Best Famous Clumsily Poems

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

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• All Famous Clumsily Poems

Written by Yves Bonnefoy | The house where I was born (07) I remember, it was a morning, in summer, The window was half-open, I drew near, I could see my father at the end of the garden. He was motionless, looking for something, I could not tell what, or where, beyond the world, His body was already bent over, but his gaze Was lifted toward the unaccomplished or the impossible. He had put aside his pick and his spade, The air was fresh on that morning of the world, But even freshness can be impenetrable, and cruel The memory of the mornings of childhood. Who was he, who had he been in the light, I did not know, I still do not. But I also see him on the boulevard, Walking slowly, so much weariness Weighing down the way he now moved, He was going back to work, while I Was wandering about with some of my classmates At the beginning of an afternoon still free from time. To this figure, seen from afar, moving on its way, I dedicate the words that cannot say what they would. (In the dining room Of the Sunday afternoon, in summer, The shutters closed against the heat, The table cleared, he suggested Cards, since these are the only pictures In the childhood house to satisfy The needs of dream, but he leaves, And when he does, the child clumsily takes the cards, He puts the winning ones in the other’s hand, Then waits feverishly for the game to begin again, And for the one who was losing to win, and so triumphantly That he might see in this victory a sign, something To nourish some hope the child cannot know. After this, two paths part, and one of them Vanishes, and almost immediately, forgetfulness Sets in, avid, relentless. I have crossed out These words a hundred times, in verse, in prose, But I cannot Stop them from coming back.)

Written by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | a clowns smirk in the skull of a baboon a clown's smirk in the skull of a baboon (where once good lips stalked or eyes firmly stir red) my mirror gives me on this afternoon; i am a shape that can but eat and turd ere with the dirt death shall him vastly gird a coward waiting clumsily to cease whom every perfect thing meanwhile doth miss; a hand's impression in an empty glove a soon forgotten tune a house for lease. I have never loved you dear as now i love behold this fool who in the month of June having certain stars and planets heard rose very slowly in a tight balloon until the smallening world became absurd; him did an archer spy(whose aim had erred never)and by that little trick or this he shot the aeronaut down into the abyss -and wonderfully i fell through the green groove of twilight striking into many a piece. I have never loved you dear as now i love god's terrible face brighter than a spoon collects the image of one fatal word; so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon) resembles something that has not occurred: i am a birdcage without any bird a collar looking for a dog a kiss without lips;a prayer lacking any knees but something beats within my shirt to prove he is undead who living noone is. I have never loved you dear as now i love. Hell(by most humble me which shall increase) open thy fire!for i have had some bliss of one small lady upon earth above; to whom i cry remembering her face i have never loved you dear as now i love

Written by Frank O'Hara | The Lover He waits and it is not without a great deal of trouble that he tickles a nightingale with his guitar. He would like to cry Andiamo! but alas! no one has arrived yet although the dew is perfect for adieux. How bitterly he beats his hairy chest! because he is a man sitting out an indignity. The mean moon is like a nasty little lemon above the ubiquitous snivelling fir trees and if there's a swan within a radius of twelve square miles let's throttle it. We too are worried. He is a man like us erect in the cold dark night. Silence handles his guitar as clumsily as a wet pair of dungarees. The grass if full of snakespit. He alone is hot admist the stars. If no one is racing towards him down intriguingly hung stairways towards the firm lamp of his thighs we are indeed in trouble sprawling feet upwards to the sun our faces growing smaller in the colossal dark.

Written by Robert Bly | Waking from Sleep Inside the veins there are navies setting forth Tiny explosions at the water lines And seagulls weaving in the wind of the salty blood. It is the morning. The country has slept the whole winter. Window seats were covered with fur skins the yard was full Of stiff dogs and hands that clumsily held heavy books. Now we wake and rise from bed and eat breakfast!- Shouts rise from the harbor of the blood Mist and masts rising the knock of wooden tackle in the sunlight. Now we sing and do tiny dances on the kitchen floor. Our whole body is like a harbor at dawn; We know that our master has left us for the day.

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Attack AT dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun, Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!

Written by T Wignesan | Breath of the Informer an Allegory Remorseful, the noonday sun Frizzles with the stealthy wind Under the rubbery mountain green. A calmness has come to rest From having tossed in its sleep. The forest has taken leave Of the hunted horn and drum. No more the tapper late of nap Scurries to the haven of a nest. No more the rattle whisper fades To nothingness in a lonesome rest. No more, no more, for the heavens Sleep and all the troops sleep too. The sinewy python stretched past Clumsily the ragged rock and branch. The Owl has called its reveille at last. And the forest sleeps with the wind Gently fanning some whisper closer And closer, every wave, a venomous flick Of a serpent, a kiss of rest.