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Best Famous Convoluted Poems

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

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Written by Erica Jong | Create an image from this poem

Henry James in the Heart of the City

 We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City.

Nothing would surprise him.
The beast in the jungle was what he saw--
Edith Wharton's obfuscating older brother. . .

He fled the demons
of Manhattan
for fear they would devour
his inner ones
(the ones who wrote the books)
& silence the stifled screams
of his protagonists.

To Europe
like a wandering Jew--
WASP that he was--
but with the Jew's
outsider's hunger. . .

face pressed up
to the glass of sex
refusing every passion
but the passion to write
the words grew
more & more complex
& convoluted
until they utterly imprisoned him
in their fairytale brambles.

Language for me
is meant to be
a transparency,
clear water gleaming
under a covered bridge. . .
I love his spiritual sister
because she snatched clarity
from her murky history.

Tormented New Yorkers both,
but she journeyed
to the heart of light--
did he?

She took her friends on one last voyage,
through the isles of Greece
on a yacht chartered with her royalties--
a rich girl proud to be making her own money.

The light of the Middle Sea
was what she sought.
All denizens
of this demonic city caught
between pitch and black
long for the light.

But she found it
in a few of her books. . .
while Henry James
discovered
what he had probably
started with:
that beast, that jungle,
that solipsistic scream.

He did not join her
on that final cruise.
(He was on his own final cruise).
Did he want to?
I would wager yes.

I look back with love and sorrow
at them both--
dear teachers--
but she shines like Miss Liberty
to Emma Lazarus' hordes,
while he gazes within,
always, at his own
impenetrable jungle.


Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Recantation

 1917

(To Lyde of the Music Halls)


What boots it on the Gods to call?
 Since, answered or unheard,
We perish with the Gods and all
 Things made--except the Word.

Ere certain Fate had touched a heart
 By fifty years made cold,
I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art
 O'erblown and over-bold.

But he--but he, of whom bereft
 I suffer vacant days--
He on his shield not meanly left
 He cherished all thy lays.

Witness the magic coffer stocked
 With convoluted runes
Wherein thy very voice was locked
 And linked to circling tunes.

Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,
 That decked his shelter-place.
Life seemed more present, wrote the child,
 Beneath thy well-known face.

And when the grudging days restored
 Him for a breath to home,
He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored
 Thee making mirth in Rome.

Therefore, I humble, join the hosts,
 Loyal and loud, who bow
To thee as Queen of Song--and ghosts,
 For I remember how

Never more rampant rose the Hall
 At thy audacious line
Than when the news came in from Gaul
 Thy son had--followed mine.

But thou didst hide it in thy breast
 And, capering, took the brunt
Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest
 That swept next week the front.

Singer to children! Ours possessed
 Sleep before noon--but thee,
Wakeful each midnight for the rest,
 No holocaust shall free!

Yet they who use the Word assigned,
 To hearten and make whole,
Not less than Gods have served mankind,
 Though vultures rend their soul.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Bombay

 In your bosom we wake up with fear,
In your sky there’s only unending tears,
You always roar, but within,
Hangs silence like a shroud of death.

You are rocked, periodically, by bombs,
Yet, we go about our business,
As if nothing happened, all’s well,
Are we too dazed to protest?

In your hungry, convoluted entrails, 
Lie pauper and millionaire,
Separated only by the whimsy,
Of your very partial benevolence.

On your skyline of sooty chimneys,
Decaying concrete, bristling antennas,
Are the sad stories of fortunes,
Made and lost, just as lost loves.

City of gold, they say, which never sleeps,
Will you stay awake, tonight,
Wipe away our cascading tears,
And give our tired bodies some sleep?

Book: Reflection on the Important Things