10 Best Famous Dislike Poems

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

• All Famous Dislike Poems

 Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!

 I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all 
 this fiddle.
 Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one 
 discovers in
 it after all, a place for the genuine.
 Hands that can grasp, eyes
 that can dilate, hair that can rise
 if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
 they are
 useful. When they become so derivative as to become 
 unintelligible, 
 the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
 do not admire what
 we cannot understand: the bat
 holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
 under
 a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
 feels a
 flea, the base-
 ball fan, the statistician--
 nor is it valid
 to discriminate against 'business documents and

school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must
 make a distinction
 however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
 result is not poetry,
 nor till the poets among us can be
 'literalists of 
 the imagination'--above
 insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall
 we have
 it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
 the raw material of poetry in
 all its rawness and
 that which is on the other hand
 genuine, you are interested in poetry.

 The cruelty of P. L. Brown—
(He had ten toes as good as mine)
Was known to every one in town,
And, if he never harmed a noun,
He loved to make verbs shriek and whine.

The “To be” family’s just complaints—
(Brown had ten toes as good as mine)
Made Brown cast off the last restraints:
He smashed the “Is nots” into “Ain’ts”
And kicked both mood and tense supine.

Infinitives were Brown’s dislike—
(Brown, as I said, had ten good toes)
And he would pinch and shake and strike
Infinitives, or, with a pike,
Prod them and then laugh at their woes.

At length this Brown more cruel grew—
(Ten toes, all good ones, then had Brown)
And to his woodshed door he drew
A young infinitive and threw
The poor, meek creature roughly down,

And while the poor thing weakly flopped,
Brown (ten good toes he had, the brute!)
Got out his chopping block and dropped
The martyr on it and then propped
His victim firmly with his boot.

He raised his axe! He brandished it!
(Ye gods of grammar, interpose!)
He brought it down full force all fit
The poor infinitive to split—
* * * * *
(Brown after that had but six toes!

 Warning

Infinitives, by this we see.
Should not he split too recklessly.

 I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed
When we built the house, it is ready waiting,
Unused unless by some guest in a twelvemonth, who hardly suspects
Its latter purpose. I often regard it,
With neither dislike nor desire; rather with both, so equalled
That they kill each other and a crystalline interest
Remains alone. We are safe to finish what we have to finish;
And then it will sound rather like music
When the patient daemon behind the screen of sea-rock and sky
Thumps with his staff, and calls thrice: "Come, Jeffers."

I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.

II
The night is of the colour
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.

III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.

IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.

V
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.

VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.

 In kindergarten classed
 Dislike they knew;
And as the years went past
 It grew and grew;
Until in maidenhood
 Each sought a mate,
Then venom in their mood
 Was almost hate.

The lure of love they learned
 And they were wed;
Yet when they met each turned
 Away a head;
Each went her waspish way
 With muted damns--
Until they met one day
 With baby prams.

Then lo! Away was swept
 The scorn of years;
Hands clasped they almost wept
 With gentle tears.
Forgetting hateful days,
 All mother mild,
Each took with tender praise
 The other's child.

And now they talk of milk,
 Of diapers and such;
Of baby bosoms silk
 And tender to the touch.
A gemlike girl and boy,--
 With hope unsaid,
Each thinks with mother joy:
 'May these two wed!'

CALM was the day, and through the trembling air 
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play¡ª 
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; 
When I, (whom sullen care, 5 
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 
In princes' court, and expectation vain 
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away 
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain,) 
Walk'd forth to ease my pain 10 
Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames, 
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, 
Was painted all with variable flowers, 
And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems 
Fit to deck maidens' bowers, 15 
And crown their paramours 
Against the bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

There in a meadow by the river's side 
A flock of nymphs I chanc¨¨d to espy, 20 
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied 
As each had been a bride; 
And each one had a little wicker basket 
Made of fine twigs, entrail¨¨d curiously. 25 
In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket, 
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously 
The tender stalks on high. 
Of every sort which in that meadow grew 
They gather'd some¡ªthe violet, pallid blue, 30 
The little daisy that at evening closes, 
The virgin lily and the primrose true, 
With store of vermeil roses, 
To deck their bridegrooms' posies 
Against the bridal day, which was not long: 35 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue 
Come softly swimming down along the Lee: 
Two fairer birds I yet did never see; 
The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow 40 
Did never whiter show, 
Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be 
For love of Leda, whiter did appear; 
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, 
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; 45 
So purely white they were 
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare? 
Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare 
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 50 
And mar their beauties bright 
That shone as Heaven's light 
Against their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill? 55 
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood 
As they came floating on the crystal flood; 
Whom when they saw, they stood amaz¨¨d still 
Their wondering eyes to fill; 
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair 60 
Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem 
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 
Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team; 
For sure they did not seem 
To be begot of any earthly seed, 65 
But rather Angels, or of Angels' breed; 
Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say, 
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed 
The earth did fresh array; 
So fresh they seem'd as day, 70 
Ev'n as their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, 
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, 75 
All which upon those goodly birds they threw 
And all the waves did strew, 
That like old Peneus' waters they did seem 
When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore 
Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, 80 
That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, 
Like a bride's chamber-floor. 
Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound 
Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, 
The which presenting all in trim array, 85 
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd; 
Whilst one did sing this lay 
Prepared against that day, 
Against their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 90 

"Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament, 
And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 
Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, 
Joy may you have, and gentle heart's content 
Of your love's couplement; 95 
And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, 
With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, 
Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove 
All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 
For ever to assoil. 100 
Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, 
And blessed plenty wait upon your board; 
And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, 
That fruitful issue may to you afford 
Which may your foes confound, 105 
And make your joys redound 
Upon your bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song." 

So ended she; and all the rest around 
To her redoubled that her undersong, 110 
Which said their bridal day should not be long; 
And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birds did pass along 
Adown the Lee that to them murmur'd low, 115 
As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue; 
Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 
Making his stream run slow. 
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 
'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 120 
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 
The lesser stars. So they, enrang¨¨d well, 
Did on those two attend, 
And their best service lend 
Against their wedding day, which was not long: 125 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

At length they all to merry London came, 
To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 
That to me gave this life's first native source, 
Though from another place I take my name, 130 
An house of ancient fame: 
There when they came whereas those bricky towers 
The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride, 
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, 
There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide, 135 
Till they decay'd through pride; 
Next whereunto there stands a stately place, 
Where oft I gain¨¨d gifts and goodly grace 
Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, 
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case: 140 
But ah! here fits not well 
Old woes, but joys to tell 
Against the bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 145 
Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder, 
Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder, 
And Hercules' two pillars standing near 
Did make to quake and fear: 
Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! 150 
That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame 
Joy have thou of thy noble victory, 
And endless happiness of thine own name 
That promiseth the same; 
That through thy prowess and victorious arms 155 
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms, 
And great Elisa's glorious name may ring 
Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms, 
Which some brave Muse may sing 
To ages following: 160 
Upon the bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

From those high towers this noble lord iss¨²ing 
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair 
In th' ocean billows he hath bath¨¨d fair, 165 
Descended to the river's open viewing 
With a great train ensuing. 
Above the rest were goodly to be seen 
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature, 
Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 170 
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, 
Fit for so goodly stature, 
That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight 
Which deck the baldric of the heavens bright; 
They two, forth pacing to the river's side, 175 
Received those two fair brides, their love's delight; 
Which, at th' appointed tide, 
Each one did make his bride 
Against their bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 180 

 Plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot,
fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny,
glowing fire-red,
succulent, and on the whole becoming what
man wants. I crack my final claw singly,
wind up the grave, & to bed.

-”Sound good, Mr Bones. I wish I had me some.
(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.)
-”O no no no.
Sole I remember; where no lobster swine,-”
pots hot or cold is none. With you I grieve
lightly, and I have no lesson.

Bodies are relishy, they say. Here's mine,
was. What ever happened to Political Economy,
leaving me here?
Is a rare-”in my opinion-”responsibility.
The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever.
Have a bite, for a sign.

 This is the key to it.
This is the key to everything.
Preciously.

I am worse than the gamekeeper's children
picking for dust and bread.
Here I am drumming up perfume.

Let me go down on your carpet,
your straw mattress -- whatever's at hand
because the child in me is dying, dying.

It is not that I am cattle to be eaten.
It is not that I am some sort of street.
But your hands found me like an architect.

Jugful of milk! It was yours years ago
when I lived in the valley of my bones,
bones dumb in the swamp. Little playthings.

A xylophone maybe with skin
stretched over it awkwardly.
Only later did it become something real.

Later I measured my size against movie stars.
I didn't measure up. Something between
my shoulders was there. But never enough.

Sure, there was a meadow,
but no yound men singing the truth.
Nothing to tell truth by.

Ignorant of men I lay next to my sisters
and rising out of the ashes I cried
my sex will be transfixed!

Now I am your mother, your daughter, your brand new thing -- a snail, a nest.
I am alive when your fingers are.

I wear silk -- the cover to uncover --
because silk is what I want you to think of.
But I dislike the cloth. It is too stern.

So tell me anything but track me like a climber
for here is the eye, here is the jewel,
here is the excitement the nipple learns.

I am unbalanced -- but I am not mad with snow.
I am mad the way young girls are mad,
with an offering, an offering...

I burn the way money burns.

 After Li Po

While my hair was still cut straight 
 across my forehead
I played at the front gate, pulling
 flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing
 horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with
 blue plums. 
And we went on living in the village of 
 Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or 
 suspicion. 

At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never
 looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling, 
I desired my dust to be mingled with
 yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river
 of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise 
 overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went 
 out,
By the gate now, the moss is grown, 
 the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in 
 wind.
The paired butterflies are already 
 yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the
 narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
 As far as Cho-fu-sa.