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Best Famous Conditioned Poems

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

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Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Letter From Leeds

 Would ‘any woman’ find me difficult to live with?

My tastes are simple: space for several thousand books,

The smoke from my pipe stuffed with aromatic Balkan Sobranie, 

A leftover from the Sixties, frequent brief absences to fulfil

My duties as a carer, unending phone calls

And the unenviable reputation as England’s worst or best complainer,

"Treading on toes or keeping people on their toes"

Also a warm and welcoming vagina, an insatiable need

For ******** and cunnilingus, a bed with clean sheets

I can retire to by five with a hot water bottle 

To calm my churning viscera while I read 

Endless analytic texts, tomes of French poems to translate,

A notorious weekly newsletter to edit, a quarterly to write reviews for

And – I must confess – cable TV so I can access Starsky and Hutch. 

I need a cottage in Haworth to go with the wife,

Companion or whatever, to see with me the changing

Seasons of heather from purple September glory

To the browns of winter and wisps of summer green

And meet with Michael Haslam, fellow poet,

Maestro of the moors and shape-shifter supreme.

I write these verses sitting in the marble hall

Of City Station’s restored art deco glory,

The rats and debris of decades swept away,

How much I need the kindness of strangers,

The welcome from my son’s nurses on the 

Ward with the highest security rating Leeds possesses,

A magnificent rotunda among lawns and wooded glades,

Air conditioned with more staff than patients-

When visiting times are readily extended to encompass

My moorland walks and journeys to the capital

When I visit Brenda Williams, England’s leading protest poet.

In an Eden garden which spreads its lawned sleeves

To envelop my tobacco smoke which irritates everyone 

Or is it a displacement onto the smoker

As I ecstasise the red and yellow splendour of the red hot poker

Defiantly erect among the flowering robes of magnolia?

Here we reminisce of long ago days when our children

Blossomed with talent and showed no signs 

Of the unending torment of their adult years,

Depot injections, Red clouds which whirl as in end-on sections, absconding,

Liasing, losing and finding…


Written by John Betjeman | Create an image from this poem

Slough

 Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now, 
There isn't grass to graze a cow. 
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, 
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, 
Tinned minds, tinned breath. 

Mess up the mess they call a town—
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown 
For twenty years. 

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win, 
Who washes his repulsive skin 
In women's tears: 

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell. 

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad, 
They've tasted Hell. 

It's not their fault they do not know 
The birdsong from the radio, 
It's not their fault they often go 
To Maidenhead 

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars 
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead. 

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails. 

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Leeds 2002

 What ghosts haunt

These streets of perpetual night?

Riverbanks fractured with splinters of glass condominiums

For nouveam riche merchant bankers

Black-tied bouncers man clubland glitz casinos

Novotel, Valley Park Motel, the Hilton:

Hot tubs, saunas, swim spas, en suite 

Satellite TV, conference rooms, disco dinners.

I knew Len, the tubby taxi man

With his retirement dreams of visiting

The world’s great galleries:

‘Titian, Leonardo, Goya,

I’ve lived all my life in the house I was born in

All my life I’ve saved for this trip’ 

The same house he was done to death in

Tortured by three fourteen year olds,

Made headlines for one night, another

Murder to add to Beeston’s five this year. 

Yorkshire Forward advertises nation-wide

The north’s attractions for business expansion

Nothing fits together any more 

Addicts in doorways trying to score

The new Porsches and the new poor

Air-conditioned thirty-foot limos, fibre-optic lit,

Uniformed chauffeurs fully trained in close protection

And anti-hijack techniques, simply the best –

See for yourself in mirrored ceilings.

See for yourself the screaming youth

Soaring psychotic one Sunday afternoon

Staggering round the new coach station

"I’ll beat him to death the day I see him next"





Fifty yards away Millgarth police station’s 

Fifty foot banner proclaims ‘Let’s fight crime together’

I am no poet for this age

I cannot drain nostalgia from my blood
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

A Bush Christening

 On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
 And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
 One Michael Magee had a shanty. 

Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
 Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
 For the youngster had never been christened. 

And his wife used to cry, "If the darlin' should die
 Saint Peter would not recognise him."
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
 Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. 

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
 With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
 "What the divil and all is this christenin'?" 

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
 And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
 It must mean something very like branding. 

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
 While the tears in his eyelids they glistened—
"'Tis outrageous," says he, "to brand youngsters like me,
 I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!" 

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
 And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the "praste" cried aloud in his haste,
 "Come out and be christened, you divil!" 

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
 And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
 "I've a notion," says he, "that'll move him." 

"Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
 Poke him aisy—don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
 As he rushes out this end I'll name him. 

"Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name—
 Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?"
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout—
 "Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!" 

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
 Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
 That was labelled "Maginnis's Whisky"! 

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
 And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
 How he came to be christened Maginnis!
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Will Consider Situation

 There here are words of radical advice for a young man looking for a job;
Young man, be a snob.
Yes, if you are in search of arguments against starting at the bottom,
Why I've gottem.
Let the personnel managers differ;
It,s obvious that you will get on faster at the top than at the bottom because
there are more people at the bottom than at the top so naturally the competition
at the bottom is stiffer.
If you need any further proof that my theory works
Well, nobody can deny that presidents get paid more than vice-presidents and
vice-presidents get paid more than clerks.
Stop looking at me quizzically;
I want to add that you will never achieve fortune in a job that makes you
uncomfortable physically.
When anybody tells you that hard jobs are better for you than soft jobs be sure
to repeat this text to them,
Postmen tramp around all day through rain and snow just to deliver other
people's in cozy air-conditioned offices checks to them.
You don't need to interpret tea leaves stuck in a cup
To understand that people who work sitting down get paid more than people who
work standing up.
Another thing about having a comfortable job is you not only accommodate more
treasure;
You get more leisure.
So that when you find you have worked so comfortably that your waistline is a
menace,
You correct it with golf or tennis.
Whereas is in an uncomfortable job like piano-moving or stevedoring you
indulge,
You have no time to exercise, you just continue to bulge.
To sum it up, young man, there is every reason to refuse a job that will make
heavy demands on you corporally or manually,
And the only intelligent way to start your career is to accept a sitting
position paying at least twenty-five thousand dollars annually.


Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Her Dilemma

 THE two were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,
And wasted carvings passed antique research;
And nothing broke the clock's dull monotones.

Leaning against a wormy poppy-head,
So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,
--For he was soon to die,--he softly said,
"Tell me you love me!"--holding hard her hand.

She would have given a world to breathe "yes" truly,
So much his life seemed hanging on her mind,
And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly,
'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.

But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,
So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize
A world conditioned thus, or care for breath
Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Bush Christening

 On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, 
And men of religion are scanty, 
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, 
One Michael Magee had a shanty. 
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, 
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; 
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest 
For the youngster had never been christened. 

And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die 
Saint Peter would not recognise him.' 
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, 
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. 

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, 
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', 
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, 
`What the divil and all is this christenin'?' 

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, 
And it seemed to his small understanding, 
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, 
It must mean something very like branding. 

So away with a rush he set off for the bush, 
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -- 
`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me, 
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' 

Like a young native dog he ran into a log, 
And his father with language uncivil, 
Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste, 
`Come out and be christened, you divil!' 

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, 
And his parents in vain might reprove him, 
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) 
`I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.' 

`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; 
Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him, 
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, 
As he rushes out this end I'll name him. 

`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -- 
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' 
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -- 
`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!' 

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub 
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, 
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head 
That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'! 

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., 
And the one thing he hates more than sin is 
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, 
How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

Take care you never hold a drinking-bout

Take care you never hold a drinking-bout
With an ill-tempered, ill-conditioned lout;
He'll make a vile disturbance all night long,
And vile apologies next day, no doubt.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry