Best Famous Chalked Poems

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

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• All Famous Chalked Poems

Written by Bertolt Brecht | From A German War Primer AMONGST THE HIGHLY PLACED It is considered low to talk about food. The fact is: they have Already eaten. The lowly must leave this earth Without having tasted Any good meat. For wondering where they come from and Where they are going The fine evenings find them Too exhausted. They have not yet seen The mountains and the great sea When their time is already up. If the lowly do not Think about what's low They will never rise. THE BREAD OF THE HUNGRY HAS ALL BEEN EATEN Meat has become unknown. Useless The pouring out of the people's sweat. The laurel groves have been Lopped down. From the chimneys of the arms factories Rises smoke. THE HOUSE-PAINTER SPEAKS OF GREAT TIMES TO COME The forests still grow. The fields still bear The cities still stand. The people still breathe. ON THE CALENDAR THE DAY IS NOT YET SHOWN Every month, every day Lies open still. One of those days Is going to be marked with a cross. THE WORKERS CRY OUT FOR BREAD The merchants cry out for markets. The unemployed were hungry. The employed Are hungry now. The hands that lay folded are busy again. They are making shells. THOSE WHO TAKE THE MEAT FROM THE TABLE Teach contentment. Those for whom the contribution is destined Demand sacrifice. Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry Of wonderful times to come. Those who lead the country into the abyss Call ruling too difficult For ordinary men. WHEN THE LEADERS SPEAK OF PEACE The common folk know That war is coming. When the leaders curse war The mobilization order is already written out. THOSE AT THE TOP SAY: PEACE AND WAR Are of different substance. But their peace and their war Are like wind and storm. War grows from their peace Like son from his mother He bears Her frightful features. Their war kills Whatever their peace Has left over. ON THE WALL WAS CHALKED: They want war. The man who wrote it Has already fallen. THOSE AT THE TOP SAY: This way to glory. Those down below say: This way to the grave. THE WAR WHICH IS COMING Is not the first one. There were Other wars before it. When the last one came to an end There were conquerors and conquered. Among the conquered the common people Starved. Among the conquerors The common people starved too. THOSE AT THE TOP SAY COMRADESHIP Reigns in the army. The truth of this is seen In the cookhouse. In their hearts should be The selfsame courage. But On their plates Are two kinds of rations. WHEN IT COMES TO MARCHING MANY DO NOT KNOW That their enemy is marching at their head. The voice which gives them their orders Is their enemy's voice and The man who speaks of the enemy Is the enemy himself. IT IS NIGHT The married couples Lie in their beds. The young women Will bear orphans. GENERAL, YOUR TANK IS A POWERFUL VEHICLE It smashes down forests and crushes a hundred men. But it has one defect: It needs a driver. General, your bomber is powerful. It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant. But it has one defect: It needs a mechanic. General, man is very useful. He can fly and he can kill. But he has one defect: He can think.

Written by Robert Pinsky | The Night Game Some of us believe We would have conceived romantic Love out of our own passions With no precedents, Without songs and poetry-- Or have invented poetry and music As a comb of cells for the honey. Shaped by ignorance, A succession of new worlds, Congruities improvised by Immigrants or children. I once thought most people were Italian, Jewish or Colored. To be white and called Something like Ed Ford Seemed aristocratic, A rare distinction. Possibly I believed only gentiles And blonds could be left-handed. Already famous After one year in the majors, Whitey Ford was drafted by the Army To play ball in the flannels Of the Signal Corps, stationed In Long Branch, New Jersey. A night game, the silver potion Of the lights, his pink skin Shining like a burn. Never a player I liked or hated: a Yankee, A mere success. But white the chalked-off lines In the grass, white and green The immaculate uniform, And white the unpigmented Halo of his hair When he shifted his cap: So ordinary and distinct, So close up, that I felt As if I could have made him up, Imagined him as I imagined The ball, a scintilla High in the black backdrop Of the sky. Tight red stitches. Rawlings. The bleached Horsehide white: the color Of nothing. Color of the past And of the future, of the movie screen At rest and of blank paper. "I could have." The mind. The black Backdrop, the white Fly picked out by the towering Lights. A few years later On a blanket in the grass By the same river A girl and I came into Being together To the faint muttering Of unthinkable Troubadours and radios. The emerald Theater, the night. Another time, I devised a left-hander Even more gifted Than Whitey Ford: A Dodger. People were amazed by him. Once, when he was young, He refused to pitch on Yom Kippur.

Written by Bertolt Brecht | From A German War Primer AMONGST THE HIGHLY PLACED It is considered low to talk about food. The fact is: they have Already eaten. The lowly must leave this earth Without having tasted Any good meat. For wondering where they come from and Where they are going The fine evenings find them Too exhausted. They have not yet seen The mountains and the great sea When their time is already up. If the lowly do not Think about what's low They will never rise. THE BREAD OF THE HUNGRY HAS ALL BEEN EATEN Meat has become unknown. Useless The pouring out of the people's sweat. The laurel groves have been Lopped down. From the chimneys of the arms factories Rises smoke. THE HOUSE-PAINTER SPEAKS OF GREAT TIMES TO COME The forests still grow. The fields still bear The cities still stand. The people still breathe. ON THE CALENDAR THE DAY IS NOT YET SHOWN Every month, every day Lies open still. One of those days Is going to be marked with a cross. THE WORKERS CRY OUT FOR BREAD The merchants cry out for markets. The unemployed were hungry. The employed Are hungry now. The hands that lay folded are busy again. They are making shells. THOSE WHO TAKE THE MEAT FROM THE TABLE Teach contentment. Those for whom the contribution is destined Demand sacrifice. Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry Of wonderful times to come. Those who lead the country into the abyss Call ruling too difficult For ordinary men. WHEN THE LEADERS SPEAK OF PEACE The common folk know That war is coming. When the leaders curse war The mobilization order is already written out. THOSE AT THE TOP SAY: PEACE AND WAR Are of different substance. But their peace and their war Are like wind and storm. War grows from their peace Like son from his mother He bears Her frightful features. Their war kills Whatever their peace Has left over. ON THE WALL WAS CHALKED: They want war. The man who wrote it Has already fallen. THOSE AT THE TOP SAY: This way to glory. Those down below say: This way to the grave. THE WAR WHICH IS COMING Is not the first one. There were Other wars before it. When the last one came to an end There were conquerors and conquered. Among the conquered the common people Starved. Among the conquerors The common people starved too. THOSE AT THE TOP SAY COMRADESHIP Reigns in the army. The truth of this is seen In the cookhouse. In their hearts should be The selfsame courage. But On their plates Are two kinds of rations. WHEN IT COMES TO MARCHING MANY DO NOT KNOW That their enemy is marching at their head. The voice which gives them their orders Is their enemy's voice and The man who speaks of the enemy Is the enemy himself. IT IS NIGHT The married couples Lie in their beds. The young women Will bear orphans. GENERAL, YOUR TANK IS A POWERFUL VEHICLE It smashes down forests and crushes a hundred men. But it has one defect: It needs a driver. General, your bomber is powerful. It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant. But it has one defect: It needs a mechanic. General, man is very useful. He can fly and he can kill. But he has one defect: He can think.

Written by Henry Vaughan | Son-Days 1 Bright shadows of true Rest! some shoots of bliss, Heaven once a week; The next world's gladness prepossest in this; A day to seek; Eternity in time; the steps by which We Climb above all ages; Lamps that light Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich, And full redemption of the whole week's flight. 2 The Pulleys unto headlong man; time's bower; The narrow way; Transplanted Paradise; God's walking hour; The Cool o'th' day; The Creatures' _Jubilee_; God's parle with dust; Heaven here; Man on the hills of Myrrh, and flowers; Angels descending; the Returns of Trust; A Gleam of glory, after six-days'-showers. 3 The Church's love-feasts; Time's Prerogative, And Interest Deducted from the whole; The Combs, and hive, And home of rest. The milky way chalked out with suns; a clue That guides through erring hours; and in full story A taste of Heav'n on earth; the pledge, and cue Of a full feast: And the Out Courts of glory.