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Best Famous Chanel Poems

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

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

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Written by Helen Dunmore | Create an image from this poem

All The Things You Are Not Yet

 for tess

Tonight there's a crowd in my head:
all the things you are not yet.
You are words without paper, pages
sighing in summer forests, gardens
where builders stub out their rubble 
and plastic oozes its sweat.
All the things you are, you are not yet.

Not yet the lonely window in midwinter
with the whine of tea on an empty stomach,
not yet the heating you can't afford and must wait for,
tamping a coin in on each hour.
Not the gorgeous shush of restaurant doors
and their interiors, always so much smaller.
Not the smell of the newsprint, the blur
on your fingertips — your fame. Not yet

the love you will have for Winter Pearmains
and Chanel No 5 — and then your being unable
to buy both washing-machine and computer
when your baby's due to be born,
and my voice saying, "I'll get you one"
and you frowning, frowning
at walls and surfaces which are not mine — 
all this, not yet. Give me your hand,

that small one without a mark of work on it,
the one that's strange to the washing-up bowl
and doesn't know Fairy Liquid for whiskey.
Not yet the moment of your arrival in taxis
at daring destinations, or your being alone at stations
with the skirts of your fashionable clothes flapping
and no money for the telephone.

Not yet the moment when I can give you nothing
so well-folded it fits in an envelope — 
a dull letter you won't reread.
Not yet the moment of your assimilation
in that river flowing westward: rivers of clothes,
of dreams, an accent unlike my own
saying to someone I don't know: darling...


Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Create an image from this poem

The Strange Love Song of T. S. Eliot

At twenty-six, I was inexperienced; 
Still, I knew much about love 
In the waste land, reasoning, 
It's not important when you start 
Practicing, rather when you start searching; 
And I committed myself to finding 
It before others even knew it existed, 'breeding 

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing' 
My thoughts, my longings, my love 
For something that didn't need naming 
In the misty mornings, recognizing 
The dew on the petal, alive yet sleepy; 
I was a dreamer, I admit, thinking, 
April is the cruelest month, flying 

Thoughts about some distant teaching, 
Seeing invisible in the visible, loving 
Wild thoughts making love, searching 
To find it; love was a secret hard to decode— 
Sacred to me. Students talking 
Of business, Dante and Michelangelo; 
That was important, yet not so important 

In the land where death died long ago, blooming 
Roses taught me a lesson, doing 
My search for me, wakening 
The land where human measures are important 
Yet not so important; so I stayed, deserving 
A degree from real roses, forgetting 
The Ph.D. at Harvard, which for me was waiting 

Of course it was not about Michelangelo, 
But does it really matter? I saw paintings 
And landscapes, dead lands and lands 
Alive, knowing it's more important 
To feel than to know. I had it all in my head; 
And I stayed where dreaming 
Was more important than competing 

In the land where the women come and go, talking 
Of Sara Bernhardt and Coco Chanel in the Sistine Chapel 
And men come and go, talking 
Of wars, children come and go, talking 
Of chocolate, and they all go, leaving 
Not much to think about exchanging 
Experiences with feelings, transforming 

Experiences into meanings, mixing 
Thoughts about love evaporating 
Into 'the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window panes, 
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes.' 
And in the end I understood April, learning 
That April seemed cruel only in the dead land, knowing 
That every month is equally paradisiacal and hellish, 

Equally paradoxical. 

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry