Best Famous Capsule Poems

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

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• All Famous Capsule Poems

Written by Howard Nemerov | Learning the Trees Before you can learn the trees, you have to learn The language of the trees. That's done indoors, Out of a book, which now you think of it Is one of the transformations of a tree. The words themselves are a delight to learn, You might be in a foreign land of terms Like samara, capsule, drupe, legume and pome, Where bark is papery, plated, warty or smooth. But best of all are the words that shape the leaves – Orbicular, cordate, cleft and reniform – And their venation – palmate and parallel – And tips – acute, truncate, auriculate. Sufficiently provided, you may now Go forth to the forests and the shady streets To see how the chaos of experience Answers to catalogue and category. Confusedly. The leaves of a single tree May differ among themselves more than they do From other species, so you have to find, All blandly says the book, "an average leaf. " Example, the catalpa in the book Sprays out its leaves in whorls of three Around the stem; the one in front of you But rarely does, or somewhat, or almost; Maybe it's not catalpa? Dreadful doubt. It may be weeks before you see an elm Fanlike in form, a spruce that pyramids, A sweetgum spiring up in steeple shape. Still, pedetemtim as Lucretious says, Little by little, you do start to learn; And learn as well, maybe, what language does And how it does it, cutting across the world Not always at the joints, competing with Experience while cooperating with Experience, and keeping an obstinate Intransigence, uncanny, of its own. Think finally about the secret will Pretending obedience to Nature, but Invidiously distinguishing everywhere, Dividing up the world to conquer it. And think also how funny knowledge is: You may succeed in learning many trees And calling off their names as you go by, But their comprehensive silence stays the same.

Written by Les Murray | Shower From the metal poppy this good blast of trance arriving as shock, private cloudburst blazing down, worst in a boarding-house greased tub, or a barrack with competitions, best in a stall, this enveloping passion of Australians: tropics that sweat for you, torrent that braces with its heat, inflames you with its chill, action sauna, inverse bidet, sleek vertical coruscating ghost of your inner river, reminding all your fluids, streaming off your points, awakening the tacky soap to blossom and ripe autumn, releasing the squeezed gardens, smoky valet smoothing your impalpable overnight pyjamas off, pillar you can step through, force-field absolving love's efforts, nicest yard of the jogging track, speeding aeroplane minutely steered with two controls, or trimmed with a knurled wheel. Some people like to still this energy and lie in it, stirring circles with their pleasure in it, but my delight's that toga worn on either or both shoulders, fluted drapery, silk whispering to the tiles, with its spiralling, frothy hem continuous round the gurgle-hole' this ecstatic partner, dreamy to dance in slow embrace with after factory-floor rock, or even to meet as Lot's abstracted merciful wife on a rusty ship in dog latitudes, sweetest dressing of the day in the dusty bush, this persistent, time-capsule of unwinding, this nimble straight well-wisher. Only in England is its name an unkind word; only in Europe is it enjoyed by telephone.

Written by Sylvia Plath | Poppies In July Little poppies, little hell flames, Do you do no harm? You flicker. I cannot touch you. I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns And it exhausts me to watch you Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth. A mouth just bloodied. Little bloody skirts! There are fumes I cannot touch. Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules? If I could bleed, or sleep! - If my mouth could marry a hurt like that! Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule, Dulling and stilling. But colorless. Colorless.

Written by Emily Dickinson | This is the place they hoped before This is the place they hoped before, Where I am hoping now. The seed of disappointment grew Within a capsule gay, Too distant to arrest the feet That walk this plank of balm -- Before them lies escapeless sea -- The way is closed they came.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Best Things dwell out of Sight Best Things dwell out of Sight The Pearl -- the Just -- Our Thought. Most shun the Public Air Legitimate, and Rare -- The Capsule of the Wind The Capsule of the Mind Exhibit here, as doth a Burr -- Germ's Germ be where?

Written by Emily Dickinson | He was my host -- he was my guest He was my host -- he was my guest, I never to this day If I invited him could tell, Or he invited me. So infinite our intercourse So intimate, indeed, Analysis as capsule seemed To keeper of the seed.