Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Cauldron Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Cauldron poems, articles about Cauldron poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Cauldron poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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

The Incantation

 Scene: Federal Political Arena 
A darkened cave. In the middle, a cauldron, boiling. 
Enter the three witches. 
1ST WITCH: Thrice hath the Federal Jackass brayed. 

2ND WITCH: Once the Bruce-Smith War-horse neighed. 

3RD WITCH: So Georgie comes, 'tis time, 'tis time, 
Around the cauldron to chant our rhyme. 

1ST WITCH: In the cauldron boil and bake 
Fillet of a tariff snake, 
Home-made flannels -- mostly cotton, 
Apples full of moths, and rotten, 
Lamb that perished in the drought, 
Starving stock from "furthest out", 
Drops of sweat from cultivators, 
Sweating to feed legislators. 
Grime from a white stoker's nob, 
Toiling at a ******'s job. 
Thus the great Australian Nation, 
Seeks political salvation. 

ALL: Double, double, toil and trouble, 
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. 

2ND WITCH: Heel-taps from the threepenny bars, 
Ash from Socialist cigars. 
Leathern tongue of boozer curst 
With the great Australian thirst, 
Two-up gambler keeping dark, 
Loafer sleeping in the park -- 
Drop them in to prove the sequel, 
All men are born free and equal. 

ALL: Double, double, toil and trouble, 
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. 

3RD WITCH:Lung of Labour agitator, 
Gall of Isaacs turning traitor; 
Spleen that Kingston has revealed, 
Sawdust stuffing out of Neild; 
Mix them up, and then combine 
With duplicity of Lyne, 
Alfred Deakin's gift of gab, 
Mix the gruel thick and slab. 

ALL: Double, double, toil and trouble, 
Heav'n help Australia in her trouble. 

HECATE: Oh, well done, I commend your pains, 
And everyone shall share i' the gains, 
And now about the cauldron sing, 
Enchanting all that you put in. 
Round about the cauldron go, 
In the People's rights we'll throw, 
Cool it with an Employer's blood, 
Then the charm stands firm and good, 
And thus with chaos in possession, 
Ring in the coming Fed'ral Session.


Written by Marge Piercy | Create an image from this poem

Belly Good

 A heap of wheat, says the Song of Songs 
but I've never seen wheat in a pile. 
Apples, potatoes, cabbages, carrots 
make lumpy stacks, but you are sleek 
as a seal hauled out in the winter sun. 
I can see you as a great goose egg 
or a single juicy and fully ripe peach. 
You swell like a natural grassy hill. 
You are symmetrical as a Hopewell mound, 
with the eye of the navel wide open, 
the eye of my apple, the pear's port 
window. You're not supposed to exist 
at all this decade. You're to be flat 
as a kitchen table, so children with 
roller skates can speed over you 
like those sidewalks of my childhood 
that each gave a different roar under 
my wheels. You're required to show 
muscle striations like the ocean 
sand at ebb tide, but brick hard. 
Clothing is not designed for women 
of whose warm and flagrant bodies 
you are a swelling part. Yet I confess 
I meditate with my hands folded on you, 
a maternal cushion radiating comfort. 
Even when I have been at my thinnest, 
you have never abandoned me but curled 
round as a sleeping cat under my skirt. 
When I spread out, so do you. You like 
to eat, drink and bang on another belly. 
In anxiety I clutch you with nervous fingers 
as if you were a purse full of calm. 
In my grandmother standing in the fierce sun 
I see your cauldron that held eleven children 
shaped under the tent of her summer dress. 
I see you in my mother at thirty 
in her flapper gear, skinny legs 
and then you knocking on the tight dress. 
We hand you down like a prize feather quilt. 
You are our female shame and sunburst strength.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Ariel

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! ---The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

******-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks ---

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air ---
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel ---
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.
Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | Create an image from this poem

Bluebeard

 This door you might not open, and you did; 
 So enter now, and see for what slight thing 
You are betrayed... Here is no treasure hid, 
 No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring 
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain 
 For greed like yours, no writhings of distress, 
But only what you see... Look yet again—
 An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless. 
Yet this alone out of my life I kept 
 Unto myself, lest any know me quite; 
And you did so profane me when you crept 
 Unto the threshold of this room to-night 
That I must never more behold your face. 
 This now is yours. I seek another place.
Written by Matthew Arnold | Create an image from this poem

Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse

 Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,
Through forest, up the mountain-side. 

The autumnal evening darkens round,
The wind is up, and drives the rain;
While, hark! far down, with strangled sound
Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain,
Where that wet smoke, among the woods,
Over his boiling cauldron broods. 

Swift rush the spectral vapours white
Past limestone scars with ragged pines,
Showing--then blotting from our sight!--
Halt--through the cloud-drift something shines!
High in the valley, wet and drear,
The huts of Courrerie appear. 

Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher
Mounts up the stony forest-way.
At last the encircling trees retire;
Look! through the showery twilight grey
What pointed roofs are these advance?--
A palace of the Kings of France? 

Approach, for what we seek is here!
Alight, and sparely sup, and wait
For rest in this outbuilding near;
Then cross the sward and reach that gate.
Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come
To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 

The silent courts, where night and day
Into their stone-carved basins cold
The splashing icy fountains play--
The humid corridors behold!
Where, ghostlike in the deepening night,
Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white. 

The chapel, where no organ's peal
Invests the stern and naked prayer--
With penitential cries they kneel
And wrestle; rising then, with bare
And white uplifted faces stand,
Passing the Host from hand to hand; 

Each takes, and then his visage wan
Is buried in his cowl once more.
The cells!--the suffering Son of Man
Upon the wall--the knee-worn floor--
And where they sleep, that wooden bed,
Which shall their coffin be, when dead! 

The library, where tract and tome
Not to feed priestly pride are there,
To hymn the conquering march of Rome,
Nor yet to amuse, as ours are!
They paint of souls the inner strife,
Their drops of blood, their death in life. 

The garden, overgrown--yet mild,
See, fragrant herbs are flowering there!
Strong children of the Alpine wild
Whose culture is the brethren's care;
Of human tasks their only one,
And cheerful works beneath the sun. 

Those halls, too, destined to contain
Each its own pilgrim-host of old,
From England, Germany, or Spain--
All are before me! I behold
The House, the Brotherhood austere!
--And what am I, that I am here? 

For rigorous teachers seized my youth,
And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire,
Show'd me the high, white star of Truth,
There bade me gaze, and there aspire.

Even now their whispers pierce the gloom:
What dost thou in this living tomb? 

Forgive me, masters of the mind!
At whose behest I long ago
So much unlearnt, so much resign'd--
I come not here to be your foe!
I seek these anchorites, not in ruth,
To curse and to deny your truth; 

Not as their friend, or child, I speak!
But as, on some far northern strand,
Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek
In pity and mournful awe might stand
Before some fallen Runic stone--
For both were faiths, and both are gone. 

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born,
With nowhere yet to rest my head,
Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
Their faith, my tears, the world deride--
I come to shed them at their side. 

Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,
Ye solemn seats of holy pain!
Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round,
Till I possess my soul again;
Till free my thoughts before me roll,
Not chafed by hourly false control! 

For the world cries your faith is now
But a dead time's exploded dream;
My melancholy, sciolists say,
Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme--
As if the world had ever had
A faith, or sciolists been sad! 

Ah, if it be pass'd, take away,
At least, the restlessness, the pain;
Be man henceforth no more a prey
To these out-dated stings again!
The nobleness of grief is gone
Ah, leave us not the fret alone! 

But--if you cannot give us ease--
Last of the race of them who grieve
Here leave us to die out with these
Last of the people who believe!
Silent, while years engrave the brow;
Silent--the best are silent now. 

Achilles ponders in his tent,
The kings of modern thought are dumb,
Silent they are though not content,
And wait to see the future come.
They have the grief men had of yore,
But they contend and cry no more. 

Our fathers water'd with their tears
This sea of time whereon we sail,
Their voices were in all men's ears
We pass'd within their puissant hail.
Still the same ocean round us raves,
But we stand mute, and watch the waves. 

For what avail'd it, all the noise
And outcry of the former men?--
Say, have their sons achieved more joys,
Say, is life lighter now than then?
The sufferers died, they left their pain--
The pangs which tortured them remain. 

What helps it now, that Byron bore,
With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart,
Through Europe to the ?tolian shore
The pageant of his bleeding heart?
That thousands counted every groan,
And Europe made his woe her own? 

What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze
Carried thy lovely wail away,
Musical through Italian trees
Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?
Inheritors of thy distress
Have restless hearts one throb the less? 

Or are we easier, to have read,
O Obermann! the sad, stern page,
Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head
From the fierce tempest of thine age
In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau,
Or chalets near the Alpine snow? 

Ye slumber in your silent grave!--
The world, which for an idle day
Grace to your mood of sadness gave,
Long since hath flung her weeds away.
The eternal trifler breaks your spell;
But we--we learned your lore too well! 

Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age,
More fortunate, alas! than we,
Which without hardness will be sage,
And gay without frivolity.
Sons of the world, oh, speed those years;
But, while we wait, allow our tears! 

Allow them! We admire with awe
The exulting thunder of your race;
You give the universe your law,
You triumph over time and space!
Your pride of life, your tireless powers,
We laud them, but they are not ours. 

We are like children rear'd in shade
Beneath some old-world abbey wall,
Forgotten in a forest-glade,
And secret from the eyes of all.
Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves,
Their abbey, and its close of graves! 

But, where the road runs near the stream,
Oft through the trees they catch a glance
Of passing troops in the sun's beam--
Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance!
Forth to the world those soldiers fare,
To life, to cities, and to war! 

And through the wood, another way,
Faint bugle-notes from far are borne,
Where hunters gather, staghounds bay,
Round some fair forest-lodge at morn.
Gay dames are there, in sylvan green;
Laughter and cries--those notes between! 
The banners flashing through the trees

Make their blood dance and chain their eyes;
That bugle-music on the breeze
Arrests them with a charm'd surprise.
Banner by turns and bugle woo:
Ye shy recluses, follow too! 
O children, what do ye reply?--

'Action and pleasure, will ye roam
Through these secluded dells to cry
And call us?--but too late ye come!
Too late for us your call ye blow,
Whose bent was taken long ago. 

'Long since we pace this shadow'd nave;
We watch those yellow tapers shine,
Emblems of hope over the grave,
In the high altar's depth divine;
The organ carries to our ear
Its accents of another sphere. 

'Fenced early in this cloistral round
Of reverie, of shade, of prayer,
How should we grow in other ground?
How can we flower in foreign air?
--Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease;
And leave our desert to its peace!'


Written by Marina Tsvetaeva | Create an image from this poem

The Demon In Me

 The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
The world is but walls.
The exit's the axe.
("All the world's a stage,"
The actor prates.)
And that hobbling buffoon
Is no joker;
In the body as in glory,
In the body as in a toga.
May you live forever!
Cherish your life,
Only poets in bone
Are as in a lie.
No, my eloquent brothers,
We'll not have much fun,
In the body as with Father's
Dressing-gown on.
We deserve something better.
We wilt in the warm.
In the body as in a byre.
In the self as in a cauldron.
Marvels that perish
We don't collect.
In the body as in a marsh,
In the body as in a crypt.
In the body as in furthest
Exile. It blights.
In the body as in a secret,
In the body as in the vice
Of an iron mask.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Love and Black Magic

 To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone;
In his grotto the maiden sits alone. 
She gazes up with a weary smile 
At the rafter-hanging crocodile, 
The slowly swinging crocodile. 
Scorn has she of her master’s gear, 
Cauldron, alembic, crystal sphere, 
Phial, philtre—“Fiddlededee 
For all such trumpery trash!” quo’ she. 
“A soldier is the lad for me; 
Hey and hither, my lad! 

“Oh, here have I ever lain forlorn: 
My father died ere I was born, 
Mother was by a wizard wed, 
And oft I wish I had died instead— 
Often I wish I were long time dead. 
But, delving deep in my master’s lore, 
I have won of magic power such store 
I can turn a skull—oh, fiddlededee 
For all this curious craft!” quo’ she.
“A soldier is the lad for me; 
Hey and hither, my lad! 

“To bring my brave boy unto my arms, 
What need have I of magic charms— 
‘Abracadabra!’ and ‘Prestopuff’?
I have but to wish, and that is enough. 
The charms are vain, one wish is enough. 
My master pledged my hand to a wizard; 
Transformed would I be to toad or lizard 
If e’er he guessed—but fiddlededee
For a black-browed sorcerer, now,” quo’ she. 
“Let Cupid smile and the fiend must flee; 
Hey and hither, my lad.”
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Grey Gull

 'Twas on an iron, icy day
I saw a pirate gull down-plane,
And hover in a wistful way
Nigh where my chickens picked their grain.
An outcast gull, so grey and old,
Withered of leg I watched it hop,
By hunger goaded and by cold,
To where each fowl full-filled its crop.

They hospitably welcomed it,
And at the food rack gave it place;
It ate and ate, it preened a bit,
By way way of gratitude and grace.
It parleyed with my barnyard cock,
Then resolutely winged away;
But I am fey in feather talk,
And this is what I heard it say:

"I know that you and all your tribe
Are shielded warm and fenced from fear;
With food and comfort you would bribe
My weary wings to linger here.
An outlaw scarred and leather-lean,
I battle with the winds of woe:
You think me scaly and unclean...
And yet my soul you do not know,

"I storm the golden gates of day,
I wing the silver lanes of night;
I plumb the deep for finny prey,
On wave I sleep in tempest height.
Conceived was I by sea and sky,
Their elements are fused in me;
Of brigand birds that float and fly
I am the freest of the free.

"From peak to plain, from palm to pine
I coast creation at my will;
The chartless solitudes are mine,
And no one seeks to do me ill.
Until some cauldron of the sea
Shall gulp for me and I shall cease...
Oh I have lived enormously
And I shall have prodigious peace."

With yellow bill and beady eye
This spoke, I think, that old grey gull;
And as I watched it Southward fly
Life seemed to be a-sudden dull.
For I have often held this thought -
If I could change this mouldy me,
By heaven! I would choose the lot,
Of all the gypsy birds, to be
A gull that spans the spacious sea.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

The Couriers

 The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.

Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.

A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.

Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.

A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one ----

Love, love, my season.
Written by Julie Hill Alger | Create an image from this poem

Opening the Geode

 When the molten earth seethed 
in its whirling cauldron 
nobody watched the pot 
from a tall wooden stool 
set out in windy space 
beyond flame's reach;

and when the spattering mush 
steamed, gurgled, boiled over, 
mounded up in smoking hills
no giant mixing spoon 
smoothed out the lumps and bubbles 
as the pottage cooled to rock. 

No kitchen timer ticked 
precisely the eons required 
to fill the gritty pits 
slowly, drop by drop 
with layers of glassy salts, 
agate, opal, quartz; 

no listening ear inclined 
over the silicon mold 
to hear the chink of crystals 
rising geometrically 
facet upon facet 
in the airless dark. 

No hand lifted the stony lid 
to add light, the finishing touch, 
and no guest cried Ah! how well
the recipe turned out - 
until this millennium, today, 
at my table. 
 -Julie Alger

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry