Best Famous Condor Poems

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

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Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 't is a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng bewinged bedight

In veils and drowned in tears 
Sit in a theatre to see

A play of hopes and fears 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.
Mimes in the form of God on high Mutter and mumble low And hither and thither fly - Mere puppets they who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe! That motley drama! - oh be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot And much of Madness and more of Sin And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs The mimes become its food And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.
Out - out are the lights - out all! And over each quivering form The curtain a funeral pall Comes down with the rush of a storm And the angels all pallid and wan Uprising unveiling affirm That the play is the tragedy "Man" And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

Romance

 Romance, who loves to nod and sing
With drowsy head and folded wing
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say,
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky; And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings, That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away—forbidden things— My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Death and Co

 Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now—— The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits The birthmarks that are his trademark—— The scald scar of water, The nude Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat.
His beak Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet The babies look in their hospital Icebox, a simple Frill at the neck Then the flutings of their Ionian Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that His hair long and plausive Bastard Masturbating a glitter He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower, The dew makes a star, The dead bell, The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
Written by Florbela Espanca | Create an image from this poem

to be a poet

To be a poet is to be louder , bigger
Than men! Biting as who kisses!
It is like being a beggar and to give whoever be
King of the Kingdom of Behind and Beyond  Pain!

It is to have  of a thousand wishes the splendor
And do not even to know what to want !
It is to have  here deep inside a flaming star,
It is to have  claws and wings of condor!

It is hunger, thirst of Infinite!
By elmo, the golden satin mornings .
.
.
It is to condense the world into a single cry! And is to love you, like that, madly .
.
.
You being soul and blood, and life in me And saying this singing it to everyone!
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

A Farewell to Agassiz

 How the mountains talked together,
Looking down upon the weather,
When they heard our friend had planned his
Little trip among the Andes
How they'll bare their snowy scalps
To the climber of the Alps
When the cry goes through their passes,
"Here comes the great Agassiz!"
"Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo,
"But I wait for him to say so,--
That's the only thing that lacks,-- he
Must see me, Cotopaxi!"
"Ay! ay!" the fire-peak thunders,
"And he must view my wonders
I'm but a lonely crater
Till I have him for spectator!"
The mountain hearts are yearning,
The lava-torches burning,
The rivers bend to meet him,
The forests bow to greet him,
It thrills the spinal column
Of fossil fishes solemn,
And glaciers crawl the faster
To the feet of their old master!
Heaven keep him well and hearty,
Both him and all his party!
From the sun that broils and smites,
From the centipede that bites,
From the hail-storm and the thunder,
From the vampire and the condor,
From the gust upon the river,
From the sudden earthquake shiver,
From the trip of mule or donkey,
From the midnight howling monkey,
From the stroke of knife or dagger,
From the puma and the jaguar,
From the horrid boa-constrictor
That has scared us in the picture,
From the Indians of the Pampas
Who would dine upon their grampas,
From every beast and vermin
That to think of sets us squirmin',
From every snake that tries on
The traveller his p'ison,
From every pest of Natur',
Likewise the alligator,
And from two things left behind him,
(Be sure they'll try to find him,)
The tax-bill and assessor,--
Heaven keep the great Professor!
May he find, with his apostles,
That the land is full of fossils,
That the waters swarm with fishes
Shaped according to his wishes,
That every pool is fertile
In fancy kinds of turtle,
New birds around him singing,
New insects, never stinging,
With a million novel data
About the articulata,
And facts that strip off all husks
From the history of mollusks.
And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That gods and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at! God bless the great Professor! And Madam, too, God bless her! Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed shore! Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creature's paeans, Till the fossil echoes roar; While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus, God bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor,-- Bless them now and evermore!
Written by Richard Hugo | Create an image from this poem

Letter To Kizer From Seattle

 Dear Condor: Much thanks for that telephonic support
from North Carolina when I suddenly went ape
in the Iowa tulips.
Lord, but I'm ashamed.
I was afraid, it seemed, according to the doctor of impending success, winning some poetry prizes or getting a wet kiss.
The more popular I got, the softer the soft cry in my head: Don't believe them.
You were never good.
Then I broke and proved it.
Ten successive days I alienated women I liked best.
I told a coed why her poems were bad (they weren't) and didn't understand a word I said.
Really warped.
The phrase "I'll be all right" came out too many unsolicited times.
I'm o.
k.
now.
I'm back at the primal source of poems: wind, sea and rain, the market and the salmon.
Speaking of the market, they're having a vital election here.
Save the market? Tear it down? The forces of evil maintain they're trying to save it too, obscuring, of course, the issue.
The forces of righteousness, me and my friends, are praying for a storm, one of those grim dark rolling southwest downpours that will leave the electorate sane.
I'm the last poet to teach the Roethke chair under Heilman.
He's retiring after 23 years.
Most of the old gang is gone.
Sol Katz is aging.
Who isn't? It's close now to the end of summer and would you believe it I've ignored the Blue Moon.
I did go to White Center, you know, my home town, and the people there, many are the same, but also aging, balking, remarkably polite and calm.
A man whose name escapes me said he thinks he had known me, the boy who went alone to Longfellow Creek and who laughed and cried for no reason.
The city is huge, maybe three quarters of a million and lots of crime.
They are indicting the former chief of police.
Sorry to be so rambling.
I eat lunch with J.
Hillis Miller, brilliant and nice as they come, in the faculty club, overlooking the lake, much of it now filled in.
And I tour old haunts, been twice to Kapowsin.
One trout.
One perch.
One poem.
Take care, oh wisest of condors.
Love.
Dick.
Thanks again.
Written by Florbela Espanca | Create an image from this poem

Ser poeta

Ser poeta é ser mais alto, é ser maior
Do que os homens! Morder como quem beija!
É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja
Rei do Reino de Aquém e de Além Dor!

É ter de mil desejos o esplendor
E não saber sequer que se deseja!
É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja,
É ter garras e asas de condor!

É ter fome, é ter sede de Infinito!
Por elmo, as manhãs de oiro e de cetim.
.
.
É condensar o mundo num só grito! E é amar-te, assim, perdidamente.
.
.
É seres alma, e sangue, e vida em mim E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente!
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Jennie MGrew

 Not, where the stairway turns in the dark,
A hooded figure, shriveled under a flowing cloak!
Not yellow eyes in the room at night,
Staring out from a surface of cobweb gray!
And not the flap of a condor wing,
When the roar of life in your ears begins
As a sound heard never before!
But on a sunny afternoon,
By a country road,
Where purple rag-weeds bloom along a straggling fence,
And the field is gleaned, and the air is still,
To see against the sun-light something black,
Like a blot with an iris rim --
That is the sign to eyes of second sight.
.
.
.
And that I saw!