Best Famous Cod Poems

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

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Written by James Joyce | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad of Persse OReilly

 Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
 (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
 Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship To the penal jail of Mountjoy (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy! Jail him and joy.
He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace, Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week, Openair love and religion's reform, (Chorus) And religious reform, Hideous in form.
Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it? I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling, Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys All your butter is in your horns.
(Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
Butter his horns! (Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt on ye, Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns! Balbaccio, balbuccio! We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox and china chambers Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.
When Chimpden first took the floor (Chorus) With his bucketshop store Down Bargainweg, Lower.
So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited company With the bailiff's bom at the door, (Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
Then he'll bum no more.
Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island The hooker of that hammerfast viking And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay Saw his black and tan man-o'-war.
(Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war On the harbour bar.
Where from? roars Poolbeg.
Cookingha'pence, he bawls Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
(Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
He is, begod.
Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann, the rhyming rann! It was during some fresh water garden pumping Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey Made bold a maid to woo (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo! The general lost her maidenloo! He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher, For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue Of our antediluvial zoo, (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo.
Noah's larks, good as noo.
He was joulting by Wellinton's monument Our rotorious hippopopotamuns When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus And he caught his death of fusiliers, (Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
Give him six years.
'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children But look out for his missus legitimate! When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker Won't there be earwigs on the green? (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green, The largest ever you seen.
Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses! Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown Along with the devil and the Danes, (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes, And all their remains.
And not all the king's men nor his horses Will resurrect his corpus For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell (bis) That's able to raise a Cain.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The English Flag

 Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack,
remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately
when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts,
and seemed to see significance in the incident.
Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro -- And what should they know of England who only England know? -- The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag! Must we borrow a clout from the Boer -- to plaster anew with dirt? An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt? We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share.
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! The North Wind blew: -- "From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go; I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.
"I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.
"The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, Ye have but my drifts to conquer.
Go forth, for it is there!" The South Wind sighed: -- "From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.
"Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, I waked the palms to laughter -- I tossed the scud in the breeze -- Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.
"I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; I have chased it north to the Lizard -- ribboned and rolled and torn; I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.
"My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, Ye have but my seas to furrow.
Go forth, for it is there!" The East Wind roared: -- "From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.
Look -- look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon! "The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, I raped your richest roadstead -- I plundered Singapore! I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.
"Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake, But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake -- Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid -- Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.
"The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, Ye have but my sands to travel.
Go forth, for it is there!" The West Wind called: -- "In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die.
They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.
"I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll, For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.
"But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day, I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.
"The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it -- the frozen dews have kissed -- The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, Ye have but my waves to conquer.
Go forth, for it is there!"
Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

A Ramble in St. Jamess Park

 Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who fucks who, and who does worse
(Such as you usually do hear
From those that diet at the Bear),
When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery,
Went out into St.
James's Park To cool my head and fire my heart.
But though St.
James has th' honor on 't, 'Tis consecrate to prick and cunt.
There, by a most incestuous birth, Strange woods spring from the teeming earth; For they relate how heretofore, When ancient Pict began to whore, Deluded of his assignation (Jilting, it seems, was then in fashion), Poor pensive lover, in this place Would frig upon his mother's face; Whence rows of mandrakes tall did rise Whose lewd tops fucked the very skies.
Each imitative branch does twine In some loved fold of Aretine, And nightly now beneath their shade Are buggeries, rapes, and incests made.
Unto this all-sin-sheltering grove Whores of the bulk and the alcove, Great ladies, chambermaids, and drudges, The ragpicker, and heiress trudges.
Carmen, divines, great lords, and tailors, Prentices, poets, pimps, and jailers, Footmen, fine fops do here arrive, And here promiscuously they swive.
Along these hallowed walks it was That I beheld Corinna pass.
Whoever had been by to see The proud disdain she cast on me Through charming eyes, he would have swore She dropped from heaven that very hour, Forsaking the divine abode In scorn of some despairing god.
But mark what creatures women are: How infinitely vile, when fair! Three knights o' the' elbow and the slur With wriggling tails made up to her.
The first was of your Whitehall baldes, Near kin t' th' Mother of the Maids; Graced by whose favor he was able To bring a friend t' th' Waiters' table, Where he had heard Sir Edward Sutton Say how the King loved Banstead mutton; Since when he'd ne'er be brought to eat By 's good will any other meat.
In this, as well as all the rest, He ventures to do like the best, But wanting common sense, th' ingredient In choosing well not least expedient, Converts abortive imitation To universal affectation.
Thus he not only eats and talks But feels and smells, sits down and walks, Nay looks, and lives, and loves by rote, In an old tawdry birthday coat.
The second was a Grays Inn wit, A great inhabiter of the pit, Where critic-like he sits and squints, Steals pocket handkerchiefs, and hints From 's neighbor, and the comedy, To court, and pay, his landlady.
The third, a lady's eldest son Within few years of twenty-one Who hopes from his propitious fate, Against he comes to his estate, By these two worthies to be made A most accomplished tearing blade.
One, in a strain 'twixt tune and nonsense, Cries, "Madam, I have loved you long since.
Permit me your fair hand to kiss"; When at her mouth her cunt cries, "Yes!" In short, without much more ado, Joyful and pleased, away she flew, And with these three confounded asses From park to hackney coach she passes.
So a proud bitch does lead about Of humble curs the amorous rout, Who most obsequiously do hunt The savory scent of salt-swoln cunt.
Some power more patient now relate The sense of this surprising fate.
Gods! that a thing admired by me Should fall to so much infamy.
Had she picked out, to rub her arse on, Some stiff-pricked clown or well-hung parson, Each job of whose spermatic sluice Had filled her cunt with wholesome juice, I the proceeding should have praised In hope sh' had quenched a fire I raised.
Such natural freedoms are but just: There's something generous in mere lust.
But to turn a damned abandoned jade When neither head nor tail persuade; To be a whore in understanding, A passive pot for fools to spend in! The devil played booty, sure, with thee To bring a blot on infamy.
But why am I, of all mankind, To so severe a fate designed? Ungrateful! Why this treachery To humble fond, believing me, Who gave you privilege above The nice allowances of love? Did ever I refuse to bear The meanest part your lust could spare? When your lewd cunt came spewing home Drenched with the seed of half the town, My dram of sperm was supped up after For the digestive surfeit water.
Full gorged at another time With a vast meal of slime Which your devouring cunt had drawn From porters' backs and footmen's brawn, I was content to serve you up My ballock-full for your grace cup, Nor ever thought it an abuse While you had pleasure for excuse - You that could make my heart away For noise and color, and betray The secrets of my tender hours To such knight-errant paramours, When, leaning on your faithless breast, Wrapped in security and rest, Soft kindness all my powers did move, And reason lay dissolved in love! May stinking vapors choke your womb Such as the men you dote upon May your depraved appetite, That could in whiffling fools delight, Beget such frenzies in your mind You may go mad for the north wind, And fixing all your hopes upon't To have him bluster in your cunt, Turn up your longing arse t' th' air And perish in a wild despair! But cowards shall forget to rant, Schoolboys to frig, old whores to paint; The Jesuits' fraternity Shall leave the use of buggery; Crab-louse, inspired with grace divine, From earthly cod to heaven shall climb; Physicians shall believe in Jesus, And disobedience cease to please us, Ere I desist with all my power To plague this woman and undo her.
But my revenge will best be timed When she is married that is limed.
In that most lamentable state I'll make her feel my scorn and hate: Pelt her with scandals, truth or lies, And her poor cur with jealousied, Till I have torn him from her breech, While she whines like a dog-drawn bitch; Loathed and despised, kicked out o' th' Town Into some dirty hole alone, To chew the cud of misery And know she owes it all to me.
And may no woman better thrive That dares prophane the cunt I swive!
Written by Ted Hughes | Create an image from this poem

The Warm and the Cold

 Freezing dusk is closing
 Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
 That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened Like a nut screwed tight On the starry aeroplane Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world Like a mammoth of ice - The past and the future Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump Like money in a pig.
Such a frost The flimsy moon Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers Turn in their sleep Like oxen on spits.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

87. The Twa Dogs

 ’TWAS 1 in that place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin’ thro’ the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.
The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, Was keepit for His Honor’s pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar; But though he was o’ high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev’n wi’ al tinkler-gipsy’s messin: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie, But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
The tither was a ploughman’s collie— A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him, And in freak had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland Sang, 2 Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face Aye gat him friends in ilka place; His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, And unco pack an’ thick thegither; Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit; Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit; Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion, An’ worry’d ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown Upon a knowe they set them down.
An’ there began a lang digression.
About the “lords o’ the creation.
” CÆSAR I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents: He rises when he likes himsel’; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse, As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks, The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie, That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant-man His Honour has in a’ the lan’: An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it’s past my comprehension.
LUATH Trowth, C&æsar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh: A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, an’ sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans, An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape.
An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger: But how it comes, I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.
CÆSAR But then to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit! Lord man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinkin brock.
I’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day,— An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,— Poor tenant bodies, scant o’cash, How they maun thole a factor’s snash; He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble, An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! LUATH They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think.
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, The view o’t gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They’re aye in less or mair provided: An’ tho’ fatigued wi’ close employment, A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o’ their lives, Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
An’ whiles twalpennie worth o’ nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy: They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs; They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests, Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts, Or tell what new taxation’s comin, An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.
As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, rantin kirns, When rural life, of ev’ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.
That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win’s; The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi’ right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro’ the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.
Still it’s owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play’d; There’s mony a creditable stock O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root an’ branch, Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi’ some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, For Britain’s guid his saul indentin— CÆSAR Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him: An’ saying ay or no’s they bid him: At operas an’ plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father’s auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: Then bowses drumlie German-water, To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter, An’ clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain’s guid! for her destruction! Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.
LUATH Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themsels wi’ country sports, It wad for ev’ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o’ their timmer, Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk, But will ye tell me, Master C&æsar, Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, The very thought o’t need na fear them.
CÆSAR L—d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat: They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a’ their colleges an’ schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsel’s to vex them; An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh, His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel; But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy; Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless.
An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races, Their galloping through public places, There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches, Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard, An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman; But this is gentry’s life in common.
By this, the sun was out of sight, An’ darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; An’ each took aff his several way, Resolv’d to meet some ither day.
Note 1.
Luath was Burns’ own dog.
[back] Note 2.
Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

That Day

 This is the desk I sit at
and this is the desk where I love you too much
and this is the typewriter that sits before me
where yesterday only your body sat before me
with its shoulders gathered in like a Greek chorus,
with its tongue like a king making up rules as he goes,
with its tongue quite openly like a cat lapping milk,
with its tongue -- both of us coiled in its slippery life.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your tongue, your tongue that came from your lips, two openers, half animals, half birds caught in the doorway of your heart.
That was the day I followed the king's rules, passing by your red veins and your blue veins, my hands down the backbone, down quick like a firepole, hands between legs where you display your inner knowledge, where diamond mines are buried and come forth to bury, come forth more sudden than some reconstructed city.
It is complete within seconds, that monument.
The blood runs underground yet brings forth a tower.
A multitude should gather for such an edifice.
For a miracle one stands in line and throws confetti.
Surely The Press is here looking for headlines.
Surely someone should carry a banner on the sidewalk.
If a bridge is constructed doesn't the mayor cut a ribbon? If a phenomenon arrives shouldn't the Magi come bearing gifts? Yesterday was the day I bore gifts for your gift and came from the valley to meet you on the pavement.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your face, your face after love, close to the pillow, a lullaby.
Half asleep beside me letting the old fashioned rocker stop, our breath became one, became a child-breath together, while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes, while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth, while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep, "Sh.
We're driving to Cape Cod.
We're heading for the Bourne Bridge.
We're circling the Bourne Circle.
" Bourne! Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time that I would be pierced and you would take root in me and that I might bring forth your born, might bear the you or the ghost of you in my little household.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
Written by Robert Lowell | Create an image from this poem

For the Union Dead

 "Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam.
" The old South Boston Aquarium stands in a Sahara of snow now.
Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass; my hand tingled to burst the bubbles drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.
My hand draws back.
I often sigh still for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom of the fish and reptile.
One morning last March, I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized fence on the Boston Common.
Behind their cage, yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting as they cropped up tons of mush and grass to gouge their underworld garage.
Parking spaces luxuriate like civic sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders braces the tingling Statehouse, shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry on St.
Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief, propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.
Two months after marching through Boston, half the regiment was dead; at the dedication, William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean as a compass-needle.
He has an angry wrenlike vigilance, a greyhound's gently tautness; he seems to wince at pleasure, and suffocate for privacy.
He is out of bounds now.
He rejoices in man's lovely, peculiar power to choose life and die-- when he leads his black soldiers to death, he cannot bend his back.
On a thousand small town New England greens, the old white churches hold their air of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.
The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier grow slimmer and younger each year-- wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets and muse through their sideburns .
Shaw's father wanted no monument except the ditch, where his son's body was thrown and lost with his "niggers.
" The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here; on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph shows Hiroshima boiling over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages" that survived the blast.
Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set, the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.
Colonel Shaw is riding on his bubble, he waits for the bless?d break.
The Aquarium is gone.
Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.
Written by Robert Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket

 (For Warren Winslow, Dead At Sea)
 Let man have dominion over the fishes of the sea and
 the fowls of the air and the beasts and the whole earth,
 and every creeping creature that moveth upon the earth.
I A brackish reach of shoal off Madaket-- The sea was still breaking violently and night Had steamed into our North Atlantic Fleet, When the drowned sailor clutched the drag-net.
Light Flashed from his matted head and marble feet, He grappled at the net With the coiled, hurdling muscles of his thighs: The corpse was bloodless, a botch of reds and whites, Its open, staring eyes Were lustreless dead-lights Or cabin-windows on a stranded hulk Heavy with sand.
We weight the body, close Its eyes and heave it seaward whence it came, Where the heel-headed dogfish barks it nose On Ahab's void and forehead; and the name Is blocked in yellow chalk.
Sailors, who pitch this portent at the sea Where dreadnaughts shall confess Its heel-bent deity, When you are powerless To sand-bag this Atlantic bulwark, faced By the earth-shaker, green, unwearied, chaste In his steel scales: ask for no Orphean lute To pluck life back.
The guns of the steeled fleet Recoil and then repeat The hoarse salute.
II Whenever winds are moving and their breath Heaves at the roped-in bulwarks of this pier, The terns and sea-gulls tremble at your death In these home waters.
Sailor, can you hear The Pequod's sea wings, beating landward, fall Headlong and break on our Atlantic wall Off 'Sconset, where the yawing S-boats splash The bellbuoy, with ballooning spinnakers, As the entangled, screeching mainsheet clears The blocks: off Madaket, where lubbers lash The heavy surf and throw their long lead squids For blue-fish? Sea-gulls blink their heavy lids Seaward.
The winds' wings beat upon the stones, Cousin, and scream for you and the claws rush At the sea's throat and wring it in the slush Of this old Quaker graveyard where the bones Cry out in the long night for the hurt beast Bobbing by Ahab's whaleboats in the East.
III All you recovered from Poseidon died With you, my cousin, and the harrowed brine Is fruitless on the blue beard of the god, Stretching beyond us to the castles in Spain, Nantucket's westward haven.
To Cape Cod Guns, cradled on the tide, Blast the eelgrass about a waterclock Of bilge and backwash, roil the salt and sand Lashing earth's scaffold, rock Our warships in the hand Of the great God, where time's contrition blues Whatever it was these Quaker sailors lost In the mad scramble of their lives.
They died When time was open-eyed, Wooden and childish; only bones abide There, in the nowhere, where their boats were tossed Sky-high, where mariners had fabled news Of IS, the whited monster.
What it cost Them is their secret.
In the sperm-whale's slick I see the Quakers drown and hear their cry: "If God himself had not been on our side, If God himself had not been on our side, When the Atlantic rose against us, why, Then it had swallowed us up quick.
" IV This is the end of the whaleroad and the whale Who spewed Nantucket bones on the thrashed swell And stirred the troubled waters to whirlpools To send the Pequod packing off to hell: This is the end of them, three-quarters fools, Snatching at straws to sail Seaward and seaward on the turntail whale, Spouting out blood and water as it rolls, Sick as a dog to these Atlantic shoals: Clamavimus, O depths.
Let the sea-gulls wail For water, for the deep where the high tide Mutters to its hurt self, mutters and ebbs.
Waves wallow in their wash, go out and out, Leave only the death-rattle of the crabs, The beach increasing, its enormous snout Sucking the ocean's side.
This is the end of running on the waves; We are poured out like water.
Who will dance The mast-lashed master of Leviathans Up from this field of Quakers in their unstoned graves? V When the whale's viscera go and the roll Of its corruption overruns this world Beyond tree-swept Nantucket and Wood's Hole And Martha's Vineyard, Sailor, will your sword Whistle and fall and sink into the fat? In the great ash-pit of Jehoshaphat The bones cry for the blood of the white whale, The fat flukes arch and whack about its ears, The death-lance churns into the sanctuary, tears The gun-blue swingle, heaving like a flail, And hacks the coiling life out: it works and drags And rips the sperm-whale's midriff into rags, Gobbets of blubber spill to wind and weather, Sailor, and gulls go round the stoven timbers Where the morning stars sing out together And thunder shakes the white surf and dismembers The red flag hammered in the mast-head.
Hide, Our steel, Jonas Messias, in Thy side.
VI OUR LADY OF WALSINGHAM There once the penitents took off their shoes And then walked barefoot the remaining mile; And the small trees, a stream and hedgerows file Slowly along the munching English lane, Like cows to the old shrine, until you lose Track of your dragging pain.
The stream flows down under the druid tree, Shiloah's whirlpools gurgle and make glad The castle of God.
Sailor, you were glad And whistled Sion by that stream.
But see: Our Lady, too small for her canopy, Sits near the altar.
There's no comeliness at all or charm in that expressionless Face with its heavy eyelids.
As before, This face, for centuries a memory, Non est species, neque decor, Expressionless, expresses God: it goes Past castled Sion.
She knows what God knows, Not Calvary's Cross nor crib at Bethlehem Now, and the world shall come to Walsingham.
VII The empty winds are creaking and the oak splatters and splatters on the cenotaph, The boughs are trembling and a gaff Bobs on the untimely stroke Of the greased wash exploding on a shoal-bell In the old mouth of the Atlantic.
It's well; Atlantic, you are fouled with the blue sailors, sea-monsters, upward angel, downward fish: Unmarried and corroding, spare of flesh Mart once of supercilious, wing'd clippers, Atlantic, where your bell-trap guts its spoil You could cut the brackish winds with a knife Here in Nantucket, and cast up the time When the Lord God formed man from the sea's slime And breathed into his face the breath of life, And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.
The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Lines To Be Embroidered On A Bib

The Child Is Father Of The Man, But Not For Quite A While

So Thomas Edison
Never drank his medicine;
So Blackstone and Hoyle
Refused cod-liver oil;
So Sir Thomas Malory
Never heard of a calory;
So the Earl of Lennox
Murdered Rizzio without the aid of vitamins or calisthenox;
So Socrates and Plato
Ate dessert without finishing their potato;
So spinach was too spinachy
For Leonardo da Vinaci;
Well, it's all immaterial,
So eat your nice cereal,
And if you want to name your ration,
First go get a reputation.
Written by Wang Wei | Create an image from this poem


There's a girl from Loyang in the door across the street, 
She looks fifteen, she may be a little older.
While her master rides his rapid horse with jade bit an bridle, Her handmaid brings her cod-fish in a golden plate.
On her painted pavilions, facing red towers, Cornices are pink and green with peach-bloom and with willow, Canopies of silk awn her seven-scented chair, And rare fans shade her, home to her nine-flowered curtains.
Her lord, with rank and wealth and in the bud of life, Exceeds in munificence the richest men of old.
He favours this girl of lowly birth, he has her taught to dance; And he gives away his coral-trees to almost anyone.
The wind of dawn just stirs when his nine soft lights go out, Those nine soft lights like petals in a flying chain of flowers.
Between dances she has barely time for singing over the songs; No sooner is she dressed again than incense burns before her.
Those she knows in town are only the rich and the lavish, And day and night she is visiting the hosts of the gayest mansions.
Who notices the girl from Yue with a face of white jade, Humble, poor, alone, by the river, washing silk?