10 Best Famous Departures Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Departures poems. This is a select list of the best famous Departures poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Departures poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of departures poems.

• All Famous Departures Poems

Written by Wole Soyinka | In The Small Hours Blue diaphane, tobacco smoke Serpentine on wet film and wood glaze, Mutes chrome, wreathes velvet drapes, Dims the cave of mirrors. Ghost fingers Comb seaweed hair, stroke acquamarine veins Of marooned mariners, captives Of Circe's sultry notes. The barman Dispenses igneous potions ? Somnabulist, the band plays on. Cocktail mixer, silvery fish Dances for limpet clients. Applause is steeped in lassitude, Tangled in webs of lovers' whispers And artful eyelash of the androgynous. The hovering notes caress the night Mellowed deep indigo ?still they play. Departures linger. Absences do not Deplete the tavern. They hang over the haze As exhalations from receded shores. Soon, Night repossesses the silence, but till dawn The notes hold sway, smoky Epiphanies, possessive of the hours. This music's plaint forgives, redeems The deafness of the world. Night turns Homewards, sheathed in notes of solace, pleats The broken silence of the heart.

Written by W S Merwin | The Ships Are Made Ready In Silence Moored to the same ring: The hour, the darkness and I, Our compasses hooded like falcons. Now the memory of you comes aching in With a wash of broken bits which never left port In which once we planned voyages, They come knocking like hearts asking: What departures on this tide? Breath of land, warm breath, You tighten the cold around the navel, Though all shores but the first have been foreign, And the first was not home until left behind. Our choice is ours but we have not made it, Containing as it does, our destination Circled with loss as with coral, and A destination only until attained. I have left you my hope to remember me by, Though now there is little resemblance. At this moment I could believe in no change, The mast perpetually Vacillating between the same constellations, The night never withdrawing its dark virtue >From the harbor shaped as a heart, The sea pulsing as a heart, The sky vaulted as a heart, Where I know the light will shatter like a cry Above a discovery: "Emptiness. Emptiness! Look!" Look. This is the morning.

Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Being Late From where do simplicity and ease In the movement of heavenly bodies derive? It is precision. Sun is never late to rise upon the Earth, Moon is never late to cause the tides, Earth is never late to greet the Sun and the Moon; Thus accidents are not accidents But precise arrivals at the wrong right time. Love is almost never simple; Too often, feelings arrive too soon, Waiting for thoughts that often come too late. I wanted too, to be simple and precise Like the Sun, Like the Moon, Like the Earth But the Earth was booked Billions of years in advance; Designed to meet all desires, All arrivals, all sunrises, all sunsets, All departures, So I will have to be a little bit late.

Written by Frank O'Hara | Like It's not so much abstractions are available: the lofty period of the mind ending a sentence while the pain endures: departures absences. And you are still on the dock the smoke hasn't cleared in The Narrows At noon I sit in Jim's Place waiting for George Who is mopping the stage up While two girls cry in the last row. I think they got laid last night. But who didn't? it was a spring night. Probably George did too. And now the ship has gone beyond come sheets windows streets telephones and noises: to where I cannot go not even a long distance swimmer like myself.

Written by Stanley Kunitz | After The Last Dynasty Reading in Li Po how "the peach blossom follows the water" I keep thinking of you because you were so much like Chairman Mao, naturally with the sex transposed and the figure slighter. Loving you was a kind of Chinese guerilla war. Thanks to your lightfoot genius no Eighth Route Army kept its lines more fluid, traveled with less baggage so nibbled the advantage. Even with your small bad heart you made a dance of departures. In the cold spring rains when last you failed me I had nothing left to spend but a red crayon language on the character of the enemy to break appointments, to fight us not with his strength but with his weakness, to kill us not with his health but with his sickness. Pet, spitfire, blue-eyed pony, here is a new note I want to pin on your door, though I am ten years late and you are nowhere: Tell me, are you stillmistress of the valley, what trophies drift downriver, why did you keep me waiting?

Written by Linda Pastan | Meditation By The Stove I have banked the fires of my body into a small but steady blaze here in the kitchen where the dough has a life of its own, breathing under its damp cloth like a sleeping child; where the real child plays under the table, pretending the tablecloth is a tent, practicing departures; where a dim brown bird dazzled by light has flown into the windowpane and lies stunned on the pavement-- it was never simple, even for birds, this business of nests. The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says, repeating what the snake told Eve, what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens, wanting the fully lived life. But passion happens like an accident I could let the dough spill over the rim of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down, neglecting the child who waits under the table, the mild tears already smudging her eyes. We grow in such haphazard ways. Today I feel wiser than the bird. I know the window shuts me in, that when I open it the garden smells will make me restless. And I have banked the fires of my body into a small domestic flame for others to warm their hands on for a while.

Written by Joseph Brodsky | Dutch Mistress A hotel in whose ledgers departures are more prominent than arrivals. With wet Koh-i-noors the October rain strokes what's left of the naked brain. In this country laid flat for the sake of rivers, beer smells of Germany and the seaguls are in the air like a page's soiled corners. Morning enters the premises with a coroner's punctuality, puts its ear to the ribs of a cold radiator, detects sub-zero: the afterlife has to start somewhere. Correspondingly, the angelic curls grow more blond, the skin gains its distant, lordly white, while the bedding already coils desperately in the basement laundry.

Written by Philip Larkin | Poetry Of Departures Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand, As epitaph: He chucked up everything And just cleared off, And always the voice will sound Certain you approve This audacious, purifying, Elemental move. And they are right, I think. We all hate home And having to be there: I detect my room, It's specially-chosen junk, The good books, the good bed, And my life, in perfect order: So to hear it said He walked out on the whole crowd Leaves me flushed and stirred, Like Then she undid her dress Or Take that you bastard; Surely I can, if he did? And that helps me to stay Sober and industrious. But I'd go today, Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads, Crouch in the fo'c'sle Stubbly with goodness, if It weren't so artificial, Such a deliberate step backwards To create an object: Books; china; a life Reprehensibly perfect.

Written by Osip Mandelstam | Tristia I have studied the Science of departures, in night’s sorrows, when a woman’s hair falls down. The oxen chew, there’s the waiting, pure, in the last hours of vigil in the town, and I reverence night’s ritual cock-crowing, when reddened eyes lift sorrow’s load and choose to stare at distance, and a woman’s crying is mingled with the singing of the Muse. Who knows, when the word ‘departure’ is spoken what kind of separation is at hand, or of what that cock-crow is a token, when a fire on the Acropolis lights the ground, and why at the dawning of a new life, when the ox chews lazily in its stall, the cock, the herald of the new life, flaps his wings on the city wall? I like the monotony of spinning, the shuttle moves to and fro, the spindle hums. Look, barefoot Delia’s running to meet you, like swansdown on the road! How threadbare the language of joy’s game, how meagre the foundation of our life! Everything was, and is repeated again: it’s the flash of recognition brings delight. So be it: on a dish of clean earthenware, like a flattened squirrel’s pelt, a shape, forms a small, transparent figure, where a girl’s face bends to gaze at the wax’s fate. Not for us to prophesy, Erebus, Brother of Night: Wax is for women: Bronze is for men. Our fate is only given in fight, to die by divination is given to them.

Written by | In The Small Hours Blue diaphane, tobacco smoke Serpentine on wet film and wood glaze, Mutes chrome, wreathes velvet drapes, Dims the cave of mirrors. Ghost fingers Comb seaweed hair, stroke acquamarine veins Of marooned mariners, captives Of Circe's sultry notes. The barman Dispenses igneous potions ? Somnabulist, the band plays on. Cocktail mixer, silvery fish Dances for limpet clients. Applause is steeped in lassitude, Tangled in webs of lovers' whispers And artful eyelash of the androgynous. The hovering notes caress the night Mellowed deep indigo ?still they play. Departures linger. Absences do not Deplete the tavern. They hang over the haze As exhalations from receded shores. Soon, Night repossesses the silence, but till dawn The notes hold sway, smoky Epiphanies, possessive of the hours. This music's plaint forgives, redeems The deafness of the world. Night turns Homewards, sheathed in notes of solace, pleats The broken silence of the heart.