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Best Famous Cleavage Poems

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

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Written by Robert Pinsky | Create an image from this poem

Ode To Meaning

 Dire one and desired one,
Savior, sentencer--

In an old allegory you would carry
A chained alphabet of tokens:

Ankh Badge Cross.
Dragon, Engraved figure guarding a hallowed intaglio, Jasper kinema of legendary Mind, Naked omphalos pierced By quills of rhyme or sense, torah-like: unborn Vein of will, xenophile Yearning out of Zero.
Untrusting I court you.
Wavering I seek your face, I read That Crusoe's knife Reeked of you, that to defile you The soldier makes the rabbi spit on the torah.
"I'll drown my book" says Shakespeare.
Drowned walker, revenant.
After my mother fell on her head, she became More than ever your sworn enemy.
She spoke Sometimes like a poet or critic of forty years later.
Or she spoke of the world as Thersites spoke of the heroes, "I think they have swallowed one another.
I Would laugh at that miracle.
" You also in the laughter, warrior angel: Your helmet the zodiac, rocket-plumed Your spear the beggar's finger pointing to the mouth Your heel planted on the serpent Formulation Your face a vapor, the wreath of cigarette smoke crowning Bogart as he winces through it.
You not in the words, not even Between the words, but a torsion, A cleavage, a stirring.
You stirring even in the arctic ice, Even at the dark ocean floor, even In the cellular flesh of a stone.
Gas.
Gossamer.
My poker friends Question your presence In a poem by me, passing the magazine One to another.
Not the stone and not the words, you Like a veil over Arthur's headstone, The passage from Proverbs he chose While he was too ill to teach And still well enough to read, I was Beside the master craftsman Delighting him day after day, ever At play in his presence--you A soothing veil of distraction playing over Dying Arthur playing in the hospital, Thumbing the Bible, fuzzy from medication, Ever courting your presence, And you the prognosis, You in the cough.
Gesturer, when is your spur, your cloud? You in the airport rituals of greeting and parting.
Indicter, who is your claimant? Bell at the gate.
Spiderweb iron bridge.
Cloak, video, aroma, rue, what is your Elected silence, where was your seed? What is Imagination But your lost child born to give birth to you? Dire one.
Desired one.
Savior, sentencer-- Absence, Or presence ever at play: Let those scorn you who never Starved in your dearth.
If I Dare to disparage Your harp of shadows I taste Wormwood and motor oil, I pour Ashes on my head.
You are the wound.
You Be the medicine.


Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Sex Goddess

 I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE 
so don't mess with me 
I've got a big bag full of SEX TOYS 
and you can't have any
'cause they're all mine
'cause I'm
the SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
"Hey," you may say to yourself, "who the hell's she tryin' to kid, she's no sex goddess," But trust me, I am if only for the fact that I have the unabashed gall to call myself a SEX GODDESS, I mean, after all, it's what so many of us have at some point thought, we've all had someone who worshipped our filthy socks and barked like a dog when we were near giving us cause to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.
Only we'd never come out and admit it publicly well, you wouldn't admit it publicly but I will because I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
I haven't always been a SEX GODDESS I used to be just a mere mortal woman but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed then manifest in late night 900 number ads where 3 bodacious bimbettes heave cleavage into the camera's winking lens and sigh: "Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh, you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh.
" Yeah I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh I got fed up with it all so I put on my combat boots and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image even though I would never actually use my SEX TOYS 'cause my being a SEX GODDESS it isn't a SEXUAL thing it's a POLITICAL thing I don't actually have SEX, no I'm too busy taking care of important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS, yeah, I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show and MTV and become a parody of myself and make buckets full of money off my own inane brand of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY because my pain is different because I am a SEX GODDESS and when I talk, people listen why ? Because, you guessed it, I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE and you're not.
Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Tortoise Shell

 The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge, Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again, And round the edges twenty-five little ones, The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone; Four, and a keystone; Four, and a keystone; Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back Of the baby tortoise; Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet, Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens, Threes and fours and twelves, All the volte face of decimals, The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back, The kicking little beetle, And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly, The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross And on either side count five, On each side, two above, on each side, two below The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross! It goes right through him, the sprottling insect, Through his cross-wise cloven psyche, Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again; Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece, Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head, Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.
The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within, The complex, manifold involvednes,s of an individual creature Plotted out On this small bird, this rudiment, This little dome, this pediment Of all creation, This slow one.
Written by Ruth Padel | Create an image from this poem

THE APPOINTMENT

 Flamingo silk.
New ruff, the ivory ghost of a halter.
Chestnut curls, * commas behind the ear.
"Taller, by half a head, than my Lord Walsingham.
" * His Devon-cream brogue, malt eyes.
New cloak mussed in her mud.
* The Queen leans forward, a rosy envelope of civet.
A cleavage * whispering seed pearls.
Her own sleeve rubs that speck of dirt * on his cheek.
Three thousand ornamental fruit baskets swing in the smoke.
* "It is our pleasure to have our servant trained some longer time * in Ireland.
" Stamp out marks of the Irish.
Their saffron smocks.
* All curroughs, bards and rhymers.
Desmonds and Fitzgeralds * stuck on low spikes, an avenue of heads to the war tent.
* Kerry timber sold to the Canaries.
Pregnant girls * hung in their own hair on city walls.
Plague crumpling gargoyles * through Munster.
"They spoke like ghosts crying out of their graves.
"