Best Famous Dentist Poems

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

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• All Famous Dentist Poems

Written by Robert William Service | My Dentist Sitting in the dentist's chair, Wishing that I wasn't there, To forget and pass the time I have made this bit of rhyme. I had a rendez-vous at ten; I rushed to get in line, But found a lot of dames and men Had waited there since nine; I stared at them, then in an hour Was blandly ushered in; But though my face was grim and sour He met me with a grin. He told me of his horse of blood, And how it "also ran", He plans to own a racing stud - (He seems a wealthy man.) And then he left me there until I growled: "At any rate, I hope he'll not charge in his bill For all the time I wait." His wife has sables on her back, With jewels she's ablaze; She drives a stately Cadillac, And I'm the mug who pays: At least I'm one of those who peer With pessimistic gloom At magazines of yester-year In his damn waiting room. I am a Christian Scientist; I don't believe in pain; My dentist had a powerful wrist, He tries and tries in vain To make me grunt or groan or squeal With probe or rasp or drill. . . . But oh, what agony I feel When HE PRESENTS HIS BILL! Sitting in the dental chair, Don't you wish you weren't there: Well, your cup of woe to fill, Just think of his infernal bill.

Written by Billy Collins | Tomes There is a section in my library for death and another for Irish history, a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan, and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books, the ones you can turn to anytime, when the night is going wrong or when the day is full of empty promise. I have nothing against the thin monograph, the odd query, a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist, but what I prefer on days like these is to get up from the couch, pull down The History of the World, and hold in my hands a book containing nearly everything and weighing no more than a sack of potatoes, eleven pounds, I discovered one day when I placed it on the black, iron scale my mother used to keep in her kitchen, the device on which she would place a certain amount of flour, a certain amount of fish. Open flat on my lap under a halo of lamplight, a book like this always has a way of soothing the nerves, quieting the riotous surf of information that foams around my waist even though it never mentions the silent labors of the poor, the daydreams of grocers and tailors, or the faces of men and women alone in single rooms- even though it never mentions my mother, now that I think of her again, who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth in her electric bed, in her smooth pink nightgown the bones of her fingers interlocked, her sunken eyes staring upward beyond all knowledge, beyond the tiny figures of history, some in uniform, some not, marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.

Written by Anne Sexton | The Fallen Angels They come on to my clean sheet of paper and leave a Rorschach blot. They do not do this to be mean, they do it to give me a sign they want me, as Aubrey Beardsley once said, to shove it around till something comes. Clumsy as I am, I do it. For I am like them - both saved and lost, tumbling downward like Humpty Dumpty off the alphabet. Each morning I push them off my bed and when they get in the salad rolling in it like a dog, I pick each one out just the way my daughter picks out the anchoives. In May they dance on the jonquils, wearing out their toes, laughing like fish. In November, the dread month, they suck the childhood out of the berries and turn them sour and inedible. Yet they keep me company. They wiggle up life. They pass out their magic like Assorted Lifesavers. They go with me to the dentist and protect me form the drill. At the same time, they go to class with me and lie to my students. O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.

Written by Edward Taylor | More Later Less The Same The common is unusually calm--they captured the storm last night, it's sleeping in the stockade, relieved of its duty, pacified, tamed, a pussycat. But not before it tied the flagpole in knots, and not before it alarmed the firemen out of their pants. Now it's really calm, almost too calm, as though anything could happen, and it would be a first. It could be the worst thing that ever happened. All the little rodents are sitting up and counting their nuts. What if nothing ever happened again? Would there be enough to "eke out an existence," as they say? I wish "they" were here now, kicking up a little dust, mussing my hair, taunting me with weird syllogisms. Instead, these are the windless, halcyon days. The lull dispassion is upon us. Serenity has triumphed in its mindless, atrophied way. A school of Stoics walks by, eager, in its phlegmatic way, to observe human degradation, lust and debauchery at close quarters. They are disappointed, but it barely shows on their faces. They are late Stoa, very late. They missed the bus. They should have been here last night. The joint was jumping. But people change, they grow up, they fly around. It's the same old story, but I don't remember it. It's a tale of gore and glory, but we had to leave. It could have turned out differently, and it did. I feel much the same way about the city of Pompeii. A police officer with a poodle cut squirts his gun at me for saying that, and it's still just barely possible that I didn't, and the clock is running out on his sort of behavior. I'm napping in a wigwam as I write this, near Amity Street, which is buried under fifteen feet of ashes and cinders and rocks. Moss and a certain herblike creature are beginning to whisper nearby. I am beside myself, peering down, senselessly, since, for us, in space, there is neither above nor below; and thus the expression "He is being nibbled to death by ducks" shines with such style, such poise, and reserve, a beautiful, puissant form and a lucid thought. To which I reply "It is time we had our teeth examined by a dentist." So said James the Lesser to James the More.

Written by Marge Piercy | For the Young Who Want To Talent is what they say you have after the novel is published and favorably reviewed. Beforehand what you have is a tedious delusion, a hobby like knitting. Work is what you have done after the play is produced and the audience claps. Before that friends keep asking when you are planning to go out and get a job. Genius is what they know you had after the third volume of remarkable poems. Earlier they accuse you of withdrawing, ask why you don't have a baby, call you a bum. The reason people want M.F.A.'s, take workshops with fancy names when all you can really learn is a few techniques, typing instructions and some- body else's mannerisms is that every artist lacks a license to hang on the wall like your optician, your vet proving you may be a clumsy sadist whose fillings fall into the stew but you're certified a dentist. The real writer is one who really writes. Talent is an invention like phlogiston after the fact of fire. Work is its own cure. You have to like it better than being loved.

Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | How Thought You That This Thing Could Captivate? How thought you that this thing could captivate? What are those graces that could make her dear, Who is not worth the notice of a sneer, To rouse the vapid devil of her hate? A speech conventional, so void of weight, That after it has buzzed about one's ear, 'Twere rich refreshment for a week to hear The dentist babble or the barber prate; A hand displayed with many a little art; An eye that glances on her neighbor's dress; A foot too often shown for my regard; An angel's form -- a waiting-woman's heart; A perfect-featured face, expressionless, Insipid, as the Queen upon a card.

Written by Bob Hicok | Sudden Movements My father's head has become a mystery to him. We finally have something in common. When he moves his head his eyes get big as roses filled with the commotion of spring. Not long ago he was a man who had tomato soup for lunch and dusted with the earnestness of a gun fight. Now he's a man who sits at the table trying to breathe in tiny bites. When they told him his spinal column is closing, I thought of all the branches he's cut with loppers and piled and burned in the fall, the pinch of the blades on the green and vital pulp. Surgeons can fuse vertebrae, a welders art, and scrape the ring through which the soul-wires flow as a dentist would clean your teeth. And still it could happen, one turn of his head toward a hummingbird, wings keeping that brittle life afloat, working hard against the fall, and he might freeze in that pose of astonishment, a man estranged from the neck down, who can only share with his body the silence he's pawned on his children as love.

Written by James Tate | More Later Less The Same The common is unusually calm--they captured the storm last night, it's sleeping in the stockade, relieved of its duty, pacified, tamed, a pussycat. But not before it tied the flagpole in knots, and not before it alarmed the firemen out of their pants. Now it's really calm, almost too calm, as though anything could happen, and it would be a first. It could be the worst thing that ever happened. All the little rodents are sitting up and counting their nuts. What if nothing ever happened again? Would there be enough to "eke out an existence," as they say? I wish "they" were here now, kicking up a little dust, mussing my hair, taunting me with weird syllogisms. Instead, these are the windless, halcyon days. The lull dispassion is upon us. Serenity has triumphed in its mindless, atrophied way. A school of Stoics walks by, eager, in its phlegmatic way, to observe human degradation, lust and debauchery at close quarters. They are disappointed, but it barely shows on their faces. They are late Stoa, very late. They missed the bus. They should have been here last night. The joint was jumping. But people change, they grow up, they fly around. It's the same old story, but I don't remember it. It's a tale of gore and glory, but we had to leave. It could have turned out differently, and it did. I feel much the same way about the city of Pompeii. A police officer with a poodle cut squirts his gun at me for saying that, and it's still just barely possible that I didn't, and the clock is running out on his sort of behavior. I'm napping in a wigwam as I write this, near Amity Street, which is buried under fifteen feet of ashes and cinders and rocks. Moss and a certain herblike creature are beginning to whisper nearby. I am beside myself, peering down, senselessly, since, for us, in space, there is neither above nor below; and thus the expression "He is being nibbled to death by ducks" shines with such style, such poise, and reserve, a beautiful, puissant form and a lucid thought. To which I reply "It is time we had our teeth examined by a dentist." So said James the Lesser to James the More.

Written by Robert William Service | The Front Tooth A-sittin' in the Bull and Pump With double gins to keep us cheery Says she to me, says Polly Crump" "What makes ye look so sweet. me dearie? As if ye'd gotten back yer youth . . . ." Says I: "It's just me new front tooth." Says Polly Crump: "A gummy grin Don't help to make one's business active; We gels wot gains our bread by sin Have got to make ourselves attractive. I hope yer dentist was no rook?" Says I: "A quid is what he took." Says Polly Crump: "The shoes you wear Are down at heel and need new soleing; Why doncher buy a better pair? The rain goes in and out the holeing. They're squelchin' as ye walk yer beat. . . ." Says I: "blokes don't look at me feet." Says Polly Crump: "You cough all day; It just don't do in our profession; A girl's got to be pert and gay To give a guy a good impression; For if ye cough he's shy of you. . . ." Says I: "An' wots a gel to do?" Says Polly Crump: "I'm pink an' fat, But you are bones an' pale as plaster; At this dam' rate you're goin' at You'll never live to be a laster. You'll have the daisy roots for door. . . ." Says I: "It's 'ell to be a 'ore. "But I don't care now I can smile, Smile, smile and not that gap-toothed grinning; I'm wet and cold, but it's worth while To once again look fairly winning. And send ten bob or so to Mother. . . ." Said Polly Crump: "Gwad! Have another?"

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Sersmith the Dentist Do you think that odes and sermons, And the ringing of church bells, And the blood of old men and young men, Martyred for the truth they saw With eyes made bright by faith in God, Accomplished the world's great reformations? Do you think that the Battle Hymn of the Republic Would have been heard if the chattel slave Had crowned the dominant dollar, In spite of Whitney's cotton gin, And steam and rolling mills and iron And telegraphs and white free labor? Do you think that Daisy Fraser Had been put out and driven out If the canning works had never needed Her little house and lot? Or do you think the poker room Of Johnnie Taylor, and Burchard's bar Had been closed up if the money lost And spent for beer had not been turned, By closing them, to Thomas Rhodes For larger sales of shoes and blankets, And children's cloaks and gold-oak cradles? Why, a moral truth is a hollow tooth Which must be propped with gold.