Best Famous Bombed Poems

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

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Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Shit List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity

 You'll rejoice at how many kinds of shit there are:
gosling shit (which J.
Williams said something was as green as), fish shit (the generality), trout shit, rainbow trout shit (for the nice), mullet shit, sand dab shit, casual sloth shit, elephant shit (awesome as process or payload), wildebeest shit, horse shit (a favorite), caterpillar shit (so many dark kinds, neatly pelleted as mint seed), baby rhinoceros shit, splashy jaybird shit, mockingbird shit (dive-bombed with the aim of song), robin shit that oozes white down lawnchairs or down roots under roosts, chicken shit and chicken mite shit, pelican shit, gannet shit (wholesome guano), fly shit (periodic), cockatoo shit, dog shit (past catalog or assimilation), cricket shit, elk (high plains) shit, and tiny scribbled little shrew shit, whale shit (what a sight, deep assumption), mandril shit (blazing blast off), weasel shit (wiles' waste), gazelle shit, magpie shit (total protein), tiger shit (too acid to contemplate), moral eel and manta ray shit, eerie shark shit, earthworm shit (a soilure), crab shit, wolf shit upon the germicidal ice, snake shit, giraffe shit that accelerates, secretary bird shit, turtle shit suspension invites, remora shit slightly in advance of the shark shit, hornet shit (difficult to assess), camel shit that slaps the ghastly dry siliceous, frog shit, beetle shit, bat shit (the marmoreal), contemptible cat shit, penguin shit, hermit crab shit, prairie hen shit, cougar shit, eagle shit (high totem stuff), buffalo shit (hardly less lofty), otter shit, beaver shit (from the animal of alluvial dreams)—a vast ordure is a broken down cloaca—macaw shit, alligator shit (that floats the Nile along), louse shit, macaque, koala, and coati shit, antelope shit, chuck-will's-widow shit, alpaca shit (very high stuff), gooney bird shit, chigger shit, bull shit (the classic), caribou shit, rasbora, python, and razorbill shit, scorpion shit, man shit, laswing fly larva shit, chipmunk shit, other-worldly wallaby shit, gopher shit (or broke), platypus shit, aardvark shit, spider shit, kangaroo and peccary shit, guanaco shit, dolphin shit, aphid shit, baboon shit (that leopards induce), albatross shit, red-headed woodpecker (nine inches long) shit, tern shit, hedgehog shit, panda shit, seahorse shit, and the shit of the wasteful gallinule.
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Rogue Elephant

 The reason to be autonomous is to stand there,
a cleared instrument, ready to act, to search

the moral realm and actual conditions for what
needs to be done and to do it: fine, the

best, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it
comes in handy to the wrong choice, why then

you see the danger in the effective: better
then an autonomy that stands and looks about,

negotiating nothing, the supreme indifferences:
is anything to be gained where as much is lost:

and if for every action there is an equal and
opposite reaction has the loss been researched

equally with the gain: you can see how the
milling actions of millions could come to a

buzzard-like glide as from a coincidental,
warm bottom of water stuck between chilled

peaks: it is not so easy to say, OK, go on
out and act: who, doing what, to what or

whom: just a minute: should the bunker be
bombed (if it stores gas): should all the

rattlers die just because they rattle: if I
hear the young gentleman vomiter roaring down

the hall in the men's room, should I go and
inquire of him, reducing him to my care: no

wonder the great sayers (who say nothing) sit
about in inaccessible states of mind: no

wonder still wisdom and catatonia appear to
exchange places occasionally: but if anything

were easy, our easy choices soon would carry
away our ignorance with the world-better

let the mixed-up mix and let the surface shine
with all the possibilities, each in itself.
Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem

Losses

 It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before In the routine crashes-- and our fields Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks, And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac, Scattered on mountains fifty miles away; Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend, We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died For us to figure we had died like.
) In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed The ranges by the desert or the shore, Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores-- And turned into replacements and worke up One morning, over England, operational.
It wasn't different: but if we died It was not an accident but a mistake (But an easy one for anyone to make.
) We read our mail and counted up our missions-- In bombers named for girls, we burned The cities we had learned about in school-- Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals; When we died they said, "Our casualties were low.
" The said, "Here are the maps"; we burned the cities.
It was not dying --no, not ever dying; But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead, And the cities said to me: "Why are you dying? We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?"
Written by Seamus Heaney | Create an image from this poem

Casualty

 I

He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another rum
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner, Sure-footed but too sly, His deadpan sidling tact, His fisherman's quick eye And turned observant back.
Incomprehensible To him, my other life.
Sometimes on the high stool, Too busy with his knife At a tobacco plug And not meeting my eye, In the pause after a slug He mentioned poetry.
We would be on our own And, always politic And shy of condescension, I would manage by some trick To switch the talk to eels Or lore of the horse and cart Or the Provisionals.
But my tentative art His turned back watches too: He was blown to bits Out drinking in a curfew Others obeyed, three nights After they shot dead The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said, BOGSIDE NIL.
That Wednesday Everyone held His breath and trembled.
II It was a day of cold Raw silence, wind-blown Surplice and soutane: Rained-on, flower-laden Coffin after coffin Seemed to float from the door Of the packed cathedral Like blossoms on slow water.
The common funeral Unrolled its swaddling band, Lapping, tightening Till we were braced and bound Like brothers in a ring.
But he would not be held At home by his own crowd Whatever threats were phoned, Whatever black flags waved.
I see him as he turned In that bombed offending place, Remorse fused with terror In his still knowable face, His cornered outfaced stare Blinding in the flash.
He had gone miles away For he drank like a fish Nightly, naturally Swimming towards the lure Of warm lit-up places, The blurred mesh and murmur Drifting among glasses In the gregarious smoke.
How culpable was he That last night when he broke Our tribe's complicity? 'Now, you're supposed to be An educated man,' I hear him say.
'Puzzle me The right answer to that one.
' III I missed his funeral, Those quiet walkers And sideways talkers Shoaling out of his lane To the respectable Purring of the hearse.
.
.
They move in equal pace With the habitual Slow consolation Of a dawdling engine, The line lifted, hand Over fist, cold sunshine On the water, the land Banked under fog: that morning I was taken in his boat, The screw purling, turning Indolent fathoms white, I tasted freedom with him.
To get out early, haul Steadily off the bottom, Dispraise the catch, and smile As you find a rhythm Working you, slow mile by mile, Into your proper haunt Somewhere, well out, beyond.
.
.
Dawn-sniffing revenant, Plodder through midnight rain, Question me again.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Sam Goes To It

 Sam Small had retired from the Army,
In the old Duke of Wellington's time,
So when present unpleasantness started,
He were what you might call.
.
.
past his prime.
He'd lived for some years in retirement, And knew nowt of war, if you please, Till they blasted and bombed his allotment, And shelled the best part of his peas.
'T were as if bugles called Sam to duty, For his musket he started to search, He found it at last in the Hen house, Buff Orpingtons had it for perch.
Straight off to the Fusilliers' depot, He went to rejoin his old troop.
.
.
Where he found as they couldn't recruit Him, Until his age group was called up.
Now Sam wasn't getting no younger, Past the three score and ten years was he, And he reckoned by time they reached his age group, He'd be very near ten score and three.
So he took up the matter with Churchill, Who said, "I don't know what to do, Never was there a time when so many, Came asking so much from so few.
" "I don't want no favours" Sam answered, "Don't think as I'm one of that mob, All I'm asking is give me the tools, lad, And let me help finish the job.
" "I'll fit you in somewhere," said Winnie, "Old soldiers we must not discard.
" Then seeing he'd got his own musket, He sent him to join the Home Guard.
They gave Sam a coat with no stripes on, In spite of the service he'd seen, Which considering he'd been a King's sergeant, Kind of rankled.
.
.
you know what I mean.
He said "I come back to the Army, Expecting my country's thanks, And the first thing I find when I get here, Is that I've been reduced to the ranks.
He found all the lads sympathetic, They agreed that 'twere a disgrace, Except one old chap in the corner, With a nutcracker kind of a face.
Said the old fella, "Who do you think you are? The last to appear on the scene, And you start off by wanting promotion, Last come, last served.
.
.
see what I mean?" Said Sam, "Wasn't I at Corunna, And when company commander got shot, Didn't I lead battalion to victory?" Said the old fella, "No.
.
.
you did not.
" "I didn't?" said Sam quite indignent, "Why, in every fight Wellington fought, Wasn't I at his right hand to guard him?" Said old chap, "You were nowt of the sort.
" "What do you know of Duke and his battles?" Said Sam, with a whithering look, Said the old man, "I ought to know something, Between you and me.
.
.
I'm the Duke.
" And if you should look in any evening, You'll find them both in the canteen, Ex Commander-in-Chief and ex Sergeant, Both just Home Guards.
.
.
you know what I mean?
Written by Edgar Albert Guest | Create an image from this poem

Father

 The long lines of diesels 
groan toward evening 
carrying off the breath 
of the living.
The face of your house is black, it is your face, black and fire bombed in the first street wars, a black tooth planted in the earth of Michigan and bearing nothing, and the earth is black, sick on used oils.
Did you look for me in that house behind the sofa where I had to be? in the basement where the shirts yellowed on hangers? in the bedroom where a woman lay her face on a locked chest? I waited at windows the rain streaked and no one told me.
I found you later face torn from The History of Siege, eyes turned to a public wall and gone before I turned back, mouth in mine and gone.
I found you whole toward the autumn of my 43rd year in this chair beside a masonjar of dried zinnias and I turned away.
I find you in these tears, few, useless and here at last.
Don't come back.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Bill The Bomber

 The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;
The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist;
And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;
'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came.
'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think.
So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.
We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, And it's odd -- we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground.
And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in.
And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one.
" Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am.
I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was.
We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two.
" I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me.
And I'd lost me 'at and rifle -- but I told you that before, So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more.
But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three.
" So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead.
" And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs -- that was the 'ardest blow, To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe.
And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad.
And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.
Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad.
For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.
Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free.
.
.
.
And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; And now they're all excited like, but -- I am drawin' near; And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim.
.
.
.
Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game.
And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.
Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole.
And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell.
And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five.
And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Valenciennes

 By Corporal Tullidge.
See "The Trumpet-Major" In Memory of S.
C.
(Pensioner).
Died 184- WE trenched, we trumpeted and drummed, And from our mortars tons of iron hummed Ath'art the ditch, the month we bombed The Town o' Valencie?n.
'Twas in the June o' Ninety-dree (The Duke o' Yark our then Commander be?n) The German Legion, Guards, and we Laid siege to Valencie?n.
This was the first time in the war That French and English spilled each other's gore; --God knows what year will end the roar Begun at Valencie?n! 'Twas said that we'd no business there A-topper?n the French for disagre?n; However, that's not my affair-- We were at Valencie?n.
Such snocks and slats, since war began Never knew raw recruit or veter?n: Stone-deaf therence went many a man Who served at Valencie?n.
Into the streets, ath'art the sky, A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fle?n; And harmless townsfolk fell to die Each hour at Valencie?n! And, sweat?n wi' the bombardiers, A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears: --'Twas night the end of hopes and fears For me at Valencie?n! They bore my wownded frame to camp, And shut my gap?n skull, and washed en cle?n, And jined en wi' a zilver clamp Thik night at Valencie?n.
"We've fetched en back to quick from dead; But never more on earth while rose is red Will drum rouse Corpel!" Doctor said O' me at Valencie?n.
'Twer true.
No voice o' friend or foe Can reach me now, or any live?n be?n; And little have I power to know Since then at Valencie?n! I never hear the zummer hums O' bees; and don't know when the cuckoo comes; But night and day I hear the bombs We threw at Valencie?n.
.
.
.
As for the Duke o' Yark in war, There be some volk whose judgment o' en is me?n; But this I say--'a was not far From great at Valencie?n.
O' wild wet nights, when all seems sad, My wownds come back, as though new wownds I'd had; But yet--at times I'm sort o' glad I fout at Valencie?n.
Well: Heaven wi' its jasper halls Is now the on'y Town I care to be in.
.
.
.
Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls As we did Valencie?n!