Best Famous Churchill Poems

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

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

• All Famous Churchill Poems

Written by Rg Gregory | from crossing the line (1) a great man there was a great man so great he couldn't be criticised in the light who died and for a whole week people turned up their collars over their ears and wept with great gossiping houses wore their roofs at a mournful angle and television announcers carried their eyes around in long drooping bags there was a hush upon the voice of the land as soft as the shine on velvet the whole nation stretched up into the dusty attic for its medals and black ties and prayers and seriously polished its black uncomfortable shoes and no one dared creak in the wrong places anybody who thought he was everybody except those who were nearly dying themselves wanted to come to the funeral and in its mourning the nation rejoiced to think that once again it had cut into the world's time with its own sick longing for the past the great man and the great nation had the same bulldog vision of each other's face and neither of them had barked convincingly for a very long time so the nation turned out on a cold bleak day and attended its own funeral with uncanny reverence and the other nations put tears over their laughing eyes v-signs and rude gestures spoke with the same fingers (2) aden tourists dream of bombs that will not kill them into the rock the sand-claws the winking eye and harsh shell of aden waiting for the pinch jagged sun lumps of heat bumping on the stunned ship knuckledustered rock clenched over steamer point waiting for the sun to stagger loaded down the hill before we bunch ashore calm eyes within their windows we walk (a town must live must have its acre of normality let hate sport its bright shirt in the shadows) we shop collect our duty-murdered goods compare bargains laugh grieve at benefit or loss aden dead-pan leans against our words which hand invisible knows how to print a bomb ejaculate a knife does tourist greed embroil us in or shelter us from guilt backstreet a sailor drunk gyrates within a wall of adenese collapses spews they roll about him in a dark pool the sun moves off as we do streets squashed with shops criss-cross of customers a rush of people nightwards a white woman striding like a cliff dirt - goats in the gutter crunched beggars a small to breed a fungus cafes with open mouths men like broken teeth or way back in the dark like tonsils an air of shapeless threat fluffs in our pulse a boundary crossed the rules are not the same brushed by eyes the touch is silent silence breeds we feel the breath of fury (soon to roar) retreat within our skins return to broader streets bazaars glower almost at candlelight we clutch our goods a dim delusion of festivity a christ neurotic dying to explode how much of this is aden how much our masterpiece all atmospheres are inbuilt an armoured car looms by the ship like mother brooding in the sea receives us with a sigh aden winks and ogles in the dark the sport of hate released slowly away at midnight rumours of bombs and riots in the long wake a disappointed sleep nothing to write home about except the heat (3) crossing the line (xii) give me not england in its glory dead nightmared with rotting seed palmerston's perverted gunboat up the yangtse's **** - lloyd george and winston churchill rubbing men like salt into surly wounds (we won those wars and neatly fucked ourselves) eden at suez a jacked-up piece of wool macmillan sprinkling cliches where the black blood boils (the ashes of his kind) - home as wan as godot (shagged by birth) wilson for whom the wind blew sharply once or twice sailing eastwards in the giant's stetson hat saving jims from the red long john give me not england but the world with england in it with people as promiscuous as planes (the colours shuffled) don't ask for wars to end or men to have their deaths wrapped up as christmas gifts expect myself to die a coward - proclaim no lives as kisses - offer no roses to the blind no sanctions to the damned - will not shake hands with him who rapes my wife or chokes my daughter only when drunk or mad will think myself the master of my purse - will lust for ease seek to assuage my griefs in others' tears will make more chaos than i put to rights but in my fracture i shall strive to stand a ruined arch whose limbs stretch half towards a point that drew me upwards - that ungot intercourse in space that prickless star is what i ache for (what i want in man and thus i give him) the image of that cross is grit within him - the arch reflects in microscopic waves through fleshly aeons beaming messages to nerves and typing fingers both ends of me are broken - in frantic storms hanging over cliffs i fight to mend them the job cannot be done - i die though if i stop how cynical i may be (how apt with metaphor or joke to thrust my fate grotesquely into print) the fact is that i live until i stop - i can't sit down then crying let me die or death is good (the freedom from myself my bones are seeking) i must go on - tread every road that comes risk every plague because i must believe the end is bright (however filled with vomit every brook) - if not for me then for those who clamber on my bones my hope is what i owe them - they owe their life to me

Written by Marriott Edgar | Sam Goes To It Sam Small had retired from the Army, In the old Duke of Wellington's time, So when present unpleasantness started, He were what you might call... past his prime. He'd lived for some years in retirement, And knew nowt of war, if you please, Till they blasted and bombed his allotment, And shelled the best part of his peas. 'T were as if bugles called Sam to duty, For his musket he started to search, He found it at last in the Hen house, Buff Orpingtons had it for perch. Straight off to the Fusilliers' depot, He went to rejoin his old troop... Where he found as they couldn't recruit Him, Until his age group was called up. Now Sam wasn't getting no younger, Past the three score and ten years was he, And he reckoned by time they reached his age group, He'd be very near ten score and three. So he took up the matter with Churchill, Who said, "I don't know what to do, Never was there a time when so many, Came asking so much from so few." "I don't want no favours" Sam answered, "Don't think as I'm one of that mob, All I'm asking is give me the tools, lad, And let me help finish the job." "I'll fit you in somewhere," said Winnie, "Old soldiers we must not discard." Then seeing he'd got his own musket, He sent him to join the Home Guard. They gave Sam a coat with no stripes on, In spite of the service he'd seen, Which considering he'd been a King's sergeant, Kind of rankled... you know what I mean. He said "I come back to the Army, Expecting my country's thanks, And the first thing I find when I get here, Is that I've been reduced to the ranks. He found all the lads sympathetic, They agreed that 'twere a disgrace, Except one old chap in the corner, With a nutcracker kind of a face. Said the old fella, "Who do you think you are? The last to appear on the scene, And you start off by wanting promotion, Last come, last served... see what I mean?" Said Sam, "Wasn't I at Corunna, And when company commander got shot, Didn't I lead battalion to victory?" Said the old fella, "No... you did not." "I didn't?" said Sam quite indignent, "Why, in every fight Wellington fought, Wasn't I at his right hand to guard him?" Said old chap, "You were nowt of the sort." "What do you know of Duke and his battles?" Said Sam, with a whithering look, Said the old man, "I ought to know something, Between you and me... I'm the Duke." And if you should look in any evening, You'll find them both in the canteen, Ex Commander-in-Chief and ex Sergeant, Both just Home Guards... you know what I mean?

Written by Rg Gregory | the shakes now pay attention (said the teacher) and look up here the children looked up this is william shakespeare four centuries up on a pedestal was shakespeare's head he was what we call a great man the children got sore necks looking up and some began to look down no no you mustn't look down (said the teacher) apart from winston churchill shakespeare was the greatest englishman who ever lived the children's eyes drained to their feet and their minds played around with their private parts shakespeare was once a schoolteacher who had a second best bed and he happened to write thirty six plays and sonnets and things he has a noble brow as you can see the children stared from a dusty old head and a mothridden beard two sour eyes glared down from being a bit bored then very bored the children began to have explosions going off in many parts of their bodies mutters came out of their mouths and then anger followed by flames shakespeare is a chauvinist pig (they screamed) why don't you piss off (they shrieked at the teacher) and take him with you now now children (said the teacher) shakespeare's language was always as noble as his brow he will be shocked to hear such words some of the class jumped on the teacher (as the young are inclined to nowadays) and the rest began to rock shakespeare's pedestal no please no children (cried the teacher) you know not what you do do you want to destroy all that is good in the world the rocking went on like an earthquake and slowly up four centuries of stone shakespeare's head began to wobble and all of a sudden it seemed to jump from its pedestal and drop shaking itself free of dust and a beardful of moths vandals desecrators (raged the teacher) wetting himself no doubt watch out (laughed the children) catch and the head fell safely into their outstretched hands the teacher shrank away (wet wet) terrified to be so close to the greatest but one of the greats the children flocked round curious to find what greatness was shakespeare blew his nose cleared his throat (the last of the dust) and said hello kids i'm famished what's to eat tell me about yourselves (and things like that) he had a real face and he spoke english with a kind of birmingham accent and he didn't seem to know much more than they did he was always pissing around (he told them) when he was their age the teacher gradually came back very surprised and (when he dared to look at himself) obviously very relieved he went away and began reading the plays and (discovering where he'd gone wrong) got out of teaching

Written by Robert William Service | Im Scared Of It All I'm scared of it all, God's truth! so I am; It's too big and brutal for me. My nerve's on the raw and I don't give a damn For all the "hoorah" that I see. I'm pinned between subway and overhead train, Where automobillies swoop down: Oh, I want to go back to the timber again -- I'm scared of the terrible town. I want to go back to my lean, ashen plains; My rivers that flash into foam; My ultimate valleys where solitude reigns; My trail from Fort Churchill to Nome. My forests packed full of mysterious gloom, My ice-fields agrind and aglare: The city is deadfalled with danger and doom -- I know that I'm safer up there. I watch the wan faces that flash in the street; All kinds and all classes I see. Yet never a one in the million I meet, Has the smile of a comrade for me. Just jaded and panting like dogs in a pack; Just tensed and intent on the goal: O God! but I'm lonesome -- I wish I was back, Up there in the land of the Pole. I wish I was back on the Hunger Plateaus, And seeking the lost caribou; I wish I was up where the Coppermine flows To the kick of my little canoe. I'd like to be far on some weariful shore, In the Land of the Blizzard and Bear; Oh, I wish I was snug in the Arctic once more, For I know I am safer up there! I prowl in the canyons of dismal unrest; I cringe -- I'm so weak and so small. I can't get my bearings, I'm crushed and oppressed With the haste and the waste of it all. The slaves and the madman, the lust and the sweat, The fear in the faces I see; The getting, the spending, the fever, the fret -- It's too bleeding cruel for me. I feel it's all wrong, but I can't tell you why -- The palace, the hovel next door; The insolent towers that sprawl to the sky, The crush and the rush and the roar. I'm trapped like a fox and I fear for my pelt; I cower in the crash and the glare; Oh, I want to be back in the avalanche belt, For I know that it's safer up there! I'm scared of it all: Oh, afar I can hear The voice of my solitudes call! We're nothing but brute with a little veneer, And nature is best after all. There's tumult and terror abroad in the street; There's menace and doom in the air; I've got to get back to my thousand-mile beat; The trail where the cougar and silver-tip meet; The snows and the camp-fire, with wolves at my feet; Good-bye, for it's safer up there. To be forming good habits up there; To be starving on rabbits up there; In your hunger and woe, Though it's sixty below, Oh, I know that it's safer up there!

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Alfonso Churchill They laughed at me as "Prof. Moon," As a boy in Spoon River, born with the thirst Of knowing about the stars. They jeered when I spoke of the lunar mountains, And the thrilling heat and cold, And the ebon valleys by silver peaks, And Spica quadrillions of miles away, And the littleness of man. But now that my grave is honored, friends, Let it not be because I taught The lore of the stars in Knox College, But rather for this: that through the stars I preached the greatness of man, Who is none the less a part of the scheme of things For the distance of Spica or the Spiral Nebulae; Nor any the less a part of the question Of what the drama means.