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Best Famous Brand New Poems

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Written by Pam Ayres | Create an image from this poem

A poem for the Diamond Jubilee

Dad took me to our local pub in 1953,
They had a television set, the first I’d ever see,
To watch a Coronation! I knew it sounded grand,
Although at six years old, the word was hard to understand.

But little kids like me, and others all around the world,
We saw the magic crown; we saw magnificence unfurled,
A brand new Queen created, the emergence and the birth,
And the Abbey seemed a place between the Heavens and the Earth.

Certain pictures linger when considering the reign,
Hauntingly in black and white, a platform and a train,
The saddest thing I ever saw, more sharp than any other,
Prince Charles. The little boy who had to shake hands with his mother.

I will stand up and be counted; I am for the monarchy,
And if they make mistakes, well they are frail like you and me,
I would not choose a president to posture and to preen,
Live in a republic? I would rather have the Queen.

A thousand boats are sailing, little ships among the large,
Close beside the splendour that bedecks the Royal Barge,
And as the pageant passes, I can see an image clear
Of the Royal Yacht Britannia; she should surely have been here.

I wish our Queen a genuinely joyful Jubilee,
Secure in the affection of the mute majority,
I hope she hears our voices as we thank her now as one,
Sixty years a Queen. A job immaculately done.

© Pam Ayres 2012
Official Website
http://pamayres.com/


Written by Gil Scott-Heron | Create an image from this poem

The revolution will not be televised

You will not be able to stay home, brother
 You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out
 You will not be able to lose yourself on skag
 And skip out for beer during commercials
 Because the revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be televised
 The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
 In 4 parts without commercial interruptions
 The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
 Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell
 General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat hog maws
 Confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary
 The revolution will not be televised

 The revolution will not be brought to you by the
 Schaefer Award Theater and will not star Natalie Woods
 And Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia
 The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal
 The revolution will not get rid of the nubs
 The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner
 Because the revolution will not be televised, Brother

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
 Pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run
 Or trying to slide that color TV into a stolen ambulance
 NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
 Or report from 29 districts
 The revolution will not be televised

 There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
 Brothers on the instant replay
 There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
 Brothers on the instant replay

There will be no pictures of Whitney Young
 Being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process
 There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy Wilkens
 Strolling through Watts in a red, black and green
 Liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
 For just the proper occasion

 Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies and Hooter ville Junction
 Will no longer be so damned relevant
 And women will not care if Dick finally gets down with Jane
 On search for tomorrow because black people
 Will be in the street looking for a brighter day
 The revolution will not be televised

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock news
 And no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists
 And Jackie Onassis blowing her nose
 The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb
 Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones
 Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink or the Rare Earth
 The revolution will not be televised

 The revolution will not be right back after a message
 About a white tornado, white lightning, or white people
 You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom
 The tiger in your tank or the giant in your toilet bowl
 The revolution will not go better with Coke
 The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath
 The revolution will put you in the driver's seat

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised
 Will not be televised, will not be televised
 The revolution will be no re-run brothers
 The revolution will be live


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 Osip Mandelstam | Create an image from this poem

The Age

 My age, my beast, is there anyone
Who can peer into your eyes
And with his own blood fuse
Two centuries' worth of vertebrae?
The creating blood gushes
From the throat of earthly things,
And the parasite just trembles
On the threshold of new days.
While the creature still has life, The spine must be delivered, While with the unseen backbone A wave distracts itself.
Again they've brought the peak of life Like a sacrificial lamb, Like a child's supple cartilage— The age of infant earth.
To free the age from its confinement, To instigate a brand new world, The discordant, tangled days Must be linked, as with a flute.
It's the age that rocks the swells With humanity's despair, And in the undergrowth a serpent breathes The golden measure of the age.
Still the shoots will swell And the green buds sprout But your spinal cord is crushed, My fantastic, wretched age! And in lunatic beatitude You look back, cruel and weak, Like a beast that once was agile, At the tracks left by your feet.
The creating blood gushes From the throat of earthly things, The lukewarm cartilage of oceans Splashes like a seething fish ashore.
And from the bird net spread on high From the humid azure stones, Streams a flood of helpless apathy On your single, fatal wound.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Breast

 This is the key to it.
This is the key to everything.
Preciously.
I am worse than the gamekeeper's children picking for dust and bread.
Here I am drumming up perfume.
Let me go down on your carpet, your straw mattress -- whatever's at hand because the child in me is dying, dying.
It is not that I am cattle to be eaten.
It is not that I am some sort of street.
But your hands found me like an architect.
Jugful of milk! It was yours years ago when I lived in the valley of my bones, bones dumb in the swamp.
Little playthings.
A xylophone maybe with skin stretched over it awkwardly.
Only later did it become something real.
Later I measured my size against movie stars.
I didn't measure up.
Something between my shoulders was there.
But never enough.
Sure, there was a meadow, but no yound men singing the truth.
Nothing to tell truth by.
Ignorant of men I lay next to my sisters and rising out of the ashes I cried my sex will be transfixed! Now I am your mother, your daughter, your brand new thing -- a snail, a nest.
I am alive when your fingers are.
I wear silk -- the cover to uncover -- because silk is what I want you to think of.
But I dislike the cloth.
It is too stern.
So tell me anything but track me like a climber for here is the eye, here is the jewel, here is the excitement the nipple learns.
I am unbalanced -- but I am not mad with snow.
I am mad the way young girls are mad, with an offering, an offering.
.
.
I burn the way money burns.


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | Create an image from this poem

A St. Valentine's Day Tragedy

 Oh! Montmorency Vere de Vere,
To think that one I held so dear
Should use a base deceiver’s art
To trifle with my loving heart.
A brand new ten-cent valentine With lace and hearts and verses fine, I sent to show my love for thee And in return you send to me The one I sent to you last year, Oh! Montmorency Vere de Vere.
Written by Ellis Parker Butler | Create an image from this poem

Says Mister Doojabs

 Well, eight months ago one clear cold day,
I took a ramble up Broadway,
And with my hands behind my back
I strolled along on the streetcar track—
(I walked on the track, for walking there
Gives one, I think, a distinguished air.
) “Well, all of a sudden I felt a jar And I said, “I’ll bet that’s a trolley car,” And, sure enough, when I looked to see I saw it had run right over me! And my limbs and things were so scattered about That for a moment I felt put out.
Well, the motorman was a nice young chap! And he came right up and tipped his cap And said, “Beg pardon,” and was so kind That his gentle manner soothed my mind: Especially as he took such pains To gather up my spilt remains.
Well, he found my arms and found my head, And then, in a contrite voice, he said, “Say, mister, I guess I’ll have to beg Your pardon, I can’t find your left leg,” And he would have wept, but I said, “No! no! It doesn’t matter, just let it go.
” Well, I went on home and on the way I considered what my wife would say: I knew she would have some sharp reply If I let her know I was one leg shy, So I thought, on the whole, ’twould be just as well For my peace of mind if I didn’t tell.
Well, that was the first thing in my life That I kept a secret from my wife.
And for eight long months I was in distress To think that I didn’t dare confess, And I’d probably still feel just that way If it hadn’t come ’round to Christmas Day.
Well, in good old customs I still believe, So I hung up my stocking Christmas Eve; (A brand-new left one I’d never worn.
) And when I looked in it Christmas morn There was my leg, as large as life, With a ticket on it, “From your wife.
” Well, my wife had had it stored away In cotton, since last Easter Day, When she ran across it, quite by chance, In the left hip-pocket of my pants; And the only reproachful thing she said Was, “Look out or some day you’ll lose your head.
Written by Paul Muldoon | Create an image from this poem

The Sightseers

 My father and mother, my brother and sister
and I, with uncle Pat, our dour best-loved uncle,
had set out that Sunday afternoon in July
in his broken-down Ford

not to visit some graveyard—one died of shingles,
one of fever, another's knees turned to jelly—
but the brand-new roundabout at Ballygawley,
the first in mid-Ulster.
Uncle Pat was telling us how the B-Specials had stopped him one night somewhere near Ballygawley and smashed his bicycle and made him sing the Sash and curse the Pope of Rome.
They held a pistol so hard against his forehead there was still the mark of an O when he got home.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Young

 A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother's window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father's window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman's yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet 153: Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep

 Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat still to endure,
And grew a seeting bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied a sad distempered guest, But found no cure.
The bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire—my mistress' eyes.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things