Best Famous Computer Poems

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

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Poems are below...



Written by Helen Dunmore | Create an image from this poem

All The Things You Are Not Yet

 for tess

Tonight there's a crowd in my head:
all the things you are not yet.
You are words without paper, pages sighing in summer forests, gardens where builders stub out their rubble and plastic oozes its sweat.
All the things you are, you are not yet.
Not yet the lonely window in midwinter with the whine of tea on an empty stomach, not yet the heating you can't afford and must wait for, tamping a coin in on each hour.
Not the gorgeous shush of restaurant doors and their interiors, always so much smaller.
Not the smell of the newsprint, the blur on your fingertips — your fame.
Not yet the love you will have for Winter Pearmains and Chanel No 5 — and then your being unable to buy both washing-machine and computer when your baby's due to be born, and my voice saying, "I'll get you one" and you frowning, frowning at walls and surfaces which are not mine — all this, not yet.
Give me your hand, that small one without a mark of work on it, the one that's strange to the washing-up bowl and doesn't know Fairy Liquid for whiskey.
Not yet the moment of your arrival in taxis at daring destinations, or your being alone at stations with the skirts of your fashionable clothes flapping and no money for the telephone.
Not yet the moment when I can give you nothing so well-folded it fits in an envelope — a dull letter you won't reread.
Not yet the moment of your assimilation in that river flowing westward: rivers of clothes, of dreams, an accent unlike my own saying to someone I don't know: darling.
.
.
Written by Marilyn Hacker | Create an image from this poem

Morning News

 Spring wafts up the smell of bus exhaust, of bread
and fried potatoes, tips green on the branches,
repeats old news: arrogance, ignorance, war.
A cinder-block wall shared by two houses is new rubble.
On one side was a kitchen sink and a cupboard, on the other was a bed, a bookshelf, three framed photographs.
Glass is shattered across the photographs; two half-circles of hardened pocket bread sit on the cupboard.
There provisionally was shelter, a plastic truck under the branches of a fig tree.
A knife flashed in the kitchen, merely dicing garlic.
Engines of war move inexorably toward certain houses while citizens sit safe in other houses reading the newspaper, whose photographs make sanitized excuses for the war.
There are innumerable kinds of bread brought up from bakeries, baked in the kitchen: the date, the latitude, tell which one was dropped by a child beneath the bloodied branches.
The uncontrolled and multifurcate branches of possibility infiltrate houses' walls, windowframes, ceilings.
Where there was a tower, a town: ash and burnt wires, a graph on a distant computer screen.
Elsewhere, a kitchen table's setting gapes, where children bred to branch into new lives were culled for war.
Who wore this starched smocked cotton dress? Who wore this jersey blazoned for the local branch of the district soccer team? Who left this black bread and this flat gold bread in their abandoned houses? Whose father begged for mercy in the kitchen? Whose memory will frame the photograph and use the memory for what it was never meant for by this girl, that old man, who was caught on a ball field, near a window: war, exhorted through the grief a photograph revives.
(Or was the team a covert branch of a banned group; were maps drawn in the kitchen, a bomb thrust in a hollowed loaf of bread?) What did the old men pray for in their houses of prayer, the teachers teach in schoolhouses between blackouts and blasts, when each word was flensed by new censure, books exchanged for bread, both hostage to the happenstance of war? Sometimes the only schoolroom is a kitchen.
Outside the window, black strokes on a graph of broken glass, birds line up on bare branches.
"This letter curves, this one spreads its branches like friends holding hands outside their houses.
" Was the lesson stopped by gunfire? Was there panic, silence? Does a torn photograph still gather children in the teacher's kitchen? Are they there meticulously learning war- time lessons with the signs for house, book, bread?
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

16-bit Intel 8088 chip

 with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64 drive read a file you have created on an IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use the CP/M operating system but can't read each other's handwriting for they format (write on) discs in different ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but can't use most programs produced for the IBM Personal Computer unless certain bits and bytes are altered but the wind still blows over Savannah and in the Spring the turkey buzzard struts and flounces before his hens.
Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Create an image from this poem

Old and New

If an ancient man saw planes two thousand years ago 
He would've thought they were birds 
Or angels from another world 
Or messengers from other planets.
Every new machine would have surprised him— The car, TV, radio, phone, camera.
He would've thought he was a savage Who didn't understand.
If he saw a computer, Watching people talking on the internet, He would have thought it was a civilization Much more advanced and ahead of his.
And if he stayed longer among the messengers He would have learned that every child had the knowledge And understanding of these things Or how to use all of them.
Yet, after a while, he would have noticed That none of them were advanced enough To be labeled as those who know more Than the one who said: I know nothing.
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Gee Youre So Beautiful That Its Starting To Rain

 Oh, Marcia, 
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsicord.
I want high school report cards to look like this: Playing with Gentle Glass Things A Computer Magic A Writing Letters to Those You Love A Finding out about Fish A Marcia's Long Blonde Beauty A+!
Written by Kenn Nesbitt | Create an image from this poem

Poor Cinderella

Poor Cinderella, whose stepmom was mean,
could never see films rated PG-13.
She hadn’t a cell phone and no DVD,
no notebook computer or pocket TV.
She wasn’t allowed to play video games.
The tags on her clothes had unfashionable names.
Her shoes were not trendy enough to be cool.
No limousine chauffeur would drive her to school.
Her house had no drawing room; only a den.
Her bedtime, poor darling, was quarter past ten!
Well one day Prince Charming declared that a ball
would be held in his honor and maidens from all
over the kingdom were welcome to come
and party to techno and jungle house drum.
But Poor Cinderella, with nothing to wear,
collapsed in her stepmother’s La-Z-Boy chair.
She let out a sigh, with a lump in her throat,
then sniffled and picked up the TV remote.
She surfed channel zero to channel one-ten
then went back to zero and started again.
She watched music videos, sitcoms and sports,
commercials and talkshows and weather reports.
But no fairy godmother came to her side
to offer a dress or a carriage to ride.
So Poor Cinderella’s been sitting there since,
while one of her stepsisters married the Prince.
She sits there and sadly complains to the screen,
if only her stepmother wasn’t so mean.

 --Kenn Nesbitt

Copyright © Kenn Nesbitt 2009. All Rights Reserved.