Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Cryptic Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Cryptic poems, articles about Cryptic poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Cryptic poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem


 (or ‘Huddersfield the Second Poetry Capital of England Re-visited’)

What was it Janice Simmons said to me as James lay dying in Ireland?

“Phone Peter Pegnall in Leeds, an ex-pupil of Jimmy’s.
He’s organising A benefit reading, he’d love to hear from you and have your help.
” ‘Like hell he would’ I thought but I phoned him all the same At his converted farmhouse at Barswill, a Lecturer in Creative Writing At the uni.
But what’s he written, I wondered, apart from his CV? “Well I am organising a reading but only for the big people, you understand, Hardman, Harrison, Doughty, Duhig, Basher O’Brien, you know the kind, The ones that count, the ones I owe my job to.
” We nattered on and on until by way of adieu I read the final couplet Of my Goodbye poem, the lines about ‘One Leeds Jimmy who could fix the world’s.
Duhigs once and for all/Write them into the ground and still have a hundred Lyrics in his quiver.
’ Pete Stifled a cough which dipped into a gurgle and sank into a mire Of strangulated affect which almost became a convulsion until finally He shrieked, “I have to go, the cat’s under the Christmas tree, ripping Open all the presents, the central heating boiler’s on the blink, The house is on fucking fire!” So I was left with the offer of being raffle-ticket tout as a special favour, Some recompense for giving over two entire newsletters to Jimmy’s work: The words of the letter before his stroke still burned.
“I don’t know why They omitted me, Armitage and Harrison were my best mates once.
You and I Must meet.
” A whole year’s silence until the card with its cryptic message ‘Jimmy’s recovering slowly but better than expected’.
I never heard from Pegnall about the reading, the pamphlets he asked for Went unacknowledged.
Whalebone, the fellow-tutor he commended, also stayed silent.
Had the event been cancelled? Happening to be in Huddersfield on Good Friday I staggered up three flights of stone steps in the Byram Arcade to the Poetry Business Where, next to the ‘closed’ sign an out-of-date poster announced the reading in Leeds At a date long gone.
I peered through the slats at empty desks, at brimming racks of books, At overflowing bin-bags and the yellowing poster.
Desperately I tried to remember What Janice had said.
“We were sat up in bed, planning to take the children For a walk when Jimmy stopped looking at me, the pupils of his eyes rolled sideways, His head lolled and he keeled over.
” The title of the reading was from Jimmy’s best collection ‘With Energy To Burn’ with energy to burn.

Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem


 A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand
over the demon's mouth sometimes.
-- D.
Lawrence I mentioned my demon to a friend and the friend swam in oil and came forth to me greasy and cryptic and said, "I'm thinking of taking him out of hock.
I pawned him years ago.
" Who would buy? The pawned demon, Yellowing with forgetfulness and hand at his throat? Take him out of hock, my friend, but beware of the grief that will fly into your mouth like a bird.
My demon, too often undressed, too often a crucifix I bring forth, too often a dead daisy I give water to too often the child I give birth to and then abort, nameless, nameless.
Oh demon within, I am afraid and seldom put my hand up to my mouth and stitch it up covering you, smothering you from the public voyeury eyes of my typewriter keys.
If I should pawn you, what bullion would they give for you, what pennies, swimming in their copper kisses what bird on its way to perishing? No.
I accept you, you come with the dead who people my dreams, who walk all over my desk (as in Mother, cancer blossoming on her Best & Co.
****-- waltzing with her tissue paper ghost) the dead, who give sweets to the diabetic in me, who give bolts to the seizure of roses that sometimes fly in and out of me.
I accept you, demon.
I will not cover your mouth.
If it be man I love, apple laden and foul or if it be woman I love, sick unto her blood and its sugary gasses and tumbling branches.
Demon come forth, even if it be God I call forth standing like a carrion, wanting to eat me, starting at the lips and tongue.
And me wanting to glide into His spoils, I take bread and wine, and the demon farts and giggles, at my letting God out of my mouth anonymous woman at the anonymous altar.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

A Tall Man

 THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth.
The head of this man is a gaunt strong head.
The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians.
The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans, Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown.
The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt, Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof.
Brother mystery to man and mob mystery, Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands, He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people.
The heart of him the red drops of the people, The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people.
Humble dust of a wheel-worn road, Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow, These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd.
The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many.
It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
Written by Karl Shapiro | Create an image from this poem

Manhole Covers

 The beauty of manhole covers--what of that?
Like medals struck by a great savage khan,
Like Mayan calendar stones, unliftable, indecipherable,
Not like the old electrum, chased and scored,
Mottoed and sculptured to a turn,
But notched and whelked and pocked and smashed
With the great company names
(Gentle Bethlehem, smiling United States).
This rustproof artifact of my street, Long after roads are melted away will lie Sidewise in the grave of the iron-old world, Bitten at the edges, Strong with its cryptic American, Its dated beauty.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

An Island

 Take it away, and swallow it yourself.
Ha! Look you, there’s a rat.
Last night there were a dozen on that shelf, And two of them were living in my hat.
Look! Now he goes, but he’ll come back— Ha? But he will, I say … Il reviendra-z-à Pâques, Ou à la Trinité … Be very sure that he’ll return again; For said the Lord: Imprimis, we have rats, And having rats, we have rain.
— So on the seventh day He rested, and made Pain.
—Man, if you love the Lord, and if the Lord Love liars, I will have you at your word And swallow it.
Bah! Where do I say it is That I have lain so long? Where do I count myself among the dead, As once above the living and the strong? And what is this that comes and goes, Fades and swells and overflows, Like music underneath and overhead? What is it in me now that rings and roars Like fever-laden wine? What ruinous tavern-shine Is this that lights me far from worlds and wars And women that were mine? Where do I say it is That Time has made my bed? What lowering outland hostelry is this For one the stars have disinherited? An island, I have said: A peak, where fiery dreams and far desires Are rained on, like old fires: A vermin region by the stars abhorred, Where falls the flaming word By which I consecrate with unsuccess An acreage of God’s forgetfulness, Left here above the foam and long ago Made right for my duress; Where soon the sea, My foaming and long-clamoring enemy, Will have within the cryptic, old embrace Of her triumphant arms—a memory.
Why then, the place? What forage of the sky or of the shore Will make it any more, To me, than my award of what was left Of number, time, and space? And what is on me now that I should heed The durance or the silence or the scorn? I was the gardener who had the seed Which holds within its heart the food and fire That gives to man a glimpse of his desire; And I have tilled, indeed, Much land, where men may say that I have planted Unsparingly my corn— For a world harvest-haunted And for a world unborn.
Meanwhile, am I to view, as at a play, Through smoke the funeral flames of yesterday And think them far away? Am I to doubt and yet be given to know That where my demon guides me, there I go? An island? Be it so.
For islands, after all is said and done, Tell but a wilder game that was begun, When Fate, the mistress of iniquities, The mad Queen-spinner of all discrepancies, Beguiled the dyers of the dawn that day, And even in such a curst and sodden way Made my three colors one.
—So be it, and the way be as of old: So be the weary truth again retold Of great kings overthrown Because they would be kings, and lastly kings alone.
Fling to each dog his bone.
Flags that are vanished, flags that are soiled and furled, Say what will be the word when I am gone: What learned little acrid archive men Will burrow to find me out and burrow again,— But all for naught, unless To find there was another Island.
… Yes, There are too many islands in this world, There are too many rats, and there is too much rain.
So three things are made plain Between the sea and sky: Three separate parts of one thing, which is Pain … Bah, what a way to die!— To leave my Queen still spinning there on high, Still wondering, I dare say, To see me in this way … Madame à sa tour monte Si haut qu’elle peut monter— Like one of our Commissioners… ai! ai! Prometheus and the women have to cry, But no, not I … Faugh, what a way to die! But who are these that come and go Before me, shaking laurel as they pass? Laurel, to make me know For certain what they mean: That now my Fate, my Queen, Having found that she, by way of right reward, Will after madness go remembering, And laurel be as grass,— Remembers the one thing That she has left to bring.
The floor about me now is like a sward Grown royally.
Now it is like a sea That heaves with laurel heavily, Surrendering an outworn enmity For what has come to be.
But not for you, returning with your curled And haggish lips.
And why are you alone? Why do you stay when all the rest are gone? Why do you bring those treacherous eyes that reek With venom and hate the while you seek To make me understand?— Laurel from every land, Laurel, but not the world? Fury, or perjured Fate, or whatsoever, Tell me the bloodshot word that is your name And I will pledge remembrance of the same That shall be crossed out never; Whereby posterity May know, being told, that you have come to me, You and your tongueless train without a sound, With covetous hands and eyes and laurel all around, Foreshowing your endeavor To mirror me the demon of my days, To make me doubt him, loathe him, face to face.
Bowed with unwilling glory from the quest That was ordained and manifest, You shake it off and wish me joy of it? Laurel from every place, Laurel, but not the rest? Such are the words in you that I divine, Such are the words of men.
So be it, and what then? Poor, tottering counterfeit, Are you a thing to tell me what is mine? Grant we the demon sees An inch beyond the line, What comes of mine and thine? A thousand here and there may shriek and freeze, Or they may starve in fine.
The Old Physician has a crimson cure For such as these, And ages after ages will endure The minims of it that are victories.
The wreath may go from brow to brow, The state may flourish, flame, and cease; But through the fury and the flood somehow The demons are acquainted and at ease, And somewhat hard to please.
Mine, I believe, is laughing at me now In his primordial way, Quite as he laughed of old at Hannibal, Or rather at Alexander, let us say.
Therefore, be what you may, Time has no further need Of you, or of your breed.
My demon, irretrievably astray, Has ruined the last chorus of a play That will, so he avers, be played again some day; And you, poor glowering ghost, Have staggered under laurel here to boast Above me, dying, while you lean In triumph awkward and unclean, About some words of his that you have read? Thing, do I not know them all? He tells me how the storied leaves that fall Are tramped on, being dead? They are sometimes: with a storm foul enough They are seized alive and they are blown far off To mould on islands.
—What else have you read? He tells me that great kings look very small When they are put to bed; And this being said, He tells me that the battles I have won Are not my own, But his—howbeit fame will yet atone For all defect, and sheave the mystery: The follies and the slaughters I have done Are mine alone, And so far History.
So be the tale again retold And leaf by clinging leaf unrolled Where I have written in the dawn, With ink that fades anon, Like Cæsar’s, and the way be as of old.
Ho, is it you? I thought you were a ghost.
Is it time for you to poison me again? Well, here’s our friend the rain,— Mironton, mironton, mirontaine.
Man, I could murder you almost, You with your pills and toast.
Take it away and eat it, and shoot rats.
Ha! there he comes.
Your rat will never fail, My punctual assassin, to prevail— While he has power to crawl, Or teeth to gnaw withal— Where kings are caged.
Why has a king no cats? You say that I’ll achieve it if I try? Swallow it?—No, not I … God, what a way to die!

Written by David Wagoner | Create an image from this poem

Wallace Stevens On His Way To Work

 He would leave early and walk slowly
 As if balancing books
 On the way to school, already expecting
To be tardy once again and heavy
 With numbers, the unfashionably rounded
 Toes of his shoes invisible beyond
The slope of his corporation.
He would pause At his favorite fundamentally sound Park bench, which had been the birthplace Of paeans and ruminations on other mornings, And would turn his back to it, having gauged the distance Between his knees and the edge of the hardwood Almost invariably unoccupied At this enlightened hour by the bums of nighttime (For whom the owlish eye of the moon Had been closed by daylight), and would give himself wholly over Backwards and trustingly downwards And be well seated there.
He would remove From his sinister jacket pocket a postcard And touch it and retouch it with the point Of the fountain he produced at his fingertips And fill it with his never-before-uttered Runes and obbligatos and pellucidly cryptic Duets from private pageants, from broken ends Of fandangos with the amoeba chaos chaos Couchant and rampant.
Then he would rise With an effort as heartfelt as a decision To get out of bed on Sunday and carefully Relocate his center of gravity Above and beyond an imaginary axis Between his feet and carry the good news Along the path and the sidewalk, well on his way To readjusting the business of the earth.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The Master

 A flying word from here and there 
Had sown the name at which we sneered, 
To be reviled and then revered: 
A presence to be loved and feared-- 
We cannot hide it, or deny 
That we, the gentlemen who jeered, 
May be forgotten by and by.
He came when days were perilous And hearts of men were sore beguiled, And having made his note of us, He pondered and was reconciled.
Was ever master yet so mild As he, and so untamable? We doubted, even when he smiled, Not knowing what he knew so well.
He knew that undeceiving fate Would shame us whom he served unsought; He knew that he must wince and wait-- The jest of those for whom he fought; He knew devoutly what he thought Of us and of our ridicule; He knew that we must all be taught Like little children in a school.
We gave a glamour to the task That he encountered and saw through; But little of us did he ask, And little did we ever do.
And what appears if we review The season when we railed and chaffed?-- It is the face of one who knew That we were learning while we laughed.
The face that in our vision feels Again the venom that we flung, Transfigured to the world reveals The vigilance to which we clung.
Shrewd, hallowed, harrassed, and among The mysteries that are untold-- The face we see was never young, Nor could it wholly have been old.
For he, to whom we had applied Our shopman's test of age and worth, Was elemental when he died As he was ancient at his birth: The saddest among kings of earth, Bowed with a galling crown, this man Met rancor with a cryptic mirth, Laconic--and Olympian.
The love, the grandeur, and the fame Are bounded by the world alone; The calm, the smouldering, and the flame Of awful patience were his own: With him they are forever flown Past all our fond self-shadowings, Wherewith we cumber the Unknown As with inept Icarian wings.
For we were not as other men: 'Twas ours to soar and his to see.
But we are coming down again, And we shall come down pleasantly; Nor shall we longer disagree On what it is to be sublime, But flourish in our pedigree And have one Titan at a time.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem


telling where the wind comes from
 open a story.
Pencils telling where the wind goes end a story.
These eager pencils come to a stop .
only .
when the stars high over come to a stop.
Out of cabalistic to-morrows come cryptic babies calling life a strong and a lovely thing.
I have seen neither these nor the stars high over come to a stop.
Neither these nor the sea horses running with the clocks of the moon.
Nor even a shooting star snatching a pencil of fire writing a curve of gold and white.
Like you .
I counted the shooting stars of a winter night and my head was dizzy with all of them calling one by one: Look for us again.
Written by Stephen Crane | Create an image from this poem

The impact of a dollar upon the heart

 The impact of a dollar upon the heart
Smiles warm red light,
Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the white table,
With the hanging cool velvet shadows
Moving softly upon the door.
The impact of a million dollars Is a crash of flunkeys, And yawning emblems of Persia Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre, The outcry of old beauty Whored by pimping merchants To submission before wine and chatter.
Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men, Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light Into their woof, their lives; The rug of an honest bear Under the feet of a cryptic slave Who speaks always of baubles, Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state, Champing and mouthing of hats, Making ratful squeak of hats, Hats.