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Best Famous Champion Poems

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

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Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

At the Top of My voice

 My most respected
 comrades of posterity!
Rummaging among
 these days’ 
 petrified crap,
exploring the twilight of our times,
you,
 possibly,
 will inquire about me too.
And, possibly, your scholars will declare, with their erudition overwhelming a swarm of problems; once there lived a certain champion of boiled water, and inveterate enemy of raw water.
Professor, take off your bicycle glasses! I myself will expound those times and myself.
I, a latrine cleaner and water carrier, by the revolution mobilized and drafted, went off to the front from the aristocratic gardens of poetry - the capricious wench She planted a delicious garden, the daughter, cottage, pond and meadow.
Myself a garden I did plant, myself with water sprinkled it.
some pour their verse from water cans; others spit water from their mouth - the curly Macks, the clever jacks - but what the hell’s it all about! There’s no damming al this up - beneath the walls they mandoline: “Tara-tina, tara-tine, tw-a-n-g.
.
.
” It’s no great honor, then, for my monuments to rise from such roses above the public squares, where consumption coughs, where whores, hooligans and syphilis walk.
Agitprop sticks in my teeth too, and I’d rather compose romances for you - more profit in it and more charm.
But I subdued myself, setting my heel on the throat of my own song.
Listen, comrades of posterity, to the agitator the rabble-rouser.
Stifling the torrents of poetry, I’ll skip the volumes of lyrics; as one alive, I’ll address the living.
I’ll join you in the far communist future, I who am no Esenin super-hero.
My verse will reach you across the peaks of ages, over the heads of governments and poets.
My verse will reach you not as an arrow in a cupid-lyred chase, not as worn penny Reaches a numismatist, not as the light of dead stars reaches you.
My verse by labor will break the mountain chain of years, and will present itself ponderous, crude, tangible, as an aqueduct, by slaves of Rome constructed, enters into our days.
When in mounds of books, where verse lies buried, you discover by chance the iron filings of lines, touch them with respect, as you would some antique yet awesome weapon.
It’s no habit of mine to caress the ear with words; a maiden’s ear curly-ringed will not crimson when flicked by smut.
In parade deploying the armies of my pages, I shall inspect the regiments in line.
Heavy as lead, my verses at attention stand, ready for death and for immortal fame.
The poems are rigid, pressing muzzle to muzzle their gaping pointed titles.
The favorite of all the armed forces the cavalry of witticisms ready to launch a wild hallooing charge, reins its chargers still, raising the pointed lances of the rhymes.
and all these troops armed to the teeth, which have flashed by victoriously for twenty years, all these, to their very last page, I present to you, the planet’s proletarian.
The enemy of the massed working class is my enemy too inveterate and of long standing.
Years of trial and days of hunger ordered us to march under the red flag.
We opened each volume of Marx as we would open the shutters in our own house; but we did not have to read to make up our minds which side to join, which side to fight on.
Our dialectics were not learned from Hegel.
In the roar of battle it erupted into verse, when, under fire, the bourgeois decamped as once we ourselves had fled from them.
Let fame trudge after genius like an inconsolable widow to a funeral march - die then, my verse, die like a common soldier, like our men who nameless died attacking! I don’t care a spit for tons of bronze; I don’t care a spit for slimy marble.
We’re men of kind, we’ll come to terms about our fame; let our common monument be socialism built in battle.
Men of posterity examine the flotsam of dictionaries: out of Lethe will bob up the debris of such words as “prostitution,” “tuberculosis,” “blockade.
” For you, who are now healthy and agile, the poet with the rough tongue of his posters, has licked away consumptives’ spittle.
With the tail of my years behind me, I begin to resemble those monsters, excavated dinosaurs.
Comrade life, let us march faster, march faster through what’s left of the five-year plan.
My verse has brought me no rubles to spare: no craftsmen have made mahogany chairs for my house.
In all conscience, I need nothing except a freshly laundered shirt.
When I appear before the CCC of the coming bright years, by way of my Bolshevik party card, I’ll raise above the heads of a gang of self-seeking poets and rogues, all the hundred volumes of my communist-committed books.
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.


Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

Frederick Douglass

 A hush is over all the teeming lists,
And there is pause, a breath-space in the strife;
A spirit brave has passed beyond the mists
And vapors that obscure the sun of life.
And Ethiopia, with bosom torn, Laments the passing of her noblest born.
She weeps for him a mother's burning tears-- She loved him with a mother's deepest love He was her champion thro' direful years, And held her weal all other ends above.
When Bondage held her bleeding in the dust, He raised her up and whispered, 'Hope and Trust.
' For her his voice, a fearless clarion, rung That broke in warning on the ears of men; For her the strong bow of his pow'r he strung And sent his arrows to the very den Where grim Oppression held his bloody place And gloated o'er the mis'ries of a race.
And he was no soft-tongued apologist; He spoke straight-forward, fearlessly uncowed; The sunlight of his truth dispelled the mist And set in bold relief each dark-hued cloud; To sin and crime he gave their proper hue, And hurled at evil what was evil's due.
Thro' good and ill report he cleaved his way Right onward, with his face set toward the heights, Nor feared to face the foeman's dread array-- The lash of scorn, the sting of petty spites.
He dared the lightning in the lightning's track, And answered thunder with his thunder back.
When men maligned him and their torrent wrath In furious imprecations o'er him broke, He kept his counsel as he kept his path; 'Twas for his race, not for himself, he spoke.
He knew the import of his Master's call And felt himself too mighty to be small.
No miser in the good he held was he-- His kindness followed his horizon's rim.
His heart, his talents and his hands were free To all who truly needed aught of him.
Where poverty and ignorance were rife, He gave his bounty as he gave his life.
The place and cause that first aroused his might Still proved its pow'r until his latest day.
In Freedom's lists and for the aid of Right Still in the foremost rank he waged the fray; Wrong lived; His occupation was not gone.
He died in action with his armor on! We weep for him, but we have touched his hand, And felt the magic of his presence nigh, The current that he sent thro' out the land, The kindling spirit of his battle-cry O'er all that holds us we shall triumph yet And place our banner where his hopes were set! Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the shore, But still thy voice is ringing o'er the gale! Thou 'st taught thy race how high her hopes may soar And bade her seek the heights, nor faint, nor fail.
She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring cry, She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh, And rising from beneath the chast'ning rod, She stretches out her bleeding hands to God!
Written by David St John | Create an image from this poem

Los Angeles 1954

 It was in the old days,
When she used to hang out at a place
Called Club Zombie,
A black cabaret that the police liked
To raid now and then.
As she Stepped through the door, the light Would hit her platinum hair, And believe me, heads would turn.
Maestro Loved it; he'd have her by The arm as he led us through the packed crowd To a private corner Where her secluded oak table always waited.
She'd say, Jordan.
.
.
And I'd order her usual, A champagne cocktail with a tall shot of bourbon On the side.
She'd let her eyes Trail the length of the sleek neck Of the old stand-up bass, as The bass player knocked out the bottom line, His forehead glowing, glossy With sweat in the blue lights; Her own face, smooth and shining, as The liquor slowly blanketed the pills She'd slipped beneath her tongue.
Maestro'd kick the **** out of anybody Who tried to sneak up for an autograph; He'd say, Jordan, just let me know if Somebody gets too close.
.
.
.
Then he'd turn to her and whisper, Here's Where you get to be Miss Nobody.
.
.
And she'd smile as she let him Kiss her hand.
For a while, there was a singer At the club, a guy named Louis-- But Maestro'd change his name to "Michael Champion"; Well, when this guy leaned forward, Cradling the microphone in his huge hands, All the legs went weak Underneath the ladies.
He'd look over at her, letting his eyelids Droop real low, singing, Oh Baby I.
.
.
Oh Baby I Love.
.
.
I Love You.
.
.
And she'd be gone, those little mermaid tears Running down her cheeks.
Maestro Was always cool.
He'd let them use his room upstairs, Sometimes, because they couldn't go out-- Black and white couldn't mix like that then.
I mean, think about it-- This kid star and a cool beauty who made King Cole Sound raw? No, they had to keep it To the club; though sometimes, Near the end, he'd come out to her place At the beach, always taking the iced whisky I brought to him with a sly, sweet smile.
Once, sweeping his arm out in a slow Half-circle, the way at the club he'd Show the audience how far his endless love Had grown, he marked The circumference of the glare whitening the patio Where her friends all sat, sunglasses Masking their eyes.
.
.
And he said to me, Jordan, why do White people love the sun so?-- God's spotlight, my man? Leaning back, he looked over to where she Stood at one end of the patio, watching The breakers flatten along the beach below, Her body reflected and mirrored Perfectly in the bedroom's sliding black glass Door.
He stared at her Reflection for a while, then looked up at me And said, Jordan, I think that I must be Like a pool of water in a cave that sometimes She steps into.
.
.
Later, as I drove him back into the city, He hummed a Bessie Smith tune he'd sing For her, but he didn't say a word until We stopped at last back at the club.
He stepped slowly out of the back Of the Cadillac, and reaching to shake my hand Through the open driver's window, said, My man, Jordan.
.
.
Goodbye.
Written by Emily Brontë | Create an image from this poem

Honours Martyr

 The moon is full this winter night;
The stars are clear, though few;
And every window glistens bright,
With leaves of frozen dew.
The sweet moon through your lattice gleams And lights your room like day; And there you pass, in happy dreams, The peaceful hours away! While I, with effort hardly quelling The anguish in my breast, Wander about the silent dwelling, And cannot think of rest.
The old clock in the gloomy hall Ticks on, from hour to hour; And every time its measured call Seems lingering slow and slower: And oh, how slow that keen-eyed star Has tracked the chilly grey! What, watching yet! how very far The morning lies away! Without your chamber door I stand; Love, are you slumbering still? My cold heart, underneath my hand, Has almost ceased to thrill.
Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs, And drowns the turret bell, Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies Unheard, like my farewell! To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name, And Hate will trample me, Will load me with a coward's shame? A traitor's perjury.
False friends will launch their covert sneers; True friends will wish me dead; And I shall cause the bitterest tears That you have ever shed.
The dark deeds of my outlawed race Will then like virtues shine; And men will pardon their disgrace, Beside the guilt of mine.
For, who forgives the accursed crime Of dastard treachery? Rebellion, in its chosen time, May Freedom's champion be; Revenge may stain a righteous sword, It may be just to slay; But, traitor, traitor, from that word All true breasts shrink away! Oh, I would give my heart to death, To keep my honour fair; Yet, I'll not give my inward faith My honour's name to spare! Not even to keep your priceless love, Dare I, Beloved, deceive; This treason should the future prove, Then, only then, believe! I know the path I ought to go; I follow fearlessly, Inquiring not what deeper woe Stern duty stores for me.
So foes pursue, and cold allies Mistrust me, every one: Let me be false in others' eyes, If faithful in my own.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Skeleton in Armor

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 
Comest to daunt me! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 5 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
Why dost thou haunt me?" 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 10 
As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 15 
From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! 20 Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land, 25 By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 30 That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare 35 Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.
40 "But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led; 45 Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; 50 Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, 55 Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; 60 And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 65 Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, 70 Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, 75 Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story.
80 "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, 85 Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly.
"She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, 90 And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night 95 Her nest unguarded? "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen! 100 When on the white sea-strand, Waving his arm¨¨d hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast, 105 Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, 110 So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, 115 'Death without quarter!' Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water! 120 "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, 125 Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, 130 Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, 135 Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; 140 Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, 145 Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, 150 Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars 155 My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" Thus the tale ended.
160


Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

Before

 I.
Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.
God must judge the couple: leave them as they are ---Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory, And whichever one the guilt's with, to my story! II.
Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough, Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now, Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment, Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment? III.
Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive God---the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve, `` 'Tis but decent to profess oneself beneath her: ``Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!'' IV.
Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes; Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves, When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure, And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.
V.
Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose, Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes! For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden, With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden.
VI.
What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side, A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide? When will come an end to all the mock obeisance, And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance? VII.
So much for the culprit.
Who's the martyred man? Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can! He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven, Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven! VIII.
All or nothing, stake it! Trust she God or no? Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so! Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses, Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving-clauses! IX.
Ah, ``forgive'' you bid him? While God's champion lives, Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives.
But you must not end my friend ere you begin him; Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.
X.
Once more---Will the wronger, at this last of all, Dare to say, ``I did wrong,'' rising in his fall? No?---Let go then! Both the fighters to their places! While I count three, step you back as many paces!
Written by John Donne | Create an image from this poem

Holy Sonnet IV: Oh My Black Soul! Now Art Thou Summoned

 Oh my black soul! now art thou summoned
By sickness, death's herald, and champion;
Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done
Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled;
Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read,
Wisheth himself delivered from prison,
But damned and haled to execution,
Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned.
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? Oh make thy self with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red souls to white
Written by John Keats | Create an image from this poem

Addressed To Haydon

 High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly! What when a stout unbending champion awes Envy and malice to their native sty? Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause, Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

GROTTY AND THE QUARRYMAN

 (To Paul Sykes, author of 'Sweet Agony')

He demolished five doors at a sitting

And topped it off with an outsize window

One Christmas afternoon, when drunk;

Sober he smiled like an angel, bowed,

Kissed ladies’ hands and courtesy

Was his middle name.
She tried to pass for thirty at fifty-six, Called him "My Sweet piglet" and laid out Dainty doylies for his teatime treats; always She wore black from toe to top and especially Underneath, her hair dyed black, stuck up in a Bun, her lipstick caked and smeared, drawling From the corner of her mouth like a Thirties gangsters’ moll, her true ambition.
"Kill him, kill him, the bastard!" she’d scream As all Wakefield watched, "It’s Grotty, Grotty’s at it again!" as pubs and clubs Banned them, singly or together and they Moved lodgings yet again, landlords and Landladies left reeling behind broken doors.
Blood-smeared walls covered with a shiny Patina of carefully applied deceits! "It was The cat, the kids, them druggies, lads from Football", anyone, anywhere but him and her.
Once I heard them fight, "Barry, Barry, get The police," she thumped my door, double Five-lever mortice locked against them, "Call t’ police ‘e’s murderin’ me!" I went And calmed her down, pathetic in black Underwear and he, suddenly sober, sorry, Muttering, "Elaine, Elaine, it were only fun, Give me a kiss, just one.
" Was this her fourth or fifth husband, I’d Lost count and so had she, each one she said Was worse than the last, they’d all pulled her Down, one put her through a Dorothy Perkins Plate-glass window in Wakefield’s midnight, Leaving her strewn amongst the furs and Bridal gowns, blood everywhere, such perfection Of evidence they nearly let her bleed to death Getting all the photographs.
Rumour flew and grew around her, finally They said it was all in a book one ‘husband’ Wrote in prison, how she’d had a great house, Been a brothel madame, had servants even.
For years I chased that book, "Lynch," they Told me, "It’s by Paul Lynch" but it wasn’t, Then finally, "I remember, Sykes, they allus Called him Sykesy" and so it was, Sweet Agony, Written in prison by one Paul Sykes, her most Famous inamorato, amateur boxing champion Of all England, twenty years inside, fly-pitcher Supreme, king of spielers; how she hated you For beating her, getting it all down on paper, Even making money for doing it, "That bastard Cheated me, writing lying filth about me and I never saw a penny!" she’d mutter, side-mouthed, To her pals.
But that book, that bloody book, was no pub myth, It even won an Arthur Koestler Literary Award And is compulsive reading; hardly, as a poet, My cup of tea but I couldn’t put it down.
Paul Sykes, I salute you, immortaliser of Elaine, Your book became and is my sweetest pain.
Written by Thomas Campbell | Create an image from this poem

Adelgitha

 The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.
She wept, delivered from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove- "Seek not!" she cried, "oh, gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha's love.
For he is dead and in a foreign land Whose arm should now have set me free; And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me.
" "Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"- He raised his visor.
-At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted; It was indeed her one true knight!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things