10 Best Famous Chaotic Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Chaotic poems. This is a select list of the best famous Chaotic poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Chaotic poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of chaotic poems.

• All Famous Chaotic Poems

 Where the sober-colored cultivator smiles
 On his byles;
Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow
 Come and go;
Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,
 Hides and ghi;
Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints
 In his prints;
Stands a City -- Charnock chose it -- packed away
 Near a Bay --
By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer
 Made impure,
By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp
 Moist and damp;
And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,
 Don't agree.
Once, two hundered years ago, the trader came
 Meek and tame.
Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,
 Till mere trade
Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth
 South and North
Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
 Was his own.
Thus the midday halt of Charnock -- more's the pity!
 Grew a City.
As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,
 So it spread --
Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built
 On the silt --
Palace, byre, hovel -- poverty and pride --
 Side by side;
And, above the packed and pestilential town,
 Death looked down.
But the Rulers in that City by the Sea
 Turned to flee --
Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its ills
 To the Hills.
From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze
 Of old days,
From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,
 Beat retreat;
For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
 Was their own.
But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain
 For his gain.
Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms,
 Asks an alms,
And the burden of its lamentation is, Briefly, this:
"Because for certain months, we boil and stew,
 So should you.
Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire
 In our fire!"
And for answer to the argument, in vain
 We explain
That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot fry:
 "All must fry!"
That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain
 For gain.
Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,
 From its kitchen.
Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints
 In his prints;
And mature -- consistent soul -- his plan for stealing
 To Darjeeling:
Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,
 England's isle;
Let the City Charnock pitched on -- evil day!
 Go Her way.
Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors
 Heap their stores,
Though Her enterprise and energy secure
 Income sure,
Though "out-station orders punctually obeyed"
 Swell Her trade --
Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,
 Simla's best.

 I


Eddie Linden

Dear Eddie we’ve not met

Except upon the written page 

And at your age the wonder 

Is that you write at all

When so many have gone under 

Or been split asunder by narcissistic humours

Blunder following blunder

Barker and Graham, godfathering my verse

Bearing me cloud-handed to Haworth moor

From my chained metropolitan moorings,

O hyaline March morning with Leeds

At its thrusting best, the thirsty beasts

Of night quenched as the furnaces

Of Hunslet where Hudswell Clarke’s locos

Rust in their skeletal sheds, rails skewed

To graveyards platforms and now instead

Skyscrapers circle the city, cranes, aeroplanes,

Electric trains but even they cannot hinder

Branches bursting with semen

Seraphic cloud sanctuaries shunting

Us homeward to the beckoning moors.

II

Brenda Williams

Leeds voices soothe the turbulence

‘Ey’ ‘sithee’ and ‘love’, lastingly lilt

From cradle to grave, from backstreet

On the social, our son, beat his way

To Eton, Balliol, to Calcatta’s Shantiniketan

And all the way back to a locked ward.

While I in the meantime fondly fiddled 

With rhyme and unreason, publishing pamphlets

And Leeds Poetry Weekly while under the bane

Of his tragic illness, poet and mother,

You were driven from pillar to post

By the taunting yobbery of your family

And the crass insensitivity of wild therapy

To the smoking dark of despair,

Locked in your flat in the Abbey Road

With seven cats and poetry.

O stop and strop your bladed darkness

On the rock of ages while plangent tollings

Mock your cradled rockings, knock by knock.



III

Debjani Chatterjee

In these doom-laden days

You are steady as a pilot nursing tired ships homeward

Through churning seas

Where grey gulls scream

Forlornly and for ever.

I am the red-neck,

Bear-headed blaster

Shifting sheer rock

To rape the ore of poetry’s plunder

Or bulldozing trees to glean mines of silver

While you sail serenely onward 

Ever the diplomat’s daughter

Toujours de la politesse.

IV

Daisy Abey

Daisy, dearest of all, safest

And kindest, watcher and warner

Of chaotic corners looming

Round poetry’s boomerang bends

I owe you most a letter

While you are here beside me

Patient as a miller waiting on wind

To drive the great sails

Through summer. 

When the muse takes over

I am snatched from order and duty

Blowing routine into a riot of going

And coming, blind, backwards, tip

Over ****, sea waves crashing in suburbia,

Saturnalia in Sutton, headlines of mad poet

Striding naked over moors, roaring

"I am here I am waiting".

V

Jeremy Reed

Niagaras of letters on pink sheets

In sheaths of silver envelopes

Mutually exchanged. I open your missives

Like undressing a girl in my teens

Undoing the flap like a recalcitrant

Bra strap, the letters stiff as nipples

While I stroke the creviced folds

Of amber and mauve and lick

As I stick stamps like the ********

Of a reluctant virgin, urgent for

Defloration and the pulse of ******.

 Any poets about or bored muses fancying a day out?

Rainy, windy, cold Leeds City Station

Half-way through its slow chaotic transformation

Contractors’ morning break, overalls, hard hats and harness

Flood McDonalds where I sip my tea and try to translate Val?ry.



London has everything except my bardic inspiration

I’ve only to step off the coach in Leeds and it whistles

Its bravuras down every wind, rattles the cobbles in Kirkgate Market

Hovers in the drunken brogue of a Dubliner in the chippie

As we share our love of Joyce the Aire becomes the Liffey.



All my three muses have abandoned me. Daisy in Asia,

Brenda protesting outside the Royal Free, Barbara seeing clients at the C.A.B.

Past Saltaire’s Mill, the world’s eighth wonder,

The new electric train whisperglides on wet rails

Past Shipley’s fairy glen and other tourist trails

Past Kirkstall’s abandoned abbey and redundant forge

To Grandma Wild’s in Keighley where I sit and gorge.



I’ve travelled on the Haworth bus so often

The driver chats as if I were a local

But when the rainbow’s lightning flash

Illumines all the valleys there’s a hush

And every pensioner's rheumy eye is rooted

On the gleaming horizon as its mooted

The Bronte’s spirits make the thunder crack

Three cloaked figures converging round the Oakworth track.



Haworth in a storm is a storm indeed

The lashing and the crashing makes the gravestones bleed

The mashing and the bashing makes the light recede

And on the moor top I lose my way and find it

Half a dozen times slipping in the mud and heather

Heather than can stand the thrust of any weather.





Just as suddenly as it had come the storm abated

Extremes demand those verbs so antiquated

Archaic and abhorred and second-rated

Yet still they stand like moorland rocks in mist

And wait as I do till the storm has passed

Buy postcards at the parsonage museum shop

Sit half an hour in the tea room drying off

And pen a word or two to my three muses

Who after all presented their excuses

But nonetheless the three all have their uses.

 On the road to nowhere 
What wild oats did you sow 
When you left your father's house 
With your cheeks aglow? 
Eyes so strained and eager 
To see what you might see? 
Were you thief or were you fool 
Or most nobly free? 

Were the tramp-days knightly, 
True sowing of wild seed? 
Did you dare to make the songs 
Vanquished workmen need? 
Did you waste much money 
To deck a leper's feast? 
Love the truth, defy the crowd 
Scandalize the priest? 
On the road to nowhere 
What wild oats did you sow? 
Stupids find the nowhere-road 
Dusty, grim and slow. 

Ere their sowing's ended 
They turn them on their track, 
Look at the caitiff craven wights 
Repentant, hurrying back! 
Grown ashamed of nowhere, 
Of rags endured for years, 
Lust for velvet in their hearts, 
Pierced with Mammon's spears, 
All but a few fanatics 
Give up their darling goal, 
Seek to be as others are, 
Stultify the soul. 
Reapings now confront them, 
Glut them, or destroy, 
Curious seeds, grain or weeds 
Sown with awful joy. 
Hurried is their harvest, 
They make soft peace with men. 
Pilgrims pass. They care not, 
Will not tramp again. 

O nowhere, golden nowhere! 
Sages and fools go on 
To your chaotic ocean, 
To your tremendous dawn. 
Far in your fair dream-haven, 
Is nothing or is all... 
They press on, singing, sowing 
Wild deeds without recall!