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Best Famous Dolphin Poems

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

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12
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Shit List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity

 You'll rejoice at how many kinds of **** there are:
gosling **** (which J.
Williams said something was as green as), fish **** (the generality), trout ****, rainbow trout **** (for the nice), mullet ****, sand dab ****, casual sloth ****, elephant **** (awesome as process or payload), wildebeest ****, horse **** (a favorite), caterpillar **** (so many dark kinds, neatly pelleted as mint seed), baby rhinoceros ****, splashy jaybird ****, mockingbird **** (dive-bombed with the aim of song), robin **** that oozes white down lawnchairs or down roots under roosts, chicken **** and chicken mite ****, pelican ****, gannet **** (wholesome guano), fly **** (periodic), cockatoo ****, dog **** (past catalog or assimilation), cricket ****, elk (high plains) ****, and tiny scribbled little shrew ****, whale **** (what a sight, deep assumption), mandril **** (blazing blast off), weasel **** (wiles' waste), gazelle ****, magpie **** (total protein), tiger **** (too acid to contemplate), moral eel and manta ray ****, eerie shark ****, earthworm **** (a soilure), crab ****, wolf **** upon the germicidal ice, snake ****, giraffe **** that accelerates, secretary bird ****, turtle **** suspension invites, remora **** slightly in advance of the shark ****, hornet **** (difficult to assess), camel **** that slaps the ghastly dry siliceous, frog ****, beetle ****, bat **** (the marmoreal), contemptible cat ****, penguin ****, hermit crab ****, prairie hen ****, cougar ****, eagle **** (high totem stuff), buffalo **** (hardly less lofty), otter ****, beaver **** (from the animal of alluvial dreams)—a vast ordure is a broken down cloaca—macaw ****, alligator **** (that floats the Nile along), louse ****, macaque, koala, and coati ****, antelope ****, chuck-will's-widow ****, alpaca **** (very high stuff), gooney bird ****, chigger ****, bull **** (the classic), caribou ****, rasbora, python, and razorbill ****, scorpion ****, man ****, laswing fly larva ****, chipmunk ****, other-worldly wallaby ****, gopher **** (or broke), platypus ****, aardvark ****, spider ****, kangaroo and peccary ****, guanaco ****, dolphin ****, aphid ****, baboon **** (that leopards induce), albatross ****, red-headed woodpecker (nine inches long) ****, tern ****, hedgehog ****, panda ****, seahorse ****, and the **** of the wasteful gallinule.
Written by Andre Breton | Create an image from this poem

Freedom of Love

 (Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans' backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Rapunzel

 A woman 
who loves a woman 
is forever young.
The mentor and the student feed off each other.
Many a girl had an old aunt who locked her in the study to keep the boys away.
They would play rummy or lie on the couch and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast.
.
.
Let your dress fall down your shoulder, come touch a copy of you for I am at the mercy of rain, for I have left the three Christs of Ypsilanti for I have left the long naps of Ann Arbor and the church spires have turned to stumps.
The sea bangs into my cloister for the politicians are dying, and dying so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
.
.
The yellow rose will turn to cinder and New York City will fall in before we are done so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
Put your pale arms around my neck.
Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Give me your nether lips all puffy with their art and I will give you angel fire in return.
We are two clouds glistening in the bottle galss.
We are two birds washing in the same mirror.
We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool.
We are strong.
We are the good ones.
Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds.
Hold me, my young dear, hold me.
They touch their delicate watches one at a time.
They dance to the lute two at a time.
They are as tender as bog moss.
They play mother-me-do all day.
A woman who loves a woman is forever young.
Once there was a witch's garden more beautiful than Eve's with carrots growing like little fish, with many tomatoes rich as frogs, onions as ingrown as hearts, the squash singing like a dolphin and one patch given over wholly to magic -- rampion, a kind of salad root a kind of harebell more potent than penicillin, growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin.
as rapt and as fluid as Isadoran Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked and each day a woman who was with child looked upon the rampion wildly, fancying that she would die if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare and thus climbed into the garden to fetch the life-giving tubers.
Ah ha, cried the witch, whose proper name was Mother Gothel, you are a thief and now you will die.
However they made a trade, typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel so of course when it was born she took the child away with her.
She gave the child the name Rapunzel, another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought: None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tow without a door or a staircase.
It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried" Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as strong as a dandelion and as strong as a dog leash.
Hand over hand she shinnied up the hair like a sailor and there in the stone-cold room, as cold as a museum, Mother Gothel cried: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and thus they played mother-me-do.
Years later a prince came by and heard Rapunzel singing her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, and thus they met and he declared his love.
What is this beast, she thought, with muscles on his arms like a bag of snakes? What is this moss on his legs? What prickly plant grows on his cheeks? What is this voice as deep as a dog? Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads, swimming through them like minnows through kelp and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.
Each day he brought her a skein of silk to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot and cut off Rapunzel's hair to her ears and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw Rapunzel had been banished he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that prickled him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years until he heard a song that pierced his heart like that long-ago valentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes and in the manner of such cure-alls his sight was suddenly restored.
They lived happily as you might expect proving that mother-me-do can be outgrown, just as the fish on Friday, just as a tricycle.
The world, some say, is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.
As for Mother Gothel, her heart shrank to the size of a pin, never again to say: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and only as she dreamed of the yellow hair did moonlight sift into her mouth.
Written by David Herbert Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Whales Weep Not!

 They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea! And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages on the depths of the seven seas, and through the salt they reel with drunk delight and in the tropics tremble they with love and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride in the blue deep bed of the sea, as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life: and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and comes to rest in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's fathomless body.
And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the wonder of whales the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and forth, keep passing, archangels of bliss from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.
And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale- tender young and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt where God is also love, but without words: and Aphrodite is the wife of whales most happy, happy she! and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
Written by Robert Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Dolphin

 My Dolphin, you only guide me by surprise,
a captive as Racine, the man of craft,
drawn through his maze of iron composition
by the incomparable wandering voice of Ph?dre.
When I was troubled in mind, you made for my body caught in its hangman's-knot of sinking lines, the glassy bowing and scraping of my will.
.
.
.
I have sat and listened to too many words of the collaborating muse, and plotted perhaps too freely with my life, not avoiding injury to others, not avoiding injury to myself-- to ask compassion .
.
.
this book, half fiction, an eelnet made by man for the eel fighting my eyes have seen what my hand did.
Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

A GAME OF CHESS

  The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
  Glowed on the marble, where the glass
  Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
  From which a golden Cupidon peeped out                                  80
  (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
  Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
  Reflecting light upon the table as
  The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
  From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
  In vials of ivory and coloured glass
  Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
  Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused
  And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
  That freshened from the window, these ascended                          90
  In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
  Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
  Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100 Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, "Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
110 "My nerves are bad to-night.
Yes, bad.
Stay with me.
"Speak to me.
Why do you never speak.
Speak.
"What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? "I never know what you are thinking.
Think.
" I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
"What is that noise?" The wind under the door.
"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?" Nothing again nothing.
120 "Do "You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember "Nothing?" I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes.
"Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?" But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It's so elegant So intelligent 130 "What shall I do now? What shall I do?" I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street "With my hair down, so.
What shall we do to-morrow? "What shall we ever do?" The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said— I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140 HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth.
He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said.
Something o' that, I said.
150 Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.
) I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face, It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.
) 160 The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don't want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill.
Goonight Lou.
Goonight May.
Goonight.
170 Ta ta.
Goonight.
Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Rapunzel

 A woman 
who loves a woman 
is forever young.
The mentor and the student feed off each other.
Many a girl had an old aunt who locked her in the study to keep the boys away.
They would play rummy or lie on the couch and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast.
.
.
Let your dress fall down your shoulder, come touch a copy of you for I am at the mercy of rain, for I have left the three Christs of Ypsilanti for I have left the long naps of Ann Arbor and the church spires have turned to stumps.
The sea bangs into my cloister for the politicians are dying, and dying so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
.
.
The yellow rose will turn to cinder and New York City will fall in before we are done so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
Put your pale arms around my neck.
Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Give me your nether lips all puffy with their art and I will give you angel fire in return.
We are two clouds glistening in the bottle galss.
We are two birds washing in the same mirror.
We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool.
We are strong.
We are the good ones.
Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds.
Hold me, my young dear, hold me.
They touch their delicate watches one at a time.
They dance to the lute two at a time.
They are as tender as bog moss.
They play mother-me-do all day.
A woman who loves a woman is forever young.
Once there was a witch's garden more beautiful than Eve's with carrots growing like little fish, with many tomatoes rich as frogs, onions as ingrown as hearts, the squash singing like a dolphin and one patch given over wholly to magic -- rampion, a kind of salad root a kind of harebell more potent than penicillin, growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin.
as rapt and as fluid as Isadoran Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked and each day a woman who was with child looked upon the rampion wildly, fancying that she would die if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare and thus climbed into the garden to fetch the life-giving tubers.
Ah ha, cried the witch, whose proper name was Mother Gothel, you are a thief and now you will die.
However they made a trade, typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel so of course when it was born she took the child away with her.
She gave the child the name Rapunzel, another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought: None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tow without a door or a staircase.
It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried" Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as strong as a dandelion and as strong as a dog leash.
Hand over hand she shinnied up the hair like a sailor and there in the stone-cold room, as cold as a museum, Mother Gothel cried: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and thus they played mother-me-do.
Years later a prince came by and heard Rapunzel singing her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, and thus they met and he declared his love.
What is this beast, she thought, with muscles on his arms like a bag of snakes? What is this moss on his legs? What prickly plant grows on his cheeks? What is this voice as deep as a dog? Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads, swimming through them like minnows through kelp and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.
Each day he brought her a skein of silk to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot and cut off Rapunzel's hair to her ears and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw Rapunzel had been banished he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that prickled him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years until he heard a song that pierced his heart like that long-ago valentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes and in the manner of such cure-alls his sight was suddenly restored.
They lived happily as you might expect proving that mother-me-do can be outgrown, just as the fish on Friday, just as a tricycle.
The world, some say, is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.
As for Mother Gothel, her heart shrank to the size of a pin, never again to say: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and only as she dreamed of the yellow hair did moonlight sift into her mouth.
Written by Denise Levertov | Create an image from this poem

On the Mystery of the Incarnation

 It's when we face for a moment
the worst our kind can do, and shudder to know
the taint in our own selves, that awe
cracks the mind's shell and enters the heart:
not to a flower, not to a dolphin,
to no innocent form
but to this creature vainly sure
it and no other is god-like, God
(out of compassion for our ugly
failure to evolve) entrusts,
as guest, as brother,
the Word.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

Byzantium

 The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.
Before me floats an image, man or shade, Shade more than man, more image than a shade; For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth May unwind the winding path; A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon; I hail the superhuman; I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
Miracle, bird or golden handiwork, More miraclc than bird or handiwork, Planted on the star-lit golden bough, Can like the cocks of Hades crow, Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud In glory of changeless metal Common bird or petal And all complexities of mire or blood.
At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit Flames that no ****** feeds, nor steel has lit, Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame, Where blood-begotten spirits come And all complexities of fury leave, Dying into a dance, An agony of trance, An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.
Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood, Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor! Marbles of the dancing floor Break bitter furies of complexity, Those images that yet Fresh images beget, That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.
Written by William Cullen Bryant | Create an image from this poem

The Constellations

 O constellations of the early night, 
That sparkled brighter as the twilight died, 
And made the darkness glorious! I have seen 
Your rays grow dim upon the horizon's edge, 
And sink behind the mountains.
I have seen The great Orion, with his jewelled belt, That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go down Into the gloom.
Beside him sank a crowd Of shining ones.
I look in vain to find The group of sister-stars, which mothers love To show their wondering babes, the gentle Seven.
Along the desert space mine eyes in vain Seek the resplendent cressets which the Twins Uplifted in their ever-youthful hands.
The streaming tresses of the Egyptian Queen Spangle the heavens no more.
The Virgin trails No more her glittering garments through the blue.
Gone! all are gone! and the forsaken Night, With all her winds, in all her dreary wastes, Sighs that they shine upon her face no more.
No only here and there a little star Looks forth alone.
Ah me! I know them not, Those dim successors of the numberless host That filled the heavenly fields, and flung to earth Their guivering fires.
And now the middle watch Betwixt the eve and morn is past, and still The darkness gains upon the sky, and still It closes round my way.
Shall, then, the Night, Grow starless in her later hours? Have these No train of flaming watchers, that shall mark Their coming and farewell? O Sons of Light! Have ye then left me ere the dawn of day To grope along my journey sad and faint? Thus I complained, and from the darkness round A voice replied--was it indeed a voice, Or seeming accents of a waking dream Heard by the inner ear? But thus it said: O Traveller of the Night! thine eyes are dim With watching; and the mists, that chill the vale Down which thy feet are passing, hide from view The ever-burning stars.
It is thy sight That is so dark, and not the heaens.
Thine eyes, Were they but clear, would see a fiery host Above thee; Hercules, with flashing mace, The Lyre with silver cords, the Swan uppoised On gleaming wings, the Dolphin gliding on With glistening scales, and that poetic steed, With beamy mane, whose hoof struck out from earth The fount of Hippocrene, and many more, Fair clustered splendors, with whose rays the Night Shall close her march in glory, ere she yield, To the young Day, the great earth steeped in dew.
So spake the monitor, and I perceived How vain were my repinings, and my thought Went backward to the vanished years and all The good and great who came and passed with them, And knew that ever would the years to come Bring with them, in their course, the good and great, Lights of the world, though, to my clouded sight, Their rays might seem but dim, or reach me not.
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