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Best Famous Experienced Poems

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

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Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

To my son

 You will realize this wisdom,
When you are my age, and experience,
Gained from being in vexing situations,
Yet, being out of it. You do the same,
There is a joy in detachment,
Forsaking instant pleasures, pains,
For things deeper and enduring.

Don’t be a slave to the work,
Of smart slave-drivers in cubicles,
Instead explore the works of men,
Who have experienced the truths,
And distilled in their words, wisdoms,
Which may grate your ears now.

Like me, don’t be prey to sudden,
Rushes of anger that comes over cables,
And with emails and posts demolish,
Without thinking of consequences -
I have done that and am living to regret.

Don’t drink bottled and sealed lifestyles,
Its sugar, water and carbon dioxide,
Will dither you, disorient you, and sap you,
And don’t eat fast food with loose change,
They will suck you into their assembly line.

Lastly do not try to see with closed eyes,
And hear with deaf ears, keep them open.
The music and rhythm can corrupt,
And make sinning seem so tempting.
The age of innocence, son, is gone,
Every man is a mercenary army.

If you follow this advise, son,
When you are mature and wise as me,
You will say, one day, “Thank you Papa,
For your words of advice, wisdom,
To my children, too, I will pass this wisdom.”


Written by Omer Tarin | Create an image from this poem

On Your Asking

You asked me what it was all about, 
Why men and women dwelt so much 
On the slanting tangents 
Of come vague philosophy
And what I felt it was, and why
It was like this?

Sometimes, then, to answer your questions,
I dress my thoughts in brilliant costumes,
Beautiful, eloquent words, 
But to tell the truth
There is no way I can really say
Anything at all;

People have experienced these things--and these
Things are better felt, after all.

As to the 'why' 
Hanging over your brow
Like a dark raincloud of expectancy--
That you must resolve for yourself
Before the thunder finally breaks... 

-------------


(Pub in ''Bitter Oleander Review'', USA 2012)

Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

The Little Old Lady in Lavender Silk

 I was seventy-seven, come August,
I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gust
And (symbolical) flood and simoom.

When you come to this time of abatement,
To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
As to what you got out of it all.

So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me
And pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)
There was nothing more fun than a man!

In my youth, when the crescent was too wan
To embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don Juan
I fell into the habit of love.

And I learned how to kiss and be merry- an
Education left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters Pierian
Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.

Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,
And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,
Were I given the chance to repeat.

For contrition is hollow and wraithful,
And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

An Abandoned Factory Detroit

 The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands, 
An iron authority against the snow, 
And this grey monument to common sense 
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands, 
Of protest, men in league, and of the slow 
Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence. 

Beyond, through broken windows one can see 
Where the great presses paused between their strokes 
And thus remain, in air suspended, caught 
In the sure margin of eternity. 
The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes 
Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought, 

And estimates the loss of human power, 
Experienced and slow, the loss of years, 
The gradual decay of dignity. 
Men lived within these foundries, hour by hour; 
Nothing they forged outlived the rusted gears 
Which might have served to grind their eulogy.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

Peter Anderson And Co

 He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago, 
And his shingle bore the legend `Peter Anderson and Co.', 
But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood -- 
And his relatives decided that he wasn't any good. 
'Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any `character' he had -- 
He was fond of beer and leisure -- and the Co. was just as bad. 
It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co. -- 
'Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe. 

'Tis a class of men belonging to these soul-forsaken years: 
Third-rate canvassers, collectors, journalists and auctioneers. 
They are never very shabby, they are never very spruce -- 
Going cheerfully and carelessly and smoothly to the deuce. 
Some are wanderers by profession, `turning up' and gone as soon, 
Travelling second-class, or steerage (when it's cheap they go saloon); 
Free from `ists' and `isms', troubled little by belief or doubt -- 
Lazy, purposeless, and useless -- knocking round and hanging out. 
They will take what they can get, and they will give what they can give, 
God alone knows how they manage -- God alone knows how they live! 
They are nearly always hard-up, but are cheerful all the while -- 
Men whose energy and trousers wear out sooner than their smile! 
They, no doubt, like us, are haunted by the boresome `if' or `might', 
But their ghosts are ghosts of daylight -- they are men who live at night! 

Peter met you with the comic smile of one who knows you well, 
And is mighty glad to see you, and has got a joke to tell; 
He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue, 
Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate it, too. 
Only cynical in cases where his own self was the jest, 
And the humour of his good yarns made atonement for the rest. 
Seldom serious -- doing business just as 'twere a friendly game -- 
Cards or billiards -- nothing graver. And the Co. was much the same. 

They tried everything and nothing 'twixt the shovel and the press, 
And were more or less successful in their ventures -- mostly less. 
Once they ran a country paper till the plant was seized for debt, 
And the local sinners chuckle over dingy copies yet. 

They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims -- 
Using Peter's own expression, they had been in `various swims'. 
Now and then they'd take an office, as they called it, -- make a dash 
Into business life as `agents' -- something not requiring cash. 
(You can always furnish cheaply, when your cash or credit fails, 
With a packing-case, a hammer, and a pound of two-inch nails -- 
And, maybe, a drop of varnish and sienna, too, for tints, 
And a scrap or two of oilcloth, and a yard or two of chintz). 
They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance, 
But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance. 

The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up -- 
A `daily' for a table cloth -- a jam tin for a cup; 
And if the landlord's bailiff happened round in times like these 
And seized the office-fittings -- well, there wasn't much to seize -- 
They would leave him in possession. But at other times they shot 
The moon, and took an office where the landlord knew them not. 
And when morning brought the bailiff there'd be nothing to be seen 
Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant's plate had been; 
There would be no sign of Peter -- there would be no sign of Joe 
Till another portal boasted `Peter Anderson and Co.' 

And when times were locomotive, billiard-rooms and private bars -- 
Spicy parties at the cafe -- long cab-drives beneath the stars; 
Private picnics down the Harbour -- shady campings-out, you know -- 
No one would have dreamed 'twas Peter -- 
no one would have thought 'twas Joe! 
Free-and-easies in their `diggings', when the funds began to fail, 
Bosom chums, cigars, tobacco, and a case of English ale -- 
Gloriously drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters crow -- 
And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co. 
But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song, 
For it can't go on for ever, and it never lasted long. 

. . . . . 

Debt-collecting ruined Peter -- people talked him round too oft, 
For his heart was soft as butter (and the Co.'s was just as soft); 
He would cheer the haggard missus, and he'd tell her not to fret, 
And he'd ask the worried debtor round with him to have a wet; 
He would ask him round the corner, and it seemed to him and her, 
After each of Peter's visits, things were brighter than they were. 
But, of course, it wasn't business -- only Peter's careless way; 
And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn't pay. 
They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co. 
Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go. 

`I might live,' he said to Peter, `but I haven't got the nerve -- 
I am going, Peter, going -- going, going -- no reserve. 
Eat and drink and love they tell us, for to-morrow we may die, 
Buy experience -- and we bought it -- we're experienced, you and I.' 
Then, with a weary movement of his hand across his brow: 
`The death of such philosophy's the death I'm dying now. 
Pull yourself together, Peter; 'tis the dying wish of Joe 
That the business world shall honour Peter Anderson and Co. 

`When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course, 
And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse -- 
When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt, 
Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt. 
Shun the poison breath of cities -- billiard-rooms and private bars, 
Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars! 
Find again and follow up the old ambitions that you had -- 
See if you can raise a drink, old man, I'm feelin' mighty bad -- 
Hot and sweetened, nip o' butter -- squeeze o' lemon, Pete,' he sighed. 
And, while Peter went to fetch it, Joseph went to sleep -- and died 
With a smile -- anticipation, maybe, of the peace to come, 
Or a joke to try on Peter -- or, perhaps, it was the rum. 

. . . . . 

Peter staggered, gripped the table, swerved as some old drunkard swerves -- 
At a gulp he drank the toddy, just to brace his shattered nerves. 
It was awful, if you like. But then he hadn't time to think -- 
All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses -- dead man's drink. 

. . . . . 

Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft, 
Peter paid the undertaker. He got drunk on what was left; 
Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co., 
And he drifted to a township where the city failures go. 
Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be, 
Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three, 
And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair, 
Peter `pulled himself together' and he started business there. 

But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad, 
And no help to reformation was the company he had -- 
Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim -- 
'Twas a town of wrecks and failures -- they appreciated him. 
They would ask him who the Co. was -- that ***** company he kept -- 
And he'd always answer vaguely -- he would say his partner slept; 
That he had a `sleeping partner' -- jesting while his spirit broke -- 
And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it as a joke. 
He would shout while he had money, he would joke while he had breath -- 
No one seemed to care or notice how he drank himself to death; 
Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more -- 
He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door, 
And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb'ring run 
Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun; 
And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest, 
With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast. 
Well, they analysed the liquor, and it would appear that he 
Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free. 
Though 'twas plainly self-destruction -- `'twas his own affair,' they said; 
And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found -- that he was dead.


Written by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | Create an image from this poem

Morning Coffee

 Reading the menu at the morning service: 
- Iced Venusberg perhaps, or buttered bum - 
Orders the usual sex-ersatz, and, nervous, 
Glances around - Will she or won't she come? 

The congregation dissected into pews 
Gulping their strip teas in the luminous cavern 
Agape's sacamental berry stews; 
The nickel-plated light and clatter of heaven 

Receive him, temporary Tantalus 
Into the Lookingglassland's firescape. 
Suckled on Jungfraumilch his eyes discuss, 
The werwolf twins, their mock Sabellian rape. 

This is their time to reap the standing scorn, 
Blonde Rumina's crop. Beneath her leafless tree 
Ripe-rumped she lolls and clasps the plenteous horn. 
Cool customers who defy his Trinity 

Feel none the less, and thrill, ur-vater Fear 
Caged in the son. For, though this ghost behave 
Experienced daughters recognize King Leer: 
Lot also had his daughters in a cave. 

Full sail the proud three-decker sandwiches 
With the eye-fumbled priestesses repass; 
On their swan lake the enchanted icecreams freeze, 
The amorous fountain prickles in the glass 

And at the introit of this mass emotion 
She comes, she comes, a balanced pillar of blood, 
Guides through the desert, divides the sterile ocean, 
Brings sceptic Didymus his berserk food, 

Sits deftly, folding elegant thighs, and takes 
Her time. She skins her little leather hands, 
Conscious that wavering towards her like tame snakes 
The polyp eyes converge.... The prophet stands 

Dreading the answer from her burning bush: 
This unconsuming flame, the outlaw's blow, 
Plague, exodus, Sinai, ruptured stones that gush, 
God's telegram: Dare Now! Let this people go!
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Inspiration From A Visitation Of My Muse

 Memories bursting like tears or waves

On some lonely Adriatic shore

Beating again and again

Threshings of green sea foam

Flecked like the marble Leonardo

Chipped for his ‘Moses’.

And my tears came as suddenly

In that dream, criss-crossed

With memory and desire.

Grandad Nicky had worked

Down the pits for a pittance

To bring up his six children

But nothing left over for more

Than a few nuts and an orange

For six Christmas stockings

So hopefully hung, weighted by pennies,

Stretched across the black mantle.

So Lawrence-like and yet not, grandad

A strict Methodist who read only a vast Bible

Hunched in his fireside chair insisting

On chapel three times on Sundays.

Only in retirement did joy and wisdom

Enter him, abandoning chapel he took

To the Friends or Quakers as they called them then

And somehow at seventy the inner light

Consumed him.

Gruff but kind was my impression:

He would take me for walks

Along abandoned railways to the shutdown

Pipeworks where my three uncles

Worked their early manhood through.

It would have delighted Auden and perhaps

That was the bridge between us

Though we were of different generations

And by the time I began to write he had died.

All are gone except some few who may live still

But in their dotage.After my mother’s funeral

None wanted contact: I had been judged in my absence

And found wanting.

Durham was not my county,

Hardly my country, memories from childhood

Of Hunwick Village with its single cobbled street

Of squat stone cottages and paved yards

With earth closets and stacks of sawn logs

Perfuming the air with their sap

In a way only French poets could say

And that is why we have no word but clich?

‘Reflect’ or ‘make come alive’ or other earthbound

Anglicanisms; yet it is there in Valery Larbaud

‘J’ai senti pour la premiere fois toute la douceur de vivre’-

I experienced for the first time all the joy of living.

I quote of their plenitude to mock the absurdity

Of English poets who have no time for Francophiles

Better the ‘O altitudo’ of earlier generations –

Wallace Stevens’ "French and English

Are one language indivisible."

That scent of sawdust, the milkcart the pony pulled

Each morning over the cobbles, the earthenware jug

I carried to be filled, ladle by shining ladle,

From the great churns and there were birds singing

In the still blue over the fields beyond the village

But because I was city-bred I could not name them.

I write to please myself: ‘Only other poets read poems’
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Answers In A Game Of Questions

 THE LADY.

IN the small and great world too,

What most charms a woman's heart?
It is doubtless what is new,

For its blossoms joy impart;
Nobler far is what is true,

For fresh blossoms it can shoot

Even in the time of fruit.

THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

With the Nymphs in wood and cave

Paris was acquainted well,
Till Zeus sent, to make him rave,

Three of those in Heav'n who dwell;
And the choice more trouble gave

Than e'er fell to mortal lot,

Whether in old times or not.

THE EXPERIENCED.

Tenderly a woman view,

And thoult win her, take my word;
He who's quick and saucy too,

Will of all men be preferr'd;
Who ne'er seems as if he knew

If he pleases, if he charms,--

He 'tis injures, he 'tis harms.

THE CONTENTED.

Manifold is human strife,

Human passion, human pain;
Many a blessing yet is rife,

Many pleasures still remain.
Yet the greatest bliss in life,

And the richest prize we find,

Is a good, contented mind.

THE MERRY COUNSEL.

He by whom man's foolish will

Is each day review'd and blamed,
Who, when others fools are still,

Is himself a fool proclaim'd,--
Ne'er at mill was beast's back press'd

With a heavier load than he.
What I feel within my breast

That in truth's the thing for me!

1789.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Premier and the Socialist

 The Premier and the Socialist 
Were walking through the State: 
They wept to see the Savings Bank 
Such funds accumulate. 
"If these were only cleared away," 
They said, "it would be great." 
"If three financial amateurs 
Controlled them for a year, 
Do you suppose," the Premier said, 
"That they would get them clear?" 
"I think so," said the Socialist; 
"They would -- or very near!" 

"If we should try to raise some cash 
On assets of our own, 
Do you suppose," the Premier said, 
"That we could float a loan?" 
"I doubt it," said the Socialist, 
And groaned a doleful groan. 

"Oh, Savings, come and walk with us!" 
The Premier did entreat; 
"A little walk, a little talk, 
Away from Barrack Street; 
My Socialistic friend will guide 
Your inexperienced feet." 

"We do not think," the Savings said, 
"A socialistic crank, 
Although he chance just now to hold 
A legislative rank, 
Can teach experienced Banking men 
The way to run a Bank." 

The Premier and the Socialist 
They passed an Act or so 
To take the little Savings out 
And let them have a blow. 
"We'll teach the Banks," the Premier said, 
"The way to run the show. 

"There's Tom Waddell -- in Bank finance 
Can show them what is what. 
I used to prove not long ago 
His Estimates were rot. 
But that -- like many other things -- 
I've recently forgot. 

"Advances on a dried-out farm 
Are what we chiefly need, 
And loaned to friends of Ms.L.A. 
Are very good, indeed, 
See how the back-block Cockatoos 
Are rolling up to feed." 

"But not on us," the Savings cried, 
Falling a little flat, 
"We didn't think a man like you 
Would do a thing like that; 
For most of us are very small, 
And none of us are fat." 

"This haughty tone," the Premier said, 
"Is not the proper line; 
Before I'd be dictated to 
My billet I'd resign!" 
"How brightly," said the Socialist, 
"Those little sovereigns shine." 

The Premier and the Socialist 
They had their bit of fun; 
They tried to call the Savings back 
But answer came there none, 
Because the back-block Cockatoos 
Had eaten every one.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Tema con Variazioni

 Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase. 

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a 
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also - 


I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH? 

To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL! 

But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE 

And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry