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Best Famous Existing Poems

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

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Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

Looking into a Face

Conversation brings us so close! Opening
The surfs of the body 
Bringing fish up near the sun 
And stiffening the backbones of the sea!

I have wandered in a face for hours 
Passing through dark fires.
I have risen to a body
Not yet born 
Existing like a light around the body
Through which the body moves like a sliding moon.


Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Ballade of Unfortunate Mammals

 Love is sharper than stones or sticks;
Lone as the sea, and deeper blue;
Loud in the night as a clock that ticks;
Longer-lived than the Wandering Jew.
Show me a love was done and through,
Tell me a kiss escaped its debt!
Son, to your death you'll pay your due-
Women and elephants never forget.

Ever a man, alas, would mix,
Ever a man, heigh-ho, must woo;
So he's left in the world-old fix,
Thus is furthered the sale of rue.
Son, your chances are thin and few-
Won't you ponder, before you're set?
Shoot if you must, but hold in view
Women and elephants never forget.

Down from Caesar past Joynson-Hicks
Echoes the warning, ever new:
Though they're trained to amusing tricks,
Gentler, they, than the pigeon's coo,
Careful, son, of the curs'ed two-
Either one is a dangerous pet;
Natural history proves it true-
Women and elephants never forget.

L'ENVOI

Prince, a precept I'd leave for you,
Coined in Eden, existing yet:
Skirt the parlor, and shun the zoo-
Women and elephants never forget.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

I see the Four-fold Man

 I see the Four-fold Man, The Humanity in deadly sleep 
And its fallen Emanation, the Spectre and its cruel Shadow. 
I see the Past, Present and Future existing all at once 
Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me on thy wings, 
That I may awake Albion from his long and cold repose; 
For Bacon and Newton, sheath'd in dismal steel, their terrors hang 
Like iron scourges over Albion: reasonings like vast serpents 
Infold around my limbs, bruising my minute articulations. 

I turn my eyes to the schools and universities of Europe 
And there behold the Loom of Locke, whose Woof rages dire, 
Wash'd by the Water-wheels of Newton: black the cloth 
In heavy wreaths folds over every nation: cruel works 
Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic 
Moving by compulsion each other, not as those in Eden, which, 
Wheel within wheel, in freedom revolve in harmony and peace.
Written by Ted Hughes | Create an image from this poem

Crows Theology

Crow realized God loved him-
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead. 
So that was proved. 
Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat. 

And he realized that God spoke Crow-
Just existing was His revelation. 

But what Loved the stones and spoke stone? 
They seemed to exist too. 
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded? 

And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows? 
What spoke the silence of lead? 

Crow realized there were two Gods-

One of them much bigger than the other
Loving his enemies
And having all the weapons. 
Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Ode

 To the Pious Memory of the Accomplished Young Lady, Mrs Anne Killigrew,
Excellent in the Two Sister-arts of Poesy and Painting

Thou youngest Virgin Daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green, above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us in thy wand'ring race,
Or, in procession fixed and regular
Moved with the heavens' majestic pace;
Or, called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region be thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
(Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.)
Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse
In no ignoble verse;
But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of poesie were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer
And candidate of Heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfused into thy blood:
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,
(An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.)
But if thy pre-existing soul
Was formed, at first, with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before;
If so, then cease thy flight, O Heav'n-born mind!
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

May we presume to say that at thy birth
New joy was sprung in Heav'n as well as here on earth?
For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And ev'n the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres!
And if no clust'ring swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles
Heav'n had not leisure to renew:
For all the blest fraternity of love
Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holyday above.

O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy Heav'nly gift of poesy!
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above,
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
Oh wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adult'rate age
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own)
T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say t' excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, Heav'n, atone for all:
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,
That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born.
Her morals too were in her bosom bred
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test and ev'ry light her muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Ev'n love (for love sometimes her muse expressed)
Was but a lambent-flame which played about her breast,
Light as the vapours of a morning dream;
So cold herself, while she such warmth expressed,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought she should have been content
To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious souls confine?
To the next realm she stretched her sway,
For painture near adjoining lay,
A plenteous province, and alluring prey.
A chamber of dependences was framed,
(As conquerers will never want pretence,
When armed, to justify th' offence),
And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claimed.
The country open lay without defence;
For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could represent
The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament;

And all the large domains which the dumb-sister swayed,
All bowed beneath her government,
Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.
Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed,
And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind.
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
And fruitful plains and barren rocks;
Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear,
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too and ampler floods
Which as in mirrors showed the woods;
Of lofty trees, with sacred shades,
And perspectives of pleasant glades,
Where nymphs of brightest form appear,
And shaggy satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The ruins too of some majestic piece,
Boasting the pow'r of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,
And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;
What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,
Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.

The scene then changed; with bold erected look
Our martial king the sight with rev'rence strook:
For, not content t' express his outward part,
Her hand called out the image of his heart,
His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
His high-designing thoughts were figured there,
As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our phoenix Queen was portrayed too so bright,
Beauty alone could beauty take so right:
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands,
As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands:
Before a train of heroines was seen,
In beauty foremost, as in rank, the Queen!
Thus nothing to her genius was denied,
But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone,
And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side.
What next she had designed, Heaven only knows:
To such immod'rate growth her conquest rose,
That Fate alone its progress could oppose.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
That well-proportioned shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies!
Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent;

Nor was the cruel destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plundered first, and then destroyed.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died:
Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, gen'rous youth! that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wrecked at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far
Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations underground;
When in the valley of Jehosaphat
The judging God shall close the book of Fate;
And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky,
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound:
For they are covered with the lightest ground;
And straight with in-born vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the New Morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go,
As harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learned below.


Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Jerusalem: I see the Four-fold Man The Humanity in deadly sleep

 I see the Four-fold Man, The Humanity in deadly sleep 
And its fallen Emanation, the Spectre and its cruel Shadow.
I see the Past, Present and Future existing all at once
Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me on thy wings,
That I may awake Albion from his long and cold repose;
For Bacon and Newton, sheath'd in dismal steel, their terrors hang
Like iron scourges over Albion: reasonings like vast serpents
Infold around my limbs, bruising my minute articulations.

I turn my eyes to the schools and universities of Europe
And there behold the Loom of Locke, whose Woof rages dire,
Wash'd by the Water-wheels of Newton: black the cloth
In heavy wreaths folds over every nation: cruel works
Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic
Moving by compulsion each other, not as those in Eden, which,
Wheel within wheel, in freedom revolve in harmony and peace.
Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

Transcription Of Organ Music

 The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
 kitchen crooked to take a place in the light, 
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
 kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
 to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence 
 of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
 ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
 me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door

 The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had 
arisen
 to think at the sun

 Can I bring back the words? Will thought of 
transcription haze my mental open eye?
 The kindly search for growth, the gracious de-
sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them
 The privilege to witness my existence-you too
must seek the sun...

 My books piled up before me for my use
 waiting in space where I placed them, they
haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qual-
ities for me to use--my words piled up, my texts, my 
manuscripts, my loves.
 I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
 Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's 
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
them...
 Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
 I am so lonely in my glory--except they too out
there--I looked up--those red bush blossoms beckon-
ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive--all creation open to receive--the 
flat earth itself.

 The music descends, as does the tall bending 
stalk of the heavy blssom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
 The world knows the love that's in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
 The Father is merciful.

 The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil-
ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now...

 The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
 The kitchen has no door, the hole there will 
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
 I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra-
ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-
incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me
if I wished to enter.

 There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever needed them.
 The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
 The telephone--sad to relate--sits on the
floor--I haven't had the money to get it connected--

 I want people to bow when they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator
 And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.

 Berkeley, September 8, 1955
Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

Song of Man XXV

 I was here from the moment of the 
Beginning, and here I am still. And 
I shall remain here until the end 
Of the world, for there is no 
Ending to my grief-stricken being. 


I roamed the infinite sky, and 
Soared in the ideal world, and 
Floated through the firmament. But 
Here I am, prisoner of measurement. 


I heard the teachings of Confucius; 
I listened to Brahma's wisdom; 
I sat by Buddha under the Tree of Knowledge. 
Yet here I am, existing with ignorance 
And heresy. 


I was on Sinai when Jehovah approached Moses; 
I saw the Nazarene's miracles at the Jordan; 
I was in Medina when Mohammed visited. 
Yet I here I am, prisoner of bewilderment. 


Then I witnessed the might of Babylon; 
I learned of the glory of Egypt; 
I viewed the warring greatness of Rome. 
Yet my earlier teachings showed the 
Weakness and sorrow of those achievements. 


I conversed with the magicians of Ain Dour; 
I debated with the priests of Assyria; 
I gleaned depth from the prophets of Palestine. 
Yet, I am still seeking truth. 


I gathered wisdom from quiet India; 
I probed the antiquity of Arabia; 
I heard all that can be heard. 
Yet, my heart is deaf and blind. 


I suffered at the hands of despotic rulers; 
I suffered slavery under insane invaders; 
I suffered hunger imposed by tyranny; 
Yet, I still possess some inner power 
With which I struggle to great each day. 


My mind is filled, but my heart is empty; 
My body is old, but my heart is an infant. 
Perhaps in youth my heart will grow, but I 
Pray to grow old and reach the moment of 
My return to God. Only then will my heart fill! 


I was here from the moment of the 
Beginning, and here I am still. And 
I shall remain here until the end 
Of of world, for there is no 
Ending to my grief-stricken being.
Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Create an image from this poem

Political Precept

 All that thou doest is right; but, friend, don't carry this precept
On too far,--be content, all that is right to effect.
It is enough to true zeal, if what is existing be perfect;
False zeal always would find finished perfection at once.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

 1919

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
'eering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

Ne were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly bum:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Manlund.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

Nith the Hopes that our@ World is built on they were utterly out of touch
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings
S we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measurres were forming They pr@omised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "Stick to the Devil yox know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their@ smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest wer@e humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four --
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

 * * * * *

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man --
There are only four things certain since Social Pr@ogress began --
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mice,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire --
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things