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Best Famous Envelopes Poems

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

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Written by Raymond Carver | Create an image from this poem

Fear

 Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek! Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.
Fear of anxiety! Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I've said that.


Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

LETTERS TO FRIENDS

 I


Eddie Linden

Dear Eddie we’ve not met

Except upon the written page 

And at your age the wonder 

Is that you write at all

When so many have gone under 

Or been split asunder by narcissistic humours

Blunder following blunder

Barker and Graham, godfathering my verse

Bearing me cloud-handed to Haworth moor

From my chained metropolitan moorings,

O hyaline March morning with Leeds

At its thrusting best, the thirsty beasts

Of night quenched as the furnaces

Of Hunslet where Hudswell Clarke’s locos

Rust in their skeletal sheds, rails skewed

To graveyards platforms and now instead

Skyscrapers circle the city, cranes, aeroplanes,

Electric trains but even they cannot hinder

Branches bursting with semen

Seraphic cloud sanctuaries shunting

Us homeward to the beckoning moors.
II Brenda Williams Leeds voices soothe the turbulence ‘Ey’ ‘sithee’ and ‘love’, lastingly lilt From cradle to grave, from backstreet On the social, our son, beat his way To Eton, Balliol, to Calcatta’s Shantiniketan And all the way back to a locked ward.
While I in the meantime fondly fiddled With rhyme and unreason, publishing pamphlets And Leeds Poetry Weekly while under the bane Of his tragic illness, poet and mother, You were driven from pillar to post By the taunting yobbery of your family And the crass insensitivity of wild therapy To the smoking dark of despair, Locked in your flat in the Abbey Road With seven cats and poetry.
O stop and strop your bladed darkness On the rock of ages while plangent tollings Mock your cradled rockings, knock by knock.
III Debjani Chatterjee In these doom-laden days You are steady as a pilot nursing tired ships homeward Through churning seas Where grey gulls scream Forlornly and for ever.
I am the red-neck, Bear-headed blaster Shifting sheer rock To rape the ore of poetry’s plunder Or bulldozing trees to glean mines of silver While you sail serenely onward Ever the diplomat’s daughter Toujours de la politesse.
IV Daisy Abey Daisy, dearest of all, safest And kindest, watcher and warner Of chaotic corners looming Round poetry’s boomerang bends I owe you most a letter While you are here beside me Patient as a miller waiting on wind To drive the great sails Through summer.
When the muse takes over I am snatched from order and duty Blowing routine into a riot of going And coming, blind, backwards, tip Over ****, sea waves crashing in suburbia, Saturnalia in Sutton, headlines of mad poet Striding naked over moors, roaring "I am here I am waiting".
V Jeremy Reed Niagaras of letters on pink sheets In sheaths of silver envelopes Mutually exchanged.
I open your missives Like undressing a girl in my teens Undoing the flap like a recalcitrant Bra strap, the letters stiff as nipples While I stroke the creviced folds Of amber and mauve and lick As I stick stamps like the ******** Of a reluctant virgin, urgent for Defloration and the pulse of ******.
Written by Imamu Amiri Baraka | Create an image from this poem

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Pedlar

 Pedlar's coming down the street,
Housewives beat a swift retreat.
Don't you answer to the bell; Heedless what she has to sell.
Just discreetly go inside.
We must hang a board, I fear: PEDLARS NOT PERMITTED HERE.
I'm trying to sell what nobody wants to buy; They turn me away, but still I try and try.
My arms are aching and my feet are sore; Heartsick and worn I drag from door to door.
I ring bells, meekly knock, hold out my tray, But no one answers, so I go away.
I am so weary; oh, I want to cry, Trying to sell what no one wants to buy.
I do not blame them.
Maybe in their place I'd slam the door shut in a pedlar's face.
I don not know; perhaps I'd raise their hopes By looking at their pens and envelopes, Their pins and needles, pencils, spools of thread, Cheap tawdry stuff, before I shake my head And go back to my cosy kitchen nook Without another thought or backward look.
I would not see their pain nor hear their sigh, Trying to sell what no one wants to buy.
I know I am a nuisance.
I can see They only buy because they pity me.
They may .
.
.
I've had a cottage of my own, A husband, children - now I am alone, Friendless in all the world.
The bitter years Have crushed me, robbed me of my dears.
All, all I've lost, my only wish to die, Selling my trash that no one wants to buy.
Pedlar's beating a retreat - Poor old thing, her face is sweet, her figure frail, her hair snow-white; Dogone it! Every door's shut tight.
.
.
.
"Say, Ma, how much for all you've got? Hell, here's ten bucks .
.
.
I'll take the lot.
Go, get yourself a proper feed, A little of the rest you need.
I've got a mother looks like you - I'd hate her doing what you do.
.
.
.
No, don't get sloppy, can the mush, Praying for me - all that slush; But please don't come again this way, Ten bucks is all I draw a day.
"
Written by Galway Kinnell | Create an image from this poem

The Correspondence School Instructor Says Goodbye To His Poetry Students

 Goodbye, lady in Bangor, who sent me
snapshots of yourself, after definitely hinting
you were beautiful; goodbye,
Miami Beach urologist, who enclosed plain
brown envelopes for the return of your very
Clinical Sonnet; goodbye, manufacturer
of brassieres on the Coast, whose eclogues
give the fullest treatment in literature yet
to the sagging-breast motif; goodbye, you in San Quentin,
who wrote, "Being German my hero is Hitler,"
instead of "Sincerely yours," at the end of long,
neat-scripted letter demolishing
the pre-Raphaelites:

I swear to you, it was just my way
of cheering myself up, as I licked
the stamped, self-addressed envelopes,
the game I had
of trying to guess which one of you, this time,
had poisoned his glue.
I did care.
I did read each poem entire.
I did say what I thought was the truth in the mildest words I know.
And now, in this poem, or chopped prose, not any better, I realize, than those troubled lines I kept sending back to you, I have to say I am relieved it is over: at the end I could feel only pity for that urge toward more life your poems kept smothering in words, the smell of which, days later, would tingle in your nostrils as new, God-given impulses to write.
Goodbye, you who are, for me, the postmarks again of shattered towns-Xenia, Burnt Cabins, Hornell- their loneliness given away in poems, only their solitude kept.


Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

What think You I take my Pen in Hand?

 WHAT think you I take my pen in hand to record? 
The battle-ship, perfect-model’d, majestic, that I saw pass the offing to-day under full
 sail?

The splendors of the past day? Or the splendor of the night that envelopes me? 
Or the vaunted glory and growth of the great city spread around me?—No; 
But I record of two simple men I saw to-day, on the pier, in the midst of the crowd,
 parting
 the
 parting of dear friends;
The one to remain hung on the other’s neck, and passionately kiss’d him, 
While the one to depart, tightly prest the one to remain in his arms.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things