10 Best Famous Erase Poems

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

• All Famous Erase Poems

 In my dream, 
drilling into the marrow 
of my entire bone, 
my real dream, 
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill 
searching for a street sign -- 
namely MERCY STREET. 
Not there. 

I try the Back Bay. 
Not there. 
Not there. 
And yet I know the number. 
45 Mercy Street. 
I know the stained-glass window 
of the foyer, 
the three flights of the house 
with its parquet floors. 
I know the furniture and 
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, 
the servants. 
I know the cupboard of Spode 
the boat of ice, solid silver, 
where the butter sits in neat squares 
like strange giant's teeth 
on the big mahogany table. 
I know it well. 
Not there. 

Where did you go? 
45 Mercy Street, 
with great-grandmother 
kneeling in her whale-bone corset 
and praying gently but fiercely 
to the wash basin, 
at five A.M. 
at noon 
dozing in her wiggy rocker, 
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, 
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, 
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower 
on her forehead to cover the curl 
of when she was good and when she was... 
And where she was begat 
and in a generation 
the third she will beget, 
me, 
with the stranger's seed blooming 
into the flower called Horrid. 

I walk in a yellow dress 
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, 
enough pills, my wallet, my keys, 
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? 
I walk. I walk. 
I hold matches at street signs 
for it is dark, 
as dark as the leathery dead 
and I have lost my green Ford, 
my house in the suburbs, 
two little kids 
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me 
and a husband 
who has wiped off his eyes 
in order not to see my inside out 
and I am walking and looking 
and this is no dream 
just my oily life 
where the people are alibis 
and the street is unfindable for an 
entire lifetime. 

Pull the shades down -- 
I don't care! 
Bolt the door, mercy, 
erase the number, 
rip down the street sign, 
what can it matter, 
what can it matter to this cheapskate 
who wants to own the past 
that went out on a dead ship 
and left me only with paper? 

Not there. 

I open my pocketbook, 
as women do, 
and fish swim back and forth 
between the dollars and the lipstick. 
I pick them out, 
one by one 
and throw them at the street signs, 
and shoot my pocketbook 
into the Charles River. 
Next I pull the dream off 
and slam into the cement wall 
of the clumsy calendar 
I live in, 
my life, 
and its hauled up 
notebooks.

If only out of vanity
I have wondered what kind of woman I will be
when I am well past the summer of my raging youth
Will I still be raising revolutionary flags
and making impassioned speeches
that stir up anger in the hearts of pseudo-liberals
dressed in navy-blue conservative wear

In those years when I am grateful
I still have a good sturdy bladder
that does not leak undigested prune juice
onto diapers—no longer adorable
will I be more grateful for that
than for any forward movement in any current political cause
and will it have been worth it then
Will it have been worth the long hours
of not sleeping
that produced little more than reams
of badly written verses that catapulted me into literary spasms
but did not even whet the appetite
of the three O’ clock crowd
in the least respected of the New York poetry cafes

Will I wish then that I had taken that job working at the bank
or the one to watch that old lady drool
all over her soft boiled eggs
as she tells me how she was a raving beauty in the sixties
how she could have had any man she wanted
but she chose the one least likely to succeed
and that’s why when the son of a ***** died
she had to move into this place
because it was government subsidized

Will I tell my young attendant
how slender I was then
and paint for her pictures
of the young me more beautiful than I ever was
if only to make her forget the shriveled paper skin
the stained but even dental plates
and the faint smell of urine that tends to linger
in places built especially for revolutionaries
whose causes have been won
or forgotten

Will I still be lesbian then
or will the church or family finally convince me
to marry some man with a smaller dick
than the one my woman uses to afford me
violent and multiple orgasms

Will the staff smile at me
humor my eccentricities to my face
but laugh at me in their private resting rooms
saying she must have been something in her day

Most days I don’t know what I will be like then
but everyday—I know what I want to be now
I want to be that voice that makes Guilani
so scared he hires two (butch) black bodyguards

I want to write the poem
that The New York Times cannot print
because it might start some kind of black or lesbian
or even a white revolution

I want to go to secret meetings and under the guise
of female friendship I want to bed the women
of those young and eager revolutionaries
with too much zeal for their cause
and too little passion for the women
who follow them from city to city
all the while waiting in separate rooms

I want to be forty years old
and weigh three hundred pounds
and ride a motorcycle in the wintertime
with four hell raising children
and a one hundred ten pound female lover
who writes poetry about my life
and my children and loves me
like no one has ever loved me before

I want to be the girl your parents will use
as a bad example of a lady

I want to be the dyke who likes to **** men

I want to be the politician who never lies

I want to be the girl who never cries

I want to go down in history
in a chapter marked miscellaneous
because the writers could find
no other way to categorize me
In this world where classification is key
I want to erase the straight lines
So I can be me

 And an orator said, "Speak to us of Freedom." 

And he answered: 

At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom, 

Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise him though he slays them. 

Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff. 

And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfillment. 

You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief, 

But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound. 

And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour? 

In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle the eyes. 

And what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may become free? 

If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was written with your own hand upon your own forehead. 

You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the foreheads of your judges, though you pour the sea upon them. 

And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed. 

For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their won pride? 

And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you. 

And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared. 

Verily all things move within your being in constant half embrace, the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished, the pursued and that which you would escape. 

These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling. 

And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light. 

And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom.

 “I’d rather make $700 a week playing a maid than earn $7 a day being a maid”. Hattie McDaniel.

I’m the savage in the jungle
and the busboy in the town.
I’m the one who jumps the highest 
when the Boss man comes around.

I’m the maid who wields the wooden broom.
I’m the black boot polish cheeks.
I’m the big fat Lawdy Mama
who always laughs before she speaks.

I’m the plaintive sound of spirituals
on the mighty Mississip’.
I’m the porter in the club car
touching forelock for a tip.

I’m the bent, white-whiskered ol’ Black Joe 
with the stick and staggered walk.
I’m the barefoot boy in dungarees
with a stammer in my talk.

I’m the storytelling Mr. Bones
with a jangling tambourine.
I’m the North’s excuse for novelty
and the South’s deleted scene.

I’m the one who takes his lunch break
with the extras and the grips.
I’m the funny liquorice coils of hair
and the funny looking lips.

I’m the white wide eyes and pearly teeth.
I’m the jet black skin that shines.
I’m the soft-shoe shuffling Uncle Tom
for your nickels and your dimes.

I’m the Alabami Mammy
for a state I’ve never seen.
I’m the bona fide Minstrel Man
whose blackface won’t wash clean.

I’m the banjo playing Sambo
with a fixed and manic grin.
I’m the South’s defiant answer
that the Yankees didn’t win.


I’m the inconvenient nigrah
that no one can let go.
I’m the cutesy picaninny
with my hair tied up in bows.

I’m the funny little shoeshine boy.
I’m the convict on the run;
the ****** in the woodpile 
when the cotton pickin’s done.

I’m a blacklist in Kentucky.
I’m the night when hound dogs bay.
I’m the cut-price, easy light relief
growing darker by the day.

I’m the “yessir, Massa, right away”
that the audience so enjoys.
I’m the full-grown man of twenty-five
but still they call me ‘boy’.

For I’m the myth in Griffith’s movie.
I’m the steamboat whistle’s cry.
I’m the dust of dead plantations
and the proof of Lincoln’s lie.

I’m the skin upon the leg iron.
I’m the blood upon the club.
I’m the deep black stain you can’t erase
no matter how you scrub.



 John Lindley

 I want to erase your footprints
from my walls. Each pillow
is thick with your reasons. Omens 

fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman
in a party hat, clinging
to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows 

creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, "Stop!"
and I close my eyes. I can't watch 

as this town slowly empties, leaving me
strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes
on a line, the white handkerchief 

stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus 

rips open his shirt
to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny,
the way he points to it. I'm afraid 

the way I'll miss you will be this obvious. 

I have a friend who everyone warns me
is dangerous, he hides
bloody images of Jesus
around my house, for me to find 

when I come home; Jesus
behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked 

into the mirror. He wants to save me
but we disagree from what. My version of hell
is someone ripping open his shirt 

and saying, Look what I did for you. . .

 For why cometh a time,

When you forget yesterday?

Forgot our vows that we made,

And turn and walk away.
*****
How can a heart forget,

The love we once had?

And turn yourself against me,

And make my soul so sad.
*****
You’ve found someone better,

And you’ll leave us behind;

You think you can change your heart,

And erase your troubled mind.
*****
How can you just quit,

And let our love just die?

I’ve done all I know to do,

But you refuse to try.
*****




If I could only be around you,

Our love would live , I bet;

But you want me to stay away,

So you can just forget.
*****
For what has happened to you,

That has torn up your mind?

From the precious girl I once loved,

The one so pure and kind.
*****
I know that you are hurting,

You can’t look at me any more;

I know I can help you,

Heal your heart that’s sore.
*****
I know I’m not perfect,

But I really try to be;

I really truly love you,

That you’ve got to see.
*****




I know I’m no studly man,

Big and tall I’m not;

I don’t have much to offer you,

But all the love I got.
*****
We’ve had our share of problems,

But troubles don’t last long;

If we work together,

From them we can be strong.
*****
Maybe you think you’ve gone too far,

And respect you’ll never get;

But if only you’d just reach out,

Forgiveness can be met.
*****
Don’t give up like other folks,

Just so you’ll fit in;

For God and I believe in you,

And beg you not to sin.
*****






I know that you’re confused now,

And don’t know how to turn;

Just take one step toward me,

And leave your pain to burn.
*****
For I so love you dearly,

I can’t watch you walk away;

Please tell me you love me too,

And that you want to stay.
*****

Written 11-12-90

 A father with a huge eraser erases his daughter. When he 
finishes there's only a red smudge on the wall.
 His wife says, where is Amyloo?
 She's a mistake, I erased her.
 What about all her lovely things? asks his wife.
 I'll erase them too.
 All her pretty clothes? . . .
 I'll erase her closet, her dresser--shut up about Amyloo! 
Bring your head over here and I'll erase Amyloo out of it.
 The husband rubs his eraser on his wife's forehead, and as 
she begins to forget she says, hummm, I wonder whatever 
happened to Amyloo? . . .
 Never heard of her, says her husband.
 And you, she says, who are you? You're not Amyloo, are 
you? I don't remember your being Amyloo. Are you my 
Amyloo, whom I don't remember anymore? . . .
 Of course not, Amyloo was a girl. Do I look like a girl?
. . . I don't know, I don't know what anything looks like 
anymore. . .

 In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow
One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show
That’s where they test how to vaporize people and flesh
By splitting and fusing atoms and start the world afresh.

A new era, a new definition, with the nuclear shield
Dawned with huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields
Can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks
Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks.

They are making bullets and missiles with lasers
That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers
Future soldiers don’t have to die for their country’s glory
They use their global positioning bullet, that’s the story.

Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line futile windmill tilters
Your wars are lost before you even see victory, dissenters
No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley
They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

They say their soldiers are smart , they see in the dark
Their bullets can pierce armor; they can blast your mark
Where were you soldiers of the mind, I mourn
When from your toils such Frankensteins were born?

No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley
They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up 
it's more like high time for the lad's last nap.
And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the best
drives a steamroller across his chest.

And the words won't rise either like that rod
or like logs to rejoin their old grove's sweet rot
and like eggs in the frying pan the face
spills its eyes all over the pillowcase.

Are you warm tonight under those six veils
in that basin of yours whose strung bottom wails;
where like fish that gasp at the foreign blue
my raw lip was catching what then was you?

I would have hare's ears sewn to my bald head 
in thick woods for your sake I'd gulp drops of lead 
and from black gnarled snags in the oil-smooth poad
I'd bob up to your face as some Tirpitz won't.

But it's not on the cards or the waiter's tray 
and it pains to say where one's hair turns gray.
There are more blue veins than the blood to swell
their dried web let alone some remote brain cell 

We are parting for good my friend that's that.
Draw an empty circle on your blue pad.
This will be me: no insides in thrall.
Stare at it a while then erase the scrawl.

 Here, where we stood together, we three men, 
Before the war had swept us to the East 
Three thousand miles away, I stand again 
And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast. 
We trod the same path, to the selfsame place, 
Yet here I stand, having beheld their graves, 
Skyros whose shadows the great seas erase, 
And Seddul Bahr that ever more blood craves. 
So, since we communed here, our bones have been 
Nearer, perhaps, than they again will be, 
Earth and the worldwide battle lie between, 
Death lies between, and friend-destroying sea. 
Yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood 
As I stnad now, with pulses beating blood. 

I saw her like a shadow on the sky 
In the last light, a blur upon the sea, 
Then the gale's darkness put the shadow by, 
But from one grave that island talked to me; 
And, in the midnight, in the breaking storm, 
I saw its blackness and a blinking light, 
And thought, "So death obscures your gentle form, 
So memory strives to make the darkness bright; 
And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, 
Part of the island till the planet ends, 
My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, 
Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, 
While I, who pass, a little obscure thing, 
War with this force, and breathe, and am its king."