desires never guessed, For alien passions, strange imaginings, To be some other person for a day.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

An Address to the New Tay Bridge

 Beautiful new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,
With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,
And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye
Strong enough all windy storms to defy.
And as I gaze upon thee my heart feels gay, Because thou are the greatest railway bridge of the present day, And can be seen for miles away From North, South, East or West of the Tay On a beautiful and clear sunshiny day, And ought to make the hearts of the "Mars" boys feel gay, Because thine equal nowhere can be seen, Only near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.
Beautiful new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay, With thy beautiful side-screens along your railway, Which will be a great protection on a windy day, So as the railway carriages won`t be blown away, And ought to cheer the hearts of the passengers night and day As they are conveyed along thy beautiful railway, And towering above the Silvery Tay, Spanning the beautiful river shore to shore Upwards of two miles and more, Which is most beautiful to be seen Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green, Thy structure to my eye seems strong and grand, And the workmanship most skilfully planned; And I hope the designers, Messrs Barlow and Arrol, will prosper for many a day For erecting thee across the beautiful Tay.
And I think nobody need have the least dismay To cross o`er thee by night or by day, Because thy strength is visible to be seen Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.
Beautiful new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay, I wish you success for many a year and a day, And I hope thousands of people will come from faraway, Both high and low without delay, From the North, South, East and West, Because as a railway bridge thou art the best; Thou standest unequalled to be seen Near by Dundee and bonnie Magdalen Green.
And for beauty thou art most lovely to be seen As the train crosses o'er thee with her cloud of steam; And you look well, painted the colour of marone, And to find thy equal there is none, Which, without fear of contradiction, I venture to say, Because you are the longest railway bridge of the present day That now crosses o'er a tidal river stream, And the most handsome to be seen Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.
The New Yorkers boast about their Brooklyn Bridge, But in comparison to thee it seems like a midge, Because thou spannest the Silvery Tay A mile and more longer I venture to say; Besides the railway carriages are pulled across by a rope, Therefore Brooklyn Bridge cannot with thee cope; And as you have been opened on the 20th day of June, I hope Her Majesty Queen Victoria will visit thee very soon, Because thou art worthy of a visit from Duke, Lord or Queen, And strong and securely built, which is most worthy to be seen Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.

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