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Best Famous Buyer Poems

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

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Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

And One For My Dame

 A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker, he could sell one hundred wet-down bales of that white stuff.
He could clock the miles and the sales and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word had been tried over and over, at any rate, on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef: a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war! How suddenly gauche I was with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home my father was in love with maps while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and Japs.
Except when he hid in his bedroom on a three-day drunk, he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk, his matched luggage and pocketed a confirmed reservation, his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.
S.
, its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road, his heart pushed from neck to back, his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband, as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool: boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull to the thread and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino, a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling, Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame, your sample cases branded with my father's name, your itinerary open, its tolls ticking and greedy, its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Our New Horse

 The boys had come back from the races 
All silent and down on their luck; 
They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, 
But never a winner they's struck.
They lost their good money on Slogan, And fell most uncommonly flat When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, Was beaten by Aristocrat.
And one said, "I move that instanter We sell out our horses and quit; The brutes ought to win in a canter, Such trials they do when they're fit.
The last one they ran was a snorter -- A gallop to gladden one's heart -- Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, And finished as straight as a dart.
"And then when I think that they're ready To win me a nice little swag, They are licked like the veriest neddy -- They're licked from the fall of the flag.
The mare held her own to the stable, She died out to nothing at that, And Partner he never seemed able To pace with the Aristocrat.
"And times have been bad, and the seasons Don't promise to be of the best; In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons For giving the racing a rest.
The mare can be kept on the station -- Her breeding is good as can be -- But Partner, his next destination Is rather a trouble to me.
"We can't sell him here, for they know him As well as the clerk of the course; He's raced and won races till, blow him, He's done as a handicap horse.
A jady, uncertain performer, They weight him right out of the hunt, And clap it on warmer and warmer Whenever he gets near the front.
"It's no use to paint him or dot him Or put any fake on his brand, For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him In any sale-yard in the land.
The folk about here could all tell him, Could swear to each separate hair; Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, There's plenty of Jugginses there.
"We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em To trials will open their eyes; We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, And then won't they think him a prize.
I pity the fellow that buys him, He'll find in a very short space, No matter how highly he tries him, The beggar won't race in a race.
" * * * * * Next week, under "Seller and Buyer", Appeared in the Daily Gazette: "A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; Has never been started as yet; A trial will show what his pace is; The buyer can get him in light, And win all the handicap races.
Apply before Saturday night.
" He sold for a hundred and thirty, Because of a gallop he had One morning with Bluefish and Bertie.
And donkey-licked both of 'em bad.
And when the old horse had departed, The life on the station grew tame; The race-track was dull and deserted, The boys had gone back on the game.
* * * * * The winter rolled by, and the station Was green with the garland of Spring; A spirit of glad exultation Awoke in each animate thing; And all the old love, the old longing, Broke out in the breasts of the boys -- The visions of racing came thronging With all its delirious joys.
The rushing of floods in their courses, The rattle of rain on the roofs, Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, The thunder of galloping hoofs.
And soon one broke out: "I can suffer No longer the life of a slug; The man that don't race is a duffer, Let's have one more run for the mug.
"Why, everything races, no matter Whatever its method may be: The waterfowl hold a regatta; The possums run heats up a tree; The emus are constantly sprinting A handicap out on the plain; It seems that all nature is hinting 'Tis ime to be at it again.
"The cockatoo parrots are talking Of races to far-away lands; The native companions are walking A go-as-you-please on the sands; The little foals gallop for pastime; The wallabies race down the gap; Let's try it once more for the last time -- Bring out the old jacket and cap.
"And now for a horse; we might try one Of those that are bred on the place.
But I fancy it's better to buy one, A horse that has proved he can race.
Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, A thorough good judge who can ride, And ask him to buy us a spinner To clean out the whole country-side.
" They wrote him a letter as follows: "we want you to buy us a horse; He must have the speed to catch swallows, And stamina with it, of course.
The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, It's getting a bad un annoys The undersigned blokes, and believe us, We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'.
" He answered: "I've bought you a hummer, A horse that has never been raced; I saw him run over the Drummer, He held him outclassed and outpaced.
His breeding's not known, but they state he Is born of a thoroughbred strain.
I've paid them a hundred and eighty, And started the horse in the train.
" They met him -- alas, that these verses Aren't up to their subject's demands, Can't set forth thier eloquent curses -- For Partner was back in their hands.
They went in to meet him with gladness They opened his box with delight -- A silent procession of sadness They crept to the station at night.
And life has grown dull on the station, The boys are all silent and slow; Their work is a daily vexation, And sport is unknown to them now.
Whenever they think how they stranded, They squeal just as guinea-pigs squeal; They'd bit their own hook, and were landed With fifty pounds loss on the deal.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Maori Pig Market

 In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold 
The billows are ceaselessly combing, 
Away in a village all tranquil and old 
I came on a market where porkers were sold -- 
A market for pigs in the gloaming.
And Maoris in plenty in picturesque rig The lands of their forefathers roaming, Were weighing their swine, whether little or big, For purchasers paid by the weight of the pig -- The weight of the pig in the gloaming.
And one mighty chieftain, I grieve to relate, The while that his porker was foaming And squealing like fifty -- that Maori sedate, He leant on the pig just to add to its weight -- He leant on the pig in the gloaming.
Alas! for the buyer, an Irishman stout -- O'Grady, I think, his cognomen -- Perceived all his doings, and, giving a shout, With the butt of his whip laid him carefully out By the side of his pig in the gloaming.
A terrible scrimmage did straightway begin, And I thought it was time to be homing, For Maoris and Irish were fighting like sin 'Midst war-cries of "Pakeha!" "Batherashin!" As I fled from the spot in the gloaming
Written by Du Fu | Create an image from this poem

Sighs of Autumn Rain (2)

Continuous wind long rain autumn numerous and confused
Four seas eight wastes together one cloud
Go horse come ox no longer distinguish
Muddy Jing clear Wei how now distinguish
Grain head grow ear millet ear black
Farmer field wife without news
City in ten litres rice exchange quilt silk
Agree better consider both mutual worth


Ceaseless wind and lengthy rain swirl together this autumn,
The four seas and eight deserts are covered by one cloud.
A horse going, an ox coming, cannot be distinguished,
How now can the muddy Jing and clear Wei be told apart?
The standing grain begins to sprout, the millet's ears turn black,
Farmers and the farmers' wives have no hopeful news.
In the city, a bucket of rice can cost a silken quilt,
And both the buyer and seller have to agree the bargain is fair.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Leffingwell

 I—THE LURE

No, no,—forget your Cricket and your Ant, 
For I shall never set my name to theirs 
That now bespeak the very sons and heirs 
Incarnate of Queen Gossip and King Cant.
The case of Leffingwell is mixed, I grant, And futile Seems the burden that he bears; But are we sounding his forlorn affairs Who brand him parasite and sycophant? I tell you, Leffingwell was more than these; And if he prove a rather sorry knight, What quiverings in the distance of what light May not have lured him with high promises, And then gone down?—He may have been deceived; He may have lied,—he did; and he believed.
II—THE QUICKSTEP The dirge is over, the good work is done, All as he would have had it, and we go; And we who leave him say we do not know How much is ended or how much begun.
So men have said before of many a one; So men may say of us when Time shall throw Such earth as may be needful to bestow On you and me the covering hush we shun.
Well hated, better loved, he played and lost, And left us; and we smile at his arrears; And who are we to know what it all cost, Or what we may have wrung from him, the buyer? The pageant of his failure-laden years Told ruin of high price.
The place was higher.
III—REQUIESCAT We never knew the sorrow or the pain Within him, for he seemed as one asleep— Until he faced us with a dying leap, And with a blast of paramount, profane, And vehement valediction did explain To each of us, in words that we shall keep, Why we were not to wonder or to weep, Or ever dare to wish him back again.
He may be now an amiable shade, With merry fellow-phantoms unafraid Around him—but we do not ask.
We know That he would rise and haunt us horribly, And be with us o’ nights of a certainty.
Did we not hear him when he told us so?


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

A Walgett Episode

 The sun strikes down with a blinding glare; 
The skies are blue and the plains are wide, 
The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare 
By Walgett out on the Barwon side -- 
The Barwon River that wanders down 
In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town.
There came a stranger -- a "Cockatoo" -- The word means farmer, as all men know, Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence As he watches the lambkins passing hence.
The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown, But it soon appeared that he meant to flout The iron law of the country town, Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout: "If he will not shout we must take him down," Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town.
They baited a trap with a crafty bait, With a crafty bait, for they held discourse Concerning a new chum who there of late Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse; They would wager that no one could ride him down The length of the city of Walgett Town.
The stranger was born on a horse's hide; So he took the wagers, and made them good With his hard-earned cash -- but his hopes they died, For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! -- 'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down Full many a stranger in Walgett Town.
The stranger smiled with a sickly smile -- 'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins -- And he said he had travelled for quite a while A-trying to sell some marsupial skins.
"And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down, You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!" He said that his home was at Wingalee, At Wingalee, where he had for sale Some fifty skins and would guarantee They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail Complete; and he sold them for money down To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town.
Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf, "I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose: You can fetch them in when it suits yourself, And you'll find the skins -- on the kangaroos!" Then he left -- and the silence settled down Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town.
Written by Constantine P Cavafy | Create an image from this poem

Of The Shop

 He wrapped them carefully, neatly
in costly green silk.
Roses of ruby, lilies of pearl, violets of amethyst.
As he himself judged, as he wanted them, they look beautiful to him; not as he saw or studied them in nature.
He will leave them in the safe, a sample of his daring and skillful craft.
When a buyer enters the shop he takes from the cases other wares and sells -- superb jewels -- bracelets, chains, necklaces, and rings.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Distracted Druggist

 'A shilling's worth of quinine, please,'
 The customer demanded.
The druggist went down on his knees And from a cupboard handed The waiting man a tiny flask: 'Here, Sir, is what you ask.
' The buyer paid and went away, The druggist rubbed his glasses, Then sudden shouted in dismay: 'Of all the silly asses!' And out into the street he ran To catch the speeding man.
Cried he: 'That quinine that you bought, (Since all may errors make), I find was definitely not,-- I sold you strychnine by mistake.
Two shillings is its price, and so Another bob you owe.
'
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

Yesterday, I visited the workshop of a potter; there I

Yesterday, I visited the workshop of a potter; there I
saw two thousand pitchers, some speaking, others silent.
Each one of these seemed to say to me: Where is the
potter? Where is the buyer of pitchers? Where the
seller?

Book: Reflection on the Important Things