Best Famous Cockroach Poems

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

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

See Also:

Poems are below...



Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

The Pangolin

 Another armored animal--scale
 lapping scale with spruce-cone regularity until they
form the uninterrupted central
 tail-row! This near artichoke with head and legs and grit-equipped
 gizzard,
the night miniature artist engineer is,
 yes, Leonardo da Vinci's replica--
 impressive animal and toiler of whom we seldom hear.
Armor seems extra.
But for him, the closing ear-ridge-- or bare ear lacking even this small eminence and similarly safe contracting nose and eye apertures impenetrably closable, are not; a true ant-eater, not cockroach eater, who endures exhausting solitary trips through unfamiliar ground at night, returning before sunrise, stepping in the moonlight, on the moonlight peculiarly, that the outside edges of his hands may bear the weight and save the claws for digging.
Serpentined about the tree, he draws away from danger unpugnaciously, with no sound but a harmless hiss; keeping the fragile grace of the Thomas- of-Leighton Buzzard Westminster Abbey wrought-iron vine, or rolls himself into a ball that has power to defy all effort to unroll it; strongly intailed, neat head for core, on neck not breaking off, with curled-in-feet.
Nevertheless he has sting-proof scales; and nest of rocks closed with earth from inside, which can thus darken.
Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast each with a splendor which man in all his vileness cannot set aside; each with an excellence! "Fearfull yet to be feared," the armored ant-eater met by the driver-ant does not turn back, but engulfs what he can, the flattened sword- edged leafpoints on the tail and artichoke set leg- and body-plates quivering violently when it retaliates and swarms on him.
Compact like the furled fringed frill on the hat-brim of Gargallo's hollow iron head of a matador, he will drop and will then walk away unhurt, although if unintruded on, he cautiously works down the tree, helped by his tail.
The giant-pangolin- tail, graceful tool, as a prop or hand or broom or ax, tipped like an elephant's trunkwith special skin, is not lost on this ant- and stone-swallowing uninjurable artichoke which simpletons thought a living fable whom the stones had nourished, whereas ants had done so.
Pangolins are not aggressive animals; between dusk and day they have not unchain-like machine-like form and frictionless creep of a thing made graceful by adversities, con- versities.
To explain grace requires a curious hand.
If that which is at all were not forever, why would those who graced the spires with animals and gathered there to rest, on cold luxurious low stone seats--a monk and monk and monk--between the thus ingenious roof supports, have slaved to confuse grace with a kindly manner, time in which to pay a debt, the cure for sins, a graceful use of what are yet approved stone mullions branching out across the perpendiculars? A sailboat was the first machine.
Pangolins, made for moving quietly also, are models of exactness, on four legs; on hind feet plantigrade, with certain postures of a man.
Beneath sun and moon, man slaving to make his life more sweet, leaves half the flowers worth having, needing to choose wisely how to use his strength; a paper-maker like the wasp; a tractor of foodstuffs, like the ant; spidering a length of web from bluffs above a stream; in fighting, mechanicked like the pangolin; capsizing in disheartenment.
Bedizened or stark naked, man, the self, the being we call human, writing- masters to this world, griffons a dark "Like does not like like that is abnoxious"; and writes error with four r's.
Among animals, one has sense of humor.
Humor saves a few steps, it saves years.
Unignorant, modest and unemotional, and all emotion, he has everlasting vigor, power to grow, though there are few creatures who can make one breathe faster and make one erecter.
Not afraid of anything is he, and then goes cowering forth, tread paced to meet an obstacle at every step.
Consistent with the formula--warm blood, no gills, two pairs of hands and a few hairs-- that is a mammal; there he sits on his own habitat, serge-clad, strong-shod.
The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, "Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul.
"
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Frog Prince

 Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out of the sky like rain.
Frogs arrive With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.
My guilts are what we catalogue.
I'll take a knife and chop up frog.
Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father's genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.
The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off like a light bulb.
At the sight of him the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he's an apple and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog the touch-me-nots explode like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.
Mr.
Poison is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.
Mama Brundig, he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ for a souvenir.
Frog has boil disease and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me.
Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.
Why should a certain quite adorable princess be walking in her garden at such a time and toss her golden ball up like a bubble and drop it into the well? It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills holes in our skulls to let the Boston Symphony through.
But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron pot into the bottom of the well.
Lost, she said, my moon, my butter calf, my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
Balls such as these are not for sale in Au Bon Marché.
I took the moon, she said, between my teeth and now it is gone and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.
Suddenly the well grew thick and boiling and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess, he said, I am not a vagabond, a cattle farmer, a shepherd, a doorkeeper, a postman or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said, for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler, those three you will never do, but she made the promises with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth like a tricky old dog and she ran back to the castle leaving the frog quite alone.
That evening at dinner time a knock was heard on the castle door and a voice demanded: King's youngest daughter, let me in.
You promised; now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise and forced her to comply.
The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate looking over her bacon and calves' liver.
We will eat in tandem, he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled as if a small machine had entered her.
He sat upon the liver and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn't exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank as if it were Socrates' hemlock.
Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour! There was the pillow with the princess breathing and there was the sinuous frog riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river of shut doors, he said, and I have made my way over the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room.
Kaboom! Like a genie coming out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.
He hired a night watchman so that no one could enter the chamber and he had the well boarded over so that never again would she lose her ball, that moon, that Krishna hair, that blind poppy, that innocent globe, that madonna womb.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Death Of A Cockroach

 I opened wide the bath-room door,
And all at once switched on the light,
When moving swift across the floor
I saw a streak of ebon bright:
Then quick, with slipper in my hand,
Before it could escape,--I slammed.
I missed it once, I missed it twice, But got it ere it gained its lair.
I fear my words were far from nice, Though d----s with me are rather rare: Then lo! I thought that dying roach Regarded me with some reproach.
Said I: "Don't think I grudge you breath; I hate to spill your greenish gore, But why did you invite your death By straying on my bath-room floor?" "It is because," said he (or she), "Adventure is my destiny.
"By evolution I was planned, And marvellously made as you; And I am led to understand The selfsame God conceived us two: Sire, though the coup de grâce you give, Even a roach has right to live.
" Said I: "Of course you have a right,-- But not to blot my bath-room floor.
Yet though with slipper I may smite, Your doom I morally deplore .
.
.
From cellar gloom to stellar space Let bards and beetles have their place.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Cockroach

 Roach, foulest of creatures,
who attacks with yellow teeth
and an army of cousins big as shoes,
you are lumps of coal that are mechanized
and when I turn on the light you scuttle
into the corners and there is this hiss upon the land.
Yet I know you are only the common angel turned into, by way of enchantment, the ugliest.
Your uncle was made into an apple.
Your aunt was made into a Siamese cat, all the rest were made into butterflies but because you lied to God outrightly-- told him that all things on earth were in order-- He turned his wrath upon you and said, I will make you the most loathsome, I will make you into God's lie, and never will a little girl fondle you or hold your dark wings cupped in her palm.
But that was not true.
Once in New Orleans with a group of students a roach fled across the floor and I shrieked and she picked it up in her hands and held it from my fear for one hour.
And held it like a diamond ring that should not escape.
These days even the devil is getting overturned and held up to the light like a glass of water.
Written by Nick Flynn | Create an image from this poem

Amber

 Hover 
the imagined center, our tongues 
grew long to please it, licking 

the walls, a chamber built of scent, 

a moment followed by a lesser moment 
& a hunger to return.
It couldn't last.
Resin flowed glacially from wounds in the bark pinned us in our entering as the orchids opened wider.
First, liquid, so we swam until we couldn't.
Then it felt like sleep, the taste of nectar still inside us.
Sometimes a flower became submerged with us.
A million years went by.
A hundred.
Swarm of hoverflies, cockroach, assassin bug, all trapped, suspended in that moment of fullness, a Pompeii, the mother covering her child's head forever.
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

True

 one of Lorca's best lines
is,
"agony, always
agony .
.
.
" think of this when you kill a cockroach or pick up a razor to shave or awaken in the morning to face the sun.
Written by Nick Flynn | Create an image from this poem

Statuary

 Bees may be trusted, always, 
 to discover the best, nay, the only 

human, solution.
Let me cite an instance; an event, that, though occurring in nature, is still in itself wholly abnormal.
I refer to the manner in which the bees will dispose of a mouse or a slug that may happen to have found its way into the hive.
The intruder killed, they have to deal with the body, which will very soon poison their dwelling.
If it be impossible for them to expel or dismember it, they will proceed methodically & hermetically to enclose it in a veritable sepulcher of propolis & wax, which will tower fantastically above the ordinary monuments of the city.
* When we die our bodies powder, our bodies the vessel & the vessel empties.
Our dying does not fill the hive with the stench of dying.
But outside the world hungers.
A cockroach, stung, can be dragged back out.
A careless child forced a snail inside with a stick once.
We waxed over the orifice of its shell sealing the creature in.
And here, the bottom of the comb, a mouse, driven in by winter & lack.
Its pawing woke us.
We stung it dead.
Even before it died it reeked - worse the moment it ceased twitching.
Now everyday we crawl over it to pass outside, the wax form of what was staring out, its airless sleep, the mouse we built to warn the rest from us.