Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Boa Poems

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

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

See Also:

Poems are below...



Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

Autumn Day

 Four Translations

Lord: it is time.
The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials and let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them to ripeness, and chase the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time, will stay up, read, write long letters, and wander the avenues, up and down, restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
Translated by Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann, "The Essential Rilke" (Ecco) Lord, it is time.
The summer was too long.
Lay your shadow on the sundials now, and through the meadow let the winds throng.
Ask the last fruits to ripen on the vine; give them further two more summer days to bring about perfection and to raise the final sweetness in the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will establish none, whoever lives alone now will live on long alone, will waken, read, and write long letters, wander up and down the barren paths the parks expose when the leaves are blown.
Translated by William Gass, "Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problem of Translation" (Knopf) Lord: it is time.
The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows, and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine; grant them a few more warm transparent days, urge them on to fulfillment then, and press the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell, "The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke" (Random House) Lord, it is time now, for the summer has gone on and gone on.
Lay your shadow along the sun- dials and in the field let the great wind blow free.
Command the last fruit be ripe: let it bow down the vine -- with perhaps two sun-warm days more to force the last sweetness in the heavy wine.
He who has no home will not build one now.
He who is alone will stay long alone, will wake up, read, write long letters, and walk in the streets, walk by in the streets when the leaves blow.
Translated by John Logan, "Homage to Rainer Maria Rilke," (BOA Editions) Original German Herbsttag Herr: es ist Zeit.
Der Sommer war sehr gross.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Fruchten voll zu sein; gieb innen noch zwei sudlichere Tage, drange sie zur Vollendung hin und jage die letzte Susse in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben, wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben und wird in den Alleen hin und her unruhig wandern, wenn die Blatter treiben.
-- Rainer Maria Rilke, Paris, Sept.
21, 1902
Written by Lucille Clifton | Create an image from this poem

sisters

 me and you be sisters.
we be the same.
me and you coming from the same place.
me and you be greasing our legs touching up our edges.
me and you be scared of rats be stepping on roaches.
me and you come running high down purdy street one time and mama laugh and shake her head at me and you.
me and you got babies got thirty-five got black let our hair go back be loving ourselves be loving ourselves be sisters.
only where you sing, I poet.
Credit: Copyright © 1987 by Lucille Clifton.
Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
, www.
boaeditions.
org.
Written by Shel Silverstein | Create an image from this poem

Boa Constrictor

 Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know? It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee, It's up to my knee.
Oh my, It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle, It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck, It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread, It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff .
.
.
Written by Lucille Clifton | Create an image from this poem

shapeshifter poems

 1

the legend is whispered
in the women's tent
how the moon when she rises
full
follows some men into themselves
and changes them there
the season is short
but dreadful shapeshifters
they wear strange hands
they walk through the houses
at night their daughters
do not know them

2

who is there to protect her
from the hands of the father
not the windows which see and
say nothing not the moon
that awful eye not the woman
she will become with her
scarred tongue who who who the owl
laments into the evening who
will protect her this prettylittlegirl

3

if the little girl lies
still enough
shut enough
hard enough
shapeshifter may not
walk tonight
the full moon may not
find him here
the hair on him
bristling
rising
up

4

the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow the one
she cannot tell the one
there is no one to hear this poem
is a political poem is a war poem is a
universal poem but is not about
these things this poem
is about one human heart this poem
is the poem at the end of the world 

Credit: Copyright © 1987 by Lucille Clifton.
Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
, www.
boaeditions.
org.
Written by Li-Young Lee | Create an image from this poem

Eating Alone

 I've pulled the last of the year's young onions.
The garden is bare now.
The ground is cold, brown and old.
What is left of the day flames in the maples at the corner of my eye.
I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions, then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father among the windfall pears.
I can't recall our words.
We may have strolled in silence.
But I still see him bend that way-left hand braced on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my eye a rotten pear.
In it, a hornet spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
It was my father I saw this morning waving to me from the trees.
I almost called to him, until I came close enough to see the shovel, leaning where I had left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.
White rice steaming, almost done.
Sweet green peas fried in onions.
Shrimp braised in sesame oil and garlic.
And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.
Credit: Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee.
Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
, www.
boaeditions.
org.
Written by Li-Young Lee | Create an image from this poem

A Story

 Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba.
A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world of stories, he can recall not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees the day this boy will go.
Don't go! Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more! You love the spider story.
You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it! But the boy is packing his shirts, he is looking for his keys.
Are you a god, the man screams, that I sit mute before you? Am I a god that I should never disappoint? But the boy is here.
Please, Baba, a story? It is an emotional rather than logical equation, an earthly rather than heavenly one, which posits that a boy's supplications and a father's love add up to silence.
Credit: Copyright © 1990 by Li-Young Lee.
Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
, www.
boaeditions.
org.
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

A Farewell to Agassiz

 How the mountains talked together,
Looking down upon the weather,
When they heard our friend had planned his
Little trip among the Andes
How they'll bare their snowy scalps
To the climber of the Alps
When the cry goes through their passes,
"Here comes the great Agassiz!"
"Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo,
"But I wait for him to say so,--
That's the only thing that lacks,-- he
Must see me, Cotopaxi!"
"Ay! ay!" the fire-peak thunders,
"And he must view my wonders
I'm but a lonely crater
Till I have him for spectator!"
The mountain hearts are yearning,
The lava-torches burning,
The rivers bend to meet him,
The forests bow to greet him,
It thrills the spinal column
Of fossil fishes solemn,
And glaciers crawl the faster
To the feet of their old master!
Heaven keep him well and hearty,
Both him and all his party!
From the sun that broils and smites,
From the centipede that bites,
From the hail-storm and the thunder,
From the vampire and the condor,
From the gust upon the river,
From the sudden earthquake shiver,
From the trip of mule or donkey,
From the midnight howling monkey,
From the stroke of knife or dagger,
From the puma and the jaguar,
From the horrid boa-constrictor
That has scared us in the picture,
From the Indians of the Pampas
Who would dine upon their grampas,
From every beast and vermin
That to think of sets us squirmin',
From every snake that tries on
The traveller his p'ison,
From every pest of Natur',
Likewise the alligator,
And from two things left behind him,
(Be sure they'll try to find him,)
The tax-bill and assessor,--
Heaven keep the great Professor!
May he find, with his apostles,
That the land is full of fossils,
That the waters swarm with fishes
Shaped according to his wishes,
That every pool is fertile
In fancy kinds of turtle,
New birds around him singing,
New insects, never stinging,
With a million novel data
About the articulata,
And facts that strip off all husks
From the history of mollusks.
And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That gods and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at! God bless the great Professor! And Madam, too, God bless her! Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed shore! Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creature's paeans, Till the fossil echoes roar; While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus, God bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor,-- Bless them now and evermore!
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

This Night Slip In His Honor (after Komachi)

 This night slip, in his honor
flipped inside out – of lace-
edged netting – is the color
of Shaka Zulu’s face;

of panther flower at midnight
where crow and boa doze;
of vertigo and stage fright
in frail Ophelia’s clothes.
I wear it as a symbol.
Its ripped, Chantilly trim I fixed without a thimble, was pricked and bled for him.
A torn band may be mended, but what if he and I disband, no longer blended? My spine turned to the sky, reflecting on my dresser from mirror-fine sateens: the Great Bear with the Lesser… I dream of Shoji screens, and when desire becomes an overlaying itch, the throbbing in my thumbs untenable to stitch, sleek, fitted, with the passion of Shaka Zulu’s face, reversed and fringe-of-fashion, I put it on, in place of achromatic egrets, the vacant crystal ball.
Victoria has secrets.
I am her baby doll.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

NOORMAHAL THE FAIR.{1}

 ("Entre deux rocs d'un noir d'ébène.") 
 
 {XXVII., November, 1828.} 


 Between two ebon rocks 
 Behold yon sombre den, 
 Where brambles bristle like the locks 
 Of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men! 
 
 Remote in ruddy fog 
 Still hear the tiger growl 
 At the lion and stripèd dog 
 That prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl; 
 
 Whilst other monsters fast 
 The hissing basilisk; 
 The hippopotamus so vast, 
 And the boa with waking appetite made brisk! 
 
 The orfrey showing tongue, 
 The fly in stinging mood, 
 The elephant that crushes strong 
 And elastic bamboos an the scorpion's brood; 
 
 And the men of the trees 
 With their families fierce, 
 Till there is not one scorching breeze 
 But brings here its venom—its horror to pierce— 
 
 Yet, rather there be lone, 
 'Mid all those horrors there, 
 Than hear the sickly honeyed tone 
 And see the swimming eyes of Noormahal the Fair! 
 
 {Footnote 1: Noormahal (Arabic) the light of the house; some of the 
 Orientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.}