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Best Famous Corinna Poems

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

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Written by Adrienne Rich | Create an image from this poem

Snapshots of a Daughter-In-Law

  1

You, once a belle in Shreveport,
with henna-colored hair, skin like a peachbud,
still have your dresses copied from that time,
and play a Chopin prelude
called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections
float like perfume through the memory.
" Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake, heavy with useless experience, rich with suspicion, rumor, fantasy, crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge of mere fact.
In the prime of your life.
Nervy, glowering, your daughter wipes the teaspoons, grows another way.
2 Banging the coffee-pot into the sink she hears the angels chiding, and looks out past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky.
Only a week since They said: Have no patience.
The next time it was: Be insatiable.
Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save.
Sometimes she's let the tapstream scald her arm, a match burn to her thumbnail, or held her hand above the kettle's snout right inthe woolly steam.
They are probably angels, since nothing hurts her anymore, except each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.
3 A thinking woman sleeps with monsters.
The beak that grips her, she becomes.
And Nature, that sprung-lidded, still commodious steamer-trunk of tempora and mores gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers, the female pills, the terrible breasts of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids.
Two handsome women, gripped in argument, each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream across the cut glass and majolica like Furies cornered from their prey: The argument ad feminam, all the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours, ma semblable, ma soeur! 4 Knowing themselves too well in one another: their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn, the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn.
.
.
Reading while waiting for the iron to heat, writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun-- in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum, or, more often, iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird, dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.
5 Dulce ridens, dulce loquens, she shaves her legs until they gleam like petrified mammoth-tusk.
6 When to her lute Corinna sings neither words nor music are her own; only the long hair dipping over her cheek, only the song of silk against her knees and these adjusted in reflections of an eye.
Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before an unlocked door, that cage of cages, tell us, you bird, you tragical machine-- is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down by love, for you the only natural action, are you edged more keen to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown her household books to you, daughter-in-law, that her sons never saw? 7 "To have in this uncertain world some stay which cannot be undermined, is of the utmost consequence.
" Thus wrote a woman, partly brave and partly good, who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more, hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore.
8 "You all die at fifteen," said Diderot, and turn part legend, part convention.
Still, eyes inaccurately dream behind closed windows blankening with steam.
Deliciously, all that we might have been, all that we were--fire, tears, wit, taste, martyred ambition-- stirs like the memory of refused adultery the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years.
9 Not that it is done well, but that it is done at all? Yes, think of the odds! or shrug them off forever.
This luxury of the precocious child, Time's precious chronic invalid,-- would we, darlings, resign it if we could? Our blight has been our sinecure: mere talent was enough for us-- glitter in fragments and rough drafts.
Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear our mediocrities over-praised, indolence read as abnegation, slattern thought styled intuition, every lapse forgiven, our crime only to cast too bold a shadow or smash the mold straight off.
For that, solitary confinement, tear gas, attrition shelling.
Few applicants for that honor.
10 Well, she's long about her coming, who must be more merciless to herself than history.
Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge breasted and glancing through the currents, taking the light upon her at least as beautiful as any boy or helicopter, poised, still coming, her fine blades making the air wince but her cargo no promise then: delivered palpable ours.
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 ****.
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 **** 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 ***** does lead about Of humble curs the amorous rout, Who most obsequiously do hunt The savory scent of salt-swoln ****.
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 **** on, Some stiff-pricked clown or well-hung parson, Each job of whose spermatic sluice Had filled her **** 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 **** 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 **** 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 ****, Turn up your longing **** 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 *****; 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 **** I swive!
Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

The Imperfect Enjoyment

 Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms,legs,lips close clinging to embrace, She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed Swift orders that I should prepare to throw The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss, Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part Which should convey my soul up to her heart, In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er, Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't: Her hand, her foot, her very look's a ****.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise, And from her body wipes the clammy joys, When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?" She cries.
"All this to love and rapture's due; Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?" But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive, To show my wished obedience vainly strive: I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent, Succeeding shame does more success prevent, And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn, Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry, A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried, With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed; Which nature still directed with such art That it through every **** reached every heart - Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed: Where'er it pierced, a **** it found or made - Now languid lies in this unhappy hour, Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame, False to my passion, fatal to my fame, Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove So true to lewdness, so untrue to love? What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before? When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way, With what officious haste dost thou obey! Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets, But if his king or country claim his aid, The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head; Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed, Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade, But when great Love the onset does command, Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most, Through all the town a common fucking-post, On whom each whore relieves her tingling **** As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt, May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey, Or in consuming weepings waste away; May strangury and stone thy days attend; May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.
Written by Jonathan Swift | Create an image from this poem

A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed

 Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;
Never did Covent Garden boast
So bright a batter'd, strolling Toast;
No drunken Rake to pick her up,
No Cellar where on Tick to sup;
Returning at the Midnight Hour;
Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r;
Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair,
Takes off her artificial Hair: 
Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide, Stuck on with Art on either Side, Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em, Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em.
Now dextrously her Plumpers draws, That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.
Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums A Set of Teeth completely comes.
Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice; Which by the Operator's Skill, Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill, Up hoes her Hand, and off she slips The Bolsters that supply her Hips.
With gentlest Touch, she next explores Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores, Effects of many a sad Disaster; And then to each applies a Plaster.
But must, before she goes to Bed, Rub off the Daubs of White and Red; And smooth the Furrows in her Front, With greasy Paper stuck upon't.
She takes a Bolus e'er she sleeps; And then between two Blankets creeps.
With pains of love tormented lies; Or if she chance to close her Eyes, Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams, And feels the Lash, and faintly screams; Or, by a faithless Bully drawn, At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn; Or to Jamaica seems transported, Alone, and by no Planter courted; Or, near Fleet-Ditch's oozy Brinks, Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks, Belated, seems on watch to lie, And snap some Cull passing by; Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs On Watchmen, Constables and Duns, From whom she meets with frequent Rubs; But, never from Religious Clubs; Whose Favour she is sure to find, Because she pays them all in Kind.
CORINNA wakes.
A dreadful Sight! Behold the Ruins of the Night! A wicked Rat her Plaster stole, Half eat, and dragged it to his Hole.
The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss'd; And Puss had on her Plumpers piss'd.
A Pigeon pick'd her Issue-Peas; And Shock her Tresses fill'd with Fleas.
The Nymph, tho' in this mangled Plight, Must ev'ry Morn her Limbs unite.
But how shall I describe her Arts To recollect the scatter'd Parts? Or show the Anguish, Toil, and Pain, Of gath'ring up herself again? The bashful Muse will never bear In such a Scene to interfere.
Corinna in the Morning dizen'd, Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

Corinnas Going A-Maying

 Get up, get up for shame! the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air! Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangled herb and tree.
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east Above an hour since,—yet you not dressed; Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin— Nay, profanation—to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the springtime, fresh and green And sweet as Flora.
Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not, the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth.
Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimmed with trees! See how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch! Each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street And open fields and we not see 't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with whitethorn laden, home.
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream; And some have wept and wooed and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given, Many a kiss, both odd and even; Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the key's betraying This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-Maying! Come, let us go while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost can ne'er be found again; So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying!
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

THE APPARITION OF HIS MISTRESSCALLING HIM TO ELYSIUM

 THE APPARITION OF HIS, MISTRESS,
CALLING HIM TO ELYSIUM

DESUNT NONNULLA--

Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings,
Let our souls fly to th' shades, wherever springs
Sit smiling in the meads; where balm and oil,
Roses and cassia, crown the untill'd soil;
Where no disease reigns, or infection comes
To blast the air, but amber-gris and gums.
This, that, and ev'ry thicket doth transpire More sweet than storax from the hallow'd fire; Where ev'ry tree a wealthy issue bears Of fragrant apples, blushing plums, or pears; And all the shrubs, with sparkling spangles, shew Like morning sun-shine, tinselling the dew.
Here in green meadows sits eternal May, Purfling the margents, while perpetual day So double-gilds the air, as that no night Can ever rust th' enamel of the light: Here naked younglings, handsome striplings, run Their goals for virgins' kisses; which when done, Then unto dancing forth the learned round Commix'd they meet, with endless roses crown'd.
And here we'll sit on primrose-banks, and see Love's chorus led by Cupid; and we'll he Two loving followers too unto the grove, Where poets sing the stories of our love.
There thou shalt hear divine Musaeus sing Of Hero and Leander; then I'll bring Thee to the stand, where honour'd Homer reads His Odyssees and his high Iliads; About whose throne the crowd of poets throng To hear the incantation of his tongue: To Linus, then to Pindar; and that done, I'll bring thee, Herrick, to Anacreon, Quaffing his full-crown'd bowls of burning wine, And in his raptures speaking lines of thine, Like to his subject; and as his frantic Looks shew him truly Bacchanalian like, Besmear'd with grapes,--welcome he shall thee thither, Where both may rage, both drink and dance together.
Then stately Virgil, witty Ovid, by Whom fair Corinna sits, and doth comply With ivory wrists his laureat head, and steeps His eye in dew of kisses while he sleeps.
Then soft Catullus, sharp-fang'd Martial, And towering Lucan, Horace, Juvenal, And snaky Persius; these, and those whom rage, Dropt for the jars of heaven, fill'd, t' engage All times unto their frenzies; thou shalt there Behold them in a spacious theatre: Among which glories, crown'd with sacred bays And flatt'ring ivy, two recite their plays, Beaumont and Fletcher, swans, to whom all ears Listen, while they, like sirens in their spheres, Sing their Evadne; and still more for thee There yet remains to know than thou canst see By glimm'ring of a fancy; Do but come, And there I'll shew thee that capacious room In which thy father, Jonson, now is placed As in a globe of radiant fire, and graced To be in that orb crown'd, that doth include Those prophets of the former magnitude, And he one chief.
But hark! I hear the cock, The bell-man of the night, proclaim the clock Of late struck One; and now I see the prime Of day break from the pregnant east:--'tis time I vanish:--more I had to say, But night determines here;(Away!
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES

 I have lost, and lately, these
Many dainty mistresses:--
Stately Julia, prime of all;
Sapho next, a principal:
Smooth Anthea, for a skin
White, and heaven-like crystalline:
Sweet Electra, and the choice
Myrha, for the lute and voice.
Next, Corinna, for her wit, And the graceful use of it; With Perilla:--All are gone; Only Herrick's left alone, For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.
Written by Walter Savage Landor | Create an image from this poem

Corinna from Athens to Tanagra

 Tanagra! think not I forget
Thy beautifully-storey’d streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet
In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
The blythe and liberal shepherd boy,
Whose sunny bosom swells with joy
When we accept his matted rushes
Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.
I promise to bring back with me What thou with transport wilt receive, The only proper gift for thee, Of which no mortal shall bereave In later times thy mouldering walls, Until the last old turret falls; A crown, a crown from Athens won! A crown no god can wear, beside Latona’s son.
There may be cities who refuse To their own child the honours due, And look ungently on the Muse; But ever shall those cities rue The dry, unyielding, niggard breast, Offering no nourishment, no rest, To that young head which soon shall rise Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where cavern’d Dirce flows Do white-arm’d maidens chaunt my lay, Flapping the while with laurel-rose The honey-gathering tribes away; And sweetly, sweetly, Attick tongues Lisp your Corinna’s early songs; To her with feet more graceful come The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.
O let thy children lean aslant Against the tender mother’s knee, And gaze into her face, and want To know what magic there can be In words that urge some eyes to dance, While others as in holy trance Look up to heaven; be such my praise! Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphick bays.
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

THE CHANGES: TO CORINNA

 Be not proud, but now incline
Your soft ear to discipline;
You have changes in your life,
Sometimes peace, and sometimes strife;
You have ebbs of face and flows,
As your health or comes or goes;
You have hopes, and doubts, and fears,
Numberless as are your hairs;
You have pulses that do beat
High, and passions less of heat;
You are young, but must be old:--
And, to these, ye must be told,
Time, ere long, will come and plow
Loathed furrows in your brow:
And the dimness of your eye
Will no other thing imply,
But you must die
As well as I.