10 Best Famous Faucet Poems

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

• All Famous Faucet Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | The Double Image 1. I am thirty this November. You are still small, in your fourth year. We stand watching the yellow leaves go *****, flapping in the winter rain. falling flat and washed. And I remember mostly the three autumns you did not live here. They said I'd never get you back again. I tell you what you'll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go. I, who chose two times to kill myself, had said your nickname the mewling mouths when you first came; until a fever rattled in your throat and I moved like a pantomine above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame, I heard them say, was mine. They tattled like green witches in my head, letting doom leak like a broken faucet; as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet, an old debt I must assume. Death was simpler than I'd thought. The day life made you well and whole I let the witches take away my guilty soul. I pretended I was dead until the white men pumped the poison out, putting me armless and washed through the rigamarole of talking boxes and the electric bed. I laughed to see the private iron in that hotel. Today the yellow leaves go *****. You ask me where they go I say today believed in itself, or else it fell. Today, my small child, Joyce, love your self's self where it lives. There is no special God to refer to; or if there is, why did I let you grow in another place. You did not know my voice when I came back to call. All the superlatives of tomorrow's white tree and mistletoe will not help you know the holidays you had to miss. The time I did not love myself, I visited your shoveled walks; you held my glove. There was new snow after this. 2. They sent me letters with news of you and I made moccasins that I would never use. When I grew well enough to tolerate myself, I lived with my mother, the witches said. But I didn't leave. I had my portrait done instead. Part way back from Bedlam I came to my mother's house in Gloucester, Massachusetts. And this is how I came to catch at her; and this is how I lost her. I cannot forgive your suicide, my mother said. And she never could. She had my portrait done instead. I lived like an angry guest, like a partly mended thing, an outgrown child. I remember my mother did her best. She took me to Boston and had my hair restyled. Your smile is like your mother's, the artist said. I didn't seem to care. I had my portrait done instead. There was a church where I grew up with its white cupboards where they locked us up, row by row, like puritans or shipmates singing together. My father passed the plate. Too late to be forgiven now, the witches said. I wasn't exactly forgiven. They had my portrait done instead. 3. All that summer sprinklers arched over the seaside grass. We talked of drought while the salt-parched field grew sweet again. To help time pass I tried to mow the lawn and in the morning I had my portrait done, holding my smile in place, till it grew formal. Once I mailed you a picture of a rabbit and a postcard of Motif number one, as if it were normal to be a mother and be gone. They hung my portrait in the chill north light, matching me to keep me well. Only my mother grew ill. She turned from me, as if death were catching, as if death transferred, as if my dying had eaten inside of her. That August you were two, by I timed my days with doubt. On the first of September she looked at me and said I gave her cancer. They carved her sweet hills out and still I couldn't answer. 4. That winter she came part way back from her sterile suite of doctors, the seasick cruise of the X-ray, the cells' arithmetic gone wild. Surgery incomplete, the fat arm, the prognosis poor, I heard them say. During the sea blizzards she had here own portrait painted. A cave of mirror placed on the south wall; matching smile, matching contour. And you resembled me; unacquainted with my face, you wore it. But you were mine after all. I wintered in Boston, childless bride, nothing sweet to spare with witches at my side. I missed your babyhood, tried a second suicide, tried the sealed hotel a second year. On April Fool you fooled me. We laughed and this was good. 5. I checked out for the last time on the first of May; graduate of the mental cases, with my analysts's okay, my complete book of rhymes, my typewriter and my suitcases. All that summer I learned life back into my own seven rooms, visited the swan boats, the market, answered the phone, served cocktails as a wife should, made love among my petticoats and August tan. And you came each weekend. But I lie. You seldom came. I just pretended you, small piglet, butterfly girl with jelly bean cheeks, disobedient three, my splendid stranger. And I had to learn why I would rather die than love, how your innocence would hurt and how I gather guilt like a young intern his symptons, his certain evidence. That October day we went to Gloucester the red hills reminded me of the dry red fur fox coat I played in as a child; stock still like a bear or a tent, like a great cave laughing or a red fur fox. We drove past the hatchery, the hut that sells bait, past Pigeon Cove, past the Yacht Club, past Squall's Hill, to the house that waits still, on the top of the sea, and two portraits hung on the opposite walls. 6. In north light, my smile is held in place, the shadow marks my bone. What could I have been dreaming as I sat there, all of me waiting in the eyes, the zone of the smile, the young face, the foxes' snare. In south light, her smile is held in place, her cheeks wilting like a dry orchid; my mocking mirror, my overthrown love, my first image. She eyes me from that face that stony head of death I had outgrown. The artist caught us at the turning; we smiled in our canvas home before we chose our foreknown separate ways. The dry redfur fox coat was made for burning. I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray. And this was the cave of the mirror, that double woman who stares at herself, as if she were petrified in time -- two ladies sitting in umber chairs. You kissed your grandmother and she cried. 7. I could not get you back except for weekends. You came each time, clutching the picture of a rabbit that I had sent you. For the last time I unpack your things. We touch from habit. The first visit you asked my name. Now you will stay for good. I will forget how we bumped away from each other like marionettes on strings. It wasn't the same as love, letting weekends contain us. You scrape your knee. You learn my name, wobbling up the sidewalk, calling and crying. You can call me mother and I remember my mother again, somewhere in greater Boston, dying. I remember we named you Joyce so we could call you Joy. You came like an awkward guest that first time, all wrapped and moist and strange at my heavy breast. I needed you. I didn't want a boy, only a girl, a small milky mouse of a girl, already loved, already loud in the house of herself. We named you Joy. I, who was never quite sure about being a girl, needed another life, another image to remind me. And this was my worst guilt; you could not cure or soothe it. I made you to find me.

Written by Lisel Mueller | All Night All night the knot in the shoelace waits for its liberation, and the match on the table packs its head with anticipation of light. The faucet sweats out a bead of water, which gathers strength for the free fall, while the lettuce in the refrigerator succumbs to its brown killer. And in the novel I put down before I fall asleep, the paneled walls of a room are condemned to stand and wait for tomorrow, when I'll get to the page where the prisoner finds the secret door and steps into air and the scent of lilacs.

Written by Sylvia Plath | Getting There How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! Like cannon. It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other. I am dragging my body Quietly through the straw of the boxcars. Now is the time for bribery. What do wheels eat, these wheels Fixed to their arcs like gods, The silver leash of the will ---- Inexorable. And their pride! All the gods know destinations. I am a letter in this slot! I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread? Here there is such mud. It is a trainstop, the nurses Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded, The men the blood still pumps forward, Legs, arms piled outside The tent of unending cries ---- A hospital of dolls. And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into the next mile, The next hour ---- Dynasty of broken arrows! How far is it? There is mud on my feet, Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, This earth I rise from, and I in agony. I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming. Steaming and breathing, its teeth Ready to roll, like a devil's. There is a minute at the end of it A minute, a dewdrop. How far is it? It is so small The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman, Charred skirts and deathmask Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children. And now detonations ---- Thunder and guns. The fire's between us. Is there no place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable. The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal Insane for the destination, The bloodspot, The face at the end of the flare. I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in like dew, Incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

Written by Charles Bukowski | Metamorphosis a girlfriend came in built me a bed scrubbed and waxed the kitchen floor scrubbed the walls vacuumed cleaned the toilet the bathtub scrubbed the bathroom floor and cut my toenails and my hair. then all on the same day the plumber came and fixed the kitchen faucet and the toilet and the gas man fixed the heater and the phone man fixed the phone. noe I sit in all this perfection. it is quiet. I have broken off with all 3 of my girlfriends. I felt better when everything was in disorder. it will take me some months to get back to normal: I can't even find a roach to commune with. I have lost my rythm. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I have been robbed of my filth.

Written by Anne Sexton | The Lost Ingredient Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost rites of the first sea of the first salt running from a faucet. I have heard they sat for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last for impossible loves, or new skin, or still another child. And since this was the style, I don't suppose they knew what they had lost. Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault it in its proof, to wash away some slight need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet. I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal a better proof at tables where I always lost. Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.

Written by Anne Sexton | The Wifebeater There will be mud on the carpet tonight and blood in the gravy as well. The wifebeater is out, the childbeater is out eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup. He strides bback and forth in front of my study window chewing little red pieces of my heart. His eyes flash like a birthday cake and he makes bread out of rock. Yesterday he was walking like a man in the world. He was upright and conservative but somehow evasive, somehow contagious. Yesterday he built me a country and laid out a shadow where I could sleep but today a coffin for the madonna and child, today two women in baby clothes will be hamburg. With a tongue like a razor he will kiss, the mother, the child, and we three will color the stars black in memory of his mother who kept him chained to the food tree or turned him on and off like a water faucet and made women through all these hazy years the enemy with a heart of lies. Tonight all the red dogs lie down in fear and the wife and daughter knit into each other until they are killed.

Written by Walt Whitman | City Dead-House The BY the City Dead-House, by the gate, As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor, I curious pause—for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought; Her corpse they deposit unclaim’d—it lies on the damp brick pavement; The divine woman, her body—I see the Body—I look on it alone, That house once full of passion and beauty—all else I notice not; Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors morbific impress me; But the house alone—that wondrous house—that delicate fair house—that ruin! That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built! Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted—or all the old high-spired cathedrals; That little house alone, more than them all—poor, desperate house! Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul! Unclaim’d, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips; Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you, Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush’d! House of life—erewhile talking and laughing—but ah, poor house! dead, even then; Months, years, an echoing, garnish’d house—but dead, dead, dead.

Written by Robert Creeley | Something I approach with such a careful tremor, always I feel the finally foolish question of how it is, then, supposed to be felt, and by whom. I remember once in a rented room on 27th street, the woman I loved then, literally, after we had made love on the large bed sitting across from a basin with two faucets, she had to pee but was nervous, embarrassed I suppose I would watch her who had but a moment ago been completely open to me, naked, on the same bed. Squatting, her head reflected in the mirror, the hair dark there, the full of her face, the shoulders, sat spread-legged, turned on one faucet and shyly pissed. What love might learn from such a sight.