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Best Famous Bras Poems

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

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Written by Marge Piercy | Create an image from this poem

What Are Big Girls Made Of?

 The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh 
of bone and sinew 
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe. 
She is manufactured like a sports sedan. 
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned 
every decade. 
Cecile had been seduction itself in college. 
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel, 
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed 
in the dark red lipstick of desire. 

She visited in '68 still wearing skirts 
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick, 
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt, 
lipstick pale as apricot milk, 
hair loose as a horse's mane. Oh dear, 
I thought in my superiority of the moment, 
whatever has happened to poor Cecile? 
She was out of fashion, out of the game, 
disqualified, disdained, dis- 
membered from the club of desire. 

Look at pictures in French fashion 
magazines of the 18th century: 
century of the ultimate lady 
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting. 
Paniers bring her hips out three feet 
each way, while the waist is pinched 
and the belly flattened under wood. 
The breasts are stuffed up and out 
offered like apples in a bowl. 
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper 
never meant for walking. 
On top is a grandiose headache: 
hair like a museum piece, daily 
ornamented with ribbons, vases, 
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full 
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy 
of a hairdresser turned loose. 
The hats were rococo wedding cakes 
that would dim the Las Vegas strip. 
Here is a woman forced into shape 
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh: 
a woman made of pain. 

How superior we are now: see the modern woman 
thin as a blade of scissors. 
She runs on a treadmill every morning, 
fits herself into machines of weights 
and pulleys to heave and grunt, 
an image in her mind she can never 
approximate, a body of rosy 
glass that never wrinkles, 
never grows, never fades. She 
sits at the table closing her eyes to food 
hungry, always hungry: 
a woman made of pain. 

A cat or dog approaches another, 
they sniff noses. They sniff asses. 
They bristle or lick. They fall 
in love as often as we do, 
as passionately. But they fall 
in love or lust with furry flesh, 
not hoop skirts or push up bras 
rib removal or liposuction. 
It is not for male or female dogs 
that poodles are clipped 
to topiary hedges. 

If only we could like each other raw. 
If only we could love ourselves 
like healthy babies burbling in our arms. 
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed 
to need what is sold us. 
Why should we want to live inside ads? 
Why should we want to scourge our softness 
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting? 
Why should we punish each other with scorn 
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?

When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?


Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Peasants Confession

 Good Father!… ’Twas an eve in middle June,
And war was waged anew 
By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn 
Men’s bones all Europe through. 

Three nights ere this, with columned corps he’d crossed
The Sambre at Charleroi, 
To move on Brussels, where the English host 
Dallied in Parc and Bois. 

The yestertide we’d heard the gloomy gun 
Growl through the long-sunned day
From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun 
Twilight suppressed the fray; 

Albeit therein—as lated tongues bespoke— 
Brunswick’s high heart was drained, 
And Prussia’s Line and Landwehr, though unbroke,
Stood cornered and constrained. 

And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed 
With thirty thousand men: 
We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast, 
Would trouble us again.

My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed, 
And never a soul seemed nigh 
When, reassured at length, we went to rest— 
My children, wife, and I. 

But what was this that broke our humble ease?
What noise, above the rain, 
Above the dripping of the poplar trees 
That smote along the pane? 

—A call of mastery, bidding me arise, 
Compelled me to the door,
At which a horseman stood in martial guise— 
Splashed—sweating from every pore. 

Had I seen Grouchy? Yes? Which track took he? 
Could I lead thither on?— 
Fulfilment would ensure gold pieces three,
Perchance more gifts anon. 

“I bear the Emperor’s mandate,” then he said, 
“Charging the Marshal straight 
To strike between the double host ahead 
Ere they co-operate,

“Engaging Bl?cher till the Emperor put 
Lord Wellington to flight, 
And next the Prussians. This to set afoot 
Is my emprise to-night.” 

I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought
To estimate his say, 
Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought, 
I did not lead that way. 

I mused: “If Grouchy thus instructed be, 
The clash comes sheer hereon;
My farm is stript. While, as for pieces three, 
Money the French have none. 

“Grouchy unwarned, moreo’er, the English win, 
And mine is left to me— 
They buy, not borrow.”—Hence did I begin
To lead him treacherously. 

By Joidoigne, near to east, as we ondrew, 
Dawn pierced the humid air; 
And eastward faced I with him, though I knew 
Never marched Grouchy there.

Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle 
(Lim’lette left far aside), 
And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville 
Through green grain, till he cried: 

“I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here
I doubt they gag?d word!” 
Thereat he scowled on me, and pranced me near, 
And pricked me with his sword. 

“Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course 
Of Grouchy,” said I then:
“As we go, yonder went he, with his force 
Of thirty thousand men.” 

—At length noon nighed, when west, from Saint-John’s-Mound, 
A hoarse artillery boomed, 
And from Saint-Lambert’s upland, chapel-crowned,
The Prussian squadrons loomed. 

Then to the wayless wet gray ground he leapt; 
“My mission fails!” he cried; 
“Too late for Grouchy now to intercept, 
For, peasant, you have lied!”

He turned to pistol me. I sprang, and drew 
The sabre from his flank, 
And ’twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew, 
I struck, and dead he sank. 

I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat—
His shroud green stalks and loam; 
His requiem the corn-blade’s husky note— 
And then I hastened home…. 

—Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue, 
And brass and iron clang
From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo, 
To Pap’lotte and Smohain. 

The Guard Imperial wavered on the height; 
The Emperor’s face grew glum; 
“I sent,” he said, “to Grouchy yesternight,
And yet he does not come!” 

’Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied, 
Streaking the summer land, 
The men of Bl?cher. But the Emperor cried, 
“Grouchy is now at hand!” 

And meanwhile Vand’leur, Vivian, Maitland, Kempt, 
Met d’Erlon, Friant, Ney; 
But Grouchy—mis-sent, blamed, yet blame-exempt— 
Grouchy was far away. 

Be even, slain or struck, Michel the strong,
Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord, 
Smart Guyot, Reil-le, l’Heriter, Friant. 
Scattered that champaign o’er. 

Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled Lobau 
Did that red sunset see;
Colbert, Legros, Blancard!… And of the foe 
Picton and Ponsonby; 

With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda, 
L’Estrange, Delancey, Packe, 
Grose, D’Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay,
Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek, 

Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Battersby, 
And hosts of ranksmen round… 
Memorials linger yet to speak to thee 
Of those that bit the ground!

The Guards’ last column yielded; dykes of dead 
Lay between vale and ridge, 
As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they sped 
In packs to Genappe Bridge. 

Safe was my stock; my capple cow unslain;
Intact each cock and hen; 
But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain, 
And thirty thousand men. 

O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn 
And saved the cause once prized!
O Saints, why such false witness had I borne 
When late I’d sympathized!… 

So, now, being old, my children eye askance 
My slowly dwindling store, 
And crave my mite; till, worn with tarriance,
I care for life no more. 

To Almighty God henceforth I stand confessed, 
And Virgin-Saint Marie; 
O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest, 
Entreat the Lord for me!
Written by Hilaire Belloc | Create an image from this poem

Hildebrand

 Who was frightened by a Passing Motor, and was brought to Reason 

"Oh murder! What was that, Papa!"
"My child, It was a Motor-Car,
A most Ingenious Toy!
Designed to Captivate and Charm
Much rather than to rouse Alarm
In any English Boy.

"What would your Great Grandfather who
Was Aide-de-Camp to General Brue,
And lost a leg at Waterloo,
And Quatre-Bras and Ligny too!
And died at Trafalgar!-
What would he have remarked to hear
His Young Descendant shriek with fear,
Because he happened to be near
A Harmless Motor-Car!
But do not fret about it! Come!
We'll off to Town
And purchase some!"
Written by Guillaume Apollinaire | Create an image from this poem

Le Pont Mirabeau

 Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine.

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Written by Andre Breton | Create an image from this poem

Le Verbe ?tre

 Je connais le d?sespoir dans ses grandes lignes. Le d?sespoir n'a pas d'ailes, il ne
se tient pas n?cessairement ? une table desservie sur une terrasse, le soir, au bord de
la mer. C'est le d?sespoir et ce n'est pas le retour d'une quantit? de petits faits
comme des graines qui quittent ? la nuit tombante un sillon pour un autre. Ce n'est pas
la mousse sur une pierre ou le verre ? boire. C'est un bateau cribl? de neige, si vous
voulez, comme les oiseaux qui tombent et leur sang n'a pas la moindre ?paisseur. Je
connais le d?sespoir dans ses grandes lignes. Une forme tr?s petite, d?limit?e par un
bijou de cheveux. C'est le d?sespoir. Un collier de perles pour lequel on ne saurait
trouver de fermoir et dont l'existence ne tient pas m?me ? un fil, voil? le d?sespoir.
Le reste, nous n'en parlons pas. Nous n'avons pas fini de des?sp?rer, si nous
commen?ons. Moi je d?sesp?re de l'abat-jour vers quatre heures, je d?sesp?re de
l'?ventail vers minuit, je d?sesp?re de la cigarette des condamn?s. Je connais le
d?sespoir dans ses grandes lignes. Le d?sespoir n'a pas de coeur, la main reste toujours
au d?sespoir hors d'haleine, au d?sespoir dont les glaces ne nous disent jamais s'il est
mort. Je vis de ce d?sespoir qui m'enchante. J'aime cette mouche bleue qui vole dans le
ciel ? l'heure o? les ?toiles chantonnent. Je connais dans ses grandes lignes le
d?sespoir aux longs ?tonnements gr?les, le d?sespoir de la fiert?, le d?sespoir de
la col?re. Je me l?ve chaque jour comme tout le monde et je d?tends les bras sur un
papier ? fleurs, je ne me souviens de rien, et c'est toujours avec d?sespoir que je
d?couvre les beaux arbres d?racin?s de la nuit. L'air de la chambre est beau comme des
baguettes de tambour. Il fait un temps de temps. Je connais le d?sespoir dans ses grandes
lignes. C'est comme le vent du rideau qui me tend la perche. A-t-on id?e d'un d?sespoir
pareil! Au feu! Ah! ils vont encore venir... Et les annonces de journal, et les r?clames
lumineuses le long du canal. Tas de sable, esp?ce de tas de sable! Dans ses grandes
lignes le d?sespoir n'a pas d'importance. C'est une corv?e d'arbres qui va encore faire
une for?t, c'est une corv?e d'?toiles qui va encore faire un jour de moins, c'est une
corv?e de jours de moins qui va encore faire ma vie.


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Le Directeur

 MALHEUR à la malheureuse Tamise
Qui coule si preès du Spectateur.
Le directeur
Conservateur
Du Spectateur
Empeste la brise.
Les actionnaires
Réactionnaires
Du Spectateur
Conservateur
Bras dessus bras dessous
Font des tours
A pas de loup.
Dans un égout
Une petite fille
En guenilles
Camarde
Regarde
Le directeur
Du Spectateur
Conservateur
Et crève d’amour.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Belfry Of Bruges

 In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the
town.

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of
widowhood.

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors
gray,
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape
lay.

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and
there,
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like,
into air.

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and
high;
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the
sky.

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the
choir;
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a
friar.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;

All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old;
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece
of Gold

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies;
Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the
queen,
And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed
between.

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;

Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west,
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote;
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand,
"I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!"

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once
more.

Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware,
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things