Best Famous Emotional Poems

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

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Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

America

 America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic? When will you take off your clothes? When will you look at yourself through the grave? When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? America why are your libraries full of tears? America when will you send your eggs to India? I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke? I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine? I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility.
Business- men are serious.
Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood? I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they're all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe America free Tom Mooney America save the Spanish Loyalists America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com- munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sin- cere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain.
Everybody must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive.
The Russia's power mad.
She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago.
Her needs a Red Readers' Digest.
Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta- tions.
That no good.
Ugh.
Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers.
Hah.
Her make us all work sixteen hours a day.
Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct? I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Berkeley, January 17, 1956
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Emotional Idiot

 Liner Notes - (From Love Is A Dog From Hell)

Emotional Idiocy is obviously
a theme close to my heart since I seem to use the phrase in novels and
CDs alike.
My friend and mentor of sorts, Andrew Vachss, upon hearing me read a rendition of this poem, stated that it ought to be the theme song for borderline personality disorder.
He's right.
I'm an Emotional Idiot so get away from me.
I mean, COME HERE.
Wait, no, that's too close, give me some space it's a big country, there's plenty of room, don't sit so close to me.
Hey, where are you? I haven't seen you in days.
Whadya, having an affair? Who is she? Come on, aren't I enough for you? God, You're so cold.
I never know what you're thinking.
You're not very affectionate.
I mean, you're clinging to me, DON'T TOUCH ME, what am I, your fucking cat? Don't rub me like that.
Don't you have anything better to do than sit there fawning over me? Don't you have any interests? Hobbies? Sailing Fly fishing Archeology? There's an archeology expedition leaving tomorrow why don't you go? I'll loan you the money, my money is your money.
my life is your life my soul is yours without you I'm nothing.
Move in with me we'll get a studio apartment together, save on rent, well, wait, I mean, a one bedroom, so we don't get in each other's hair or anything or, well, maybe a two bedroom I'll have my own bedroom, it's nothing personal I just need to be alone sometimes, you do understand, don't you? Hey, why are you acting distant? Where you goin', was it something I said? What What did I do? I'm an emotional idiot so get away from me I mean, MARRY ME.
Written by David Herbert Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Tortoise Family Connections

 On he goes, the little one,
Bud of the universe,
Pediment of life.
Setting off somewhere, apparently.
Whither away, brisk egg? His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were no more than droppings, And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old rusty tin.
A mere obstacle, He veers round the slow great mound of her -- Tortoises always foresee obstacles.
It is no use my saying to him in an emotional voice: "This is your Mother, she laid you when you were an egg.
" He does not even trouble to answer: "Woman, what have I to do with thee?" He wearily looks the other way, And she even more wearily looks another way still, Each with the utmost apathy, Incognisant, Unaware, Nothing.
As for papa, He snaps when I offer him his offspring, Just as he snaps when I poke a bit of stick at him, Because he is irascible this morning, an irascible tortoise Being touched with love, and devoid of fatherliness.
Father and mother, And three little brothers, And all rambling aimless, like little perambulating pebbles scattered in the garden, Not knowing each other from bits of earth or old tins.
Except that papa and mama are old acquaintances, of course, Though family feeling there is none, not even the beginnings.
Fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless Little tortoise.
Row on then, small pebble, Over the clods of the autumn, wind-chilled sunshine, Young gaiety.
Does he look for a companion? No, no, don't think it.
He doesn't know he is alone; Isolation is his birthright, This atom.
To row forward, and reach himself tall on spiny toes, To travel, to burrow into a little loose earth, afraid of the night, To crop a little substance, To move, and to be quite sure that he is moving: Basta! To be a tortoise! Think of it, in a garden of inert clods A brisk, brindled little tortoise, all to himself -- Adam! In a garden of pebbles and insects To roam, and feel the slow heart beat Tortoise-wise, the first bell sounding From the warm blood, in the dark-creation morning.
Moving, and being himself, Slow, and unquestioned, And inordinately there, O stoic! Wandering in the slow triumph of his own existence, Ringing the soundless bell of his presence in chaos, And biting the frail grass arrogantly, Decidedly arrogantly.
Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem

These Green-Going-to-Yellow

 This year,
I'm raising the emotional ante,
putting my face
in the leaves to be stepped on,
seeing myself among them, that is;
that is, likening
leaf-vein to artery, leaf to flesh,
the passage of a leaf in autumn
to the passage of autumn,
branch-tip and winter spaces
to possibilities, and possibility
to God.
Even on East 61st Street in the blowzy city of New York, someone has planted a gingko because it has leaves like fans like hands, hand-leaves, and sex.
Those lovely Chinese hands on the sidewalks so far from delicacy or even, perhaps, another gender of gingko-- do we see them? No one ever treated us so gently as these green-going-to-yellow hands fanned out where we walk.
No one ever fell down so quietly and lay where we would look when we were tired or embarrassed, or so bowed down by humanity that we had to watch out lest our shoes stumble, and looked down not to look up until something looked like parts of people where we were walking.
We have no experience to make us see the gingko or any other tree, and, in our admiration for whatever grows tall and outlives us, we look away, or look at the middles of things, which would not be our way if we truly thought we were gods.
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Days of Pie and Coffee

 A motorist once said to me, 
and this was in the country, 
on a county lane, a motorist 
slowed his vehicle as I was 
walking my dear old collie,
Sithney, by the side of the road, 
and the motorist came to a halt 
mildly alarming both Sithney and myself, 
not yet accustomed to automobiles, 
and this particular motorist 
sent a little spasm of fright up our spines, 
which in turn panicked the driver a bit 
and it seemed as if we were off to a bad start, 
and that's when Sithney began to bark 
and the man could not be heard, that is, 
if he was speaking or trying to speak 
because I was commanding Sithnewy to be silent, 
though, indeed I was sympathetic 
to his emotional excitement.
It was, as I recall, a day of prodigious beauty.
April 21, 1932--clouds like the inside of your head explained.
Bluebirds, too numerous to mention.
The clover calling you by name.
And fields oozing green.
And this motorist from nowhere moving his lips like the wings of a butterfly and nothing coming out, and Sithney silent now.
He was no longer looking at us, but straight ahead where his election was in doubt.
"That's a fine dog," he said.
"Collies are made in heaven.
" Well, if I were a voting man I'd vote for you, I said.
"A bedoozling day to be lost in the country, I say.
Leastways, I am a misplaced individual.
" We introduced ourselves and swapped a few stories.
He was a veteran and a salesmen who didn't believe in his product-- I've forgotten what it was--hair restorer, parrot feed--and he enjoyed nothing more then a a day spent meandering the back roads in his jalopy.
I gave him directions to the Denton farm, but I doubt that he followed them, he didn't seem to be listening, and it was getting late and Sithney had an idea of his own and I don't know why I am remembering this now, just that he summed himself up by saying "I've missed too many boats" and all these years later I keep thinking that was a man who loved to miss boats, but he didn't miss them that much.
Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Days of Pie and Coffee

 A motorist once said to me, 
and this was in the country, 
on a county lane, a motorist 
slowed his vehicle as I was 
walking my dear old collie,
Sithney, by the side of the road, 
and the motorist came to a halt 
mildly alarming both Sithney and myself, 
not yet accustomed to automobiles, 
and this particular motorist 
sent a little spasm of fright up our spines, 
which in turn panicked the driver a bit 
and it seemed as if we were off to a bad start, 
and that's when Sithney began to bark 
and the man could not be heard, that is, 
if he was speaking or trying to speak 
because I was commanding Sithnewy to be silent, 
though, indeed I was sympathetic 
to his emotional excitement.
It was, as I recall, a day of prodigious beauty.
April 21, 1932--clouds like the inside of your head explained.
Bluebirds, too numerous to mention.
The clover calling you by name.
And fields oozing green.
And this motorist from nowhere moving his lips like the wings of a butterfly and nothing coming out, and Sithney silent now.
He was no longer looking at us, but straight ahead where his election was in doubt.
"That's a fine dog," he said.
"Collies are made in heaven.
" Well, if I were a voting man I'd vote for you, I said.
"A bedoozling day to be lost in the country, I say.
Leastways, I am a misplaced individual.
" We introduced ourselves and swapped a few stories.
He was a veteran and a salesmen who didn't believe in his product-- I've forgotten what it was--hair restorer, parrot feed--and he enjoyed nothing more then a a day spent meandering the back roads in his jalopy.
I gave him directions to the Denton farm, but I doubt that he followed them, he didn't seem to be listening, and it was getting late and Sithney had an idea of his own and I don't know why I am remembering this now, just that he summed himself up by saying "I've missed too many boats" and all these years later I keep thinking that was a man who loved to miss boats, but he didn't miss them that much.
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

Nephelidia

 From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine,
Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,
Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,
These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?
Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation,
Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;
Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,
Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?
Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,
Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:
Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,
Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath.
Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses-- "Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.
" Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.
Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.
Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

Time Of Disturbance

 The best is, in war or faction or ordinary vindictive
 life, not to take sides.
Leave it for children, and the emotional rabble of the streets, to back their horse or support a brawler.
But if you are forced into it: remember that good and evil are as common as air, and like air shared By the panting belligerents; the moral indignation that hoarsens orators is mostly a fool.
Hold your nose and compromise; keep a cold mind.
Fight, if needs must; hate no one.
Do as God does, Or the tragic poets: they crush their man without hating him, their Lear or Hitler, and often save without love.
As for these quarrels, they are like the moon, recurrent and fantastic.
They have their beauty but night's is better.
It is better to be silent than make a noise.
It is better to strike dead than strike often.
It is better not to strike.
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Karma Repair Kit: Items 1-4

  1.
Get enough food to eat, and eat it.
2.
Find a place to sleep where it is quiet, and sleep there.
3.
Reduce intellectual and emotional noise until you arrive at the silence of yourself, and listen to it.
Written by Li-Young Lee | Create an image from this poem

A Story

 Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba.
A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world of stories, he can recall not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees the day this boy will go.
Don't go! Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more! You love the spider story.
You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it! But the boy is packing his shirts, he is looking for his keys.
Are you a god, the man screams, that I sit mute before you? Am I a god that I should never disappoint? But the boy is here.
Please, Baba, a story? It is an emotional rather than logical equation, an earthly rather than heavenly one, which posits that a boy's supplications and a father's love add up to silence.
Credit: Copyright © 1990 by Li-Young Lee.
Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
, www.
boaeditions.
org.
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