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Best Famous Bombarded Poems

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

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Written by Adrienne Rich | Create an image from this poem

Planetarium

 Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750-1848), 
astronomer, sister of William; and others.
A woman in the shape of a monster a monster in the shape of a woman the skies are full of them a woman 'in the snow among the Clocks and instruments or measuring the ground with poles' in her 98 years to discover 8 comets She whom the moon ruled like us levitating into the night sky riding the polished lenses Galaxies of women, there doing penance for impetuousness ribs chilled in those spaces of the mind An eye, 'virile, precise and absolutely certain' from the mad webs of Uranusborg encountering the NOVA every impulse of light exploding from the core as life flies out of us Tycho whispering at last 'Let me not seem to have lived in vain' What we see, we see and seeing is changing the light that shrivels a mountain and leaves a man alive Heartbeat of the pulsar heart sweating through my body The radio impulse pouring in from Taurus I am bombarded yet I stand I have been standing all my life in the direct path of a battery of signals the most accurately transmitted most untranslatable language in the universe I am a galactic cloud so deep so invo- luted that a light wave could take 15 years to travel through me And has taken I am an instrument in the shape of a woman trying to translate pulsations into images for the relief of the body and the reconstruction of the mind.


Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Florida

 The state with the prettiest name,
the state that floats in brackish water,
held together by mangrave roots
that bear while living oysters in clusters, 
and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons, 
dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks
like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass.
The state full of long S-shaped birds, blue and white, and unseen hysterical birds who rush up the scale every time in a tantrum.
Tanagers embarrassed by their flashiness, and pelicans whose delight it is to clown; who coast for fun on the strong tidal currents in and out among the mangrove islands and stand on the sand-bars drying their damp gold wings on sun-lit evenings.
Enormous turtles, helpless and mild, die and leave their barnacled shells on the beaches, and their large white skulls with round eye-sockets twice the size of a man's.
The palm trees clatter in the stiff breeze like the bills of the pelicans.
The tropical rain comes down to freshen the tide-looped strings of fading shells: Job's Tear, the Chinese Alphabet, the scarce Junonia, parti-colored pectins and Ladies' Ears, arranged as on a gray rag of rotted calico, the buried Indian Princess's skirt; with these the monotonous, endless, sagging coast-line is delicately ornamented.
Thirty or more buzzards are drifting down, down, down, over something they have spotted in the swamp, in circles like stirred-up flakes of sediment sinking through water.
Smoke from woods-fires filters fine blue solvents.
On stumps and dead trees the charring is like black velvet.
The mosquitoes go hunting to the tune of their ferocious obbligatos.
After dark, the fireflies map the heavens in the marsh until the moon rises.
Cold white, not bright, the moonlight is coarse-meshed, and the careless, corrupt state is all black specks too far apart, and ugly whites; the poorest post-card of itself.
After dark, the pools seem to have slipped away.
The alligator, who has five distinct calls: friendliness, love, mating, war, and a warning-- whimpers and speaks in the throat of the Indian Princess.
Written by Adrienne Rich | Create an image from this poem

Power

 Living in the earth-deposits of our history

Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate.
Today I was reading about Marie Curie: she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness her body bombarded for years by the element she had purified It seems she denied to the end the source of the cataracts on her eyes the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power.