Best Famous Fermented Poems

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

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• All Famous Fermented Poems

Written by Bob Hicok | Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence Drunk, I kissed the moon where it stretched on the floor. I'd removed happiness from a green bottle, both sipped and gulped just as a river changes its mind, mostly there was a flood in my mouth because I wanted to love the toaster as soon as possible, and the toothbrush with multi-level brissels created by dental science, and the walls holding pictures in front of their faces to veil the boredom of living fifty years without once turning the other way. I wanted the halo a cheap beaujolais paints over everything like artists gave the holy before perspective was invented, and for a moment thought in the glow of fermented bliss that the bending of spoons by the will was inevitable, just as the dark-skinned would kiss the light-skinned and those with money and lakefront homes would open their verandas and offer trays of cucumber sandwiches to the poor scuttling along the fringes of their lawns looking for holes in the concertina wire. Of course I had to share this ocean of acceptance and was soon on the phone with a woman from Nogales whose hips had gone steady with mine. I told her I was over her by pretending I was just a friend calling to say the Snow Drops had nuzzled through dirt to shake their bells in April wind. This threw her off the scent of my anguish as did the cement mixer of my voice, as did the long pause during which I memorized her breathing and stared at my toes like we were still together, reading until out eyes slid from the page and books fell off the bed to pound their applause as our tongues searched each others' body. When she said she had to go like a cop telling a bum to move on, I began drinking downhill, with speed that grew its own speed, and fixed on this image with a flagellant's zeal, how she, returning to bed, cupped her lover's crotch and whispered not to worry, it was no one on the phone, and proved again how forgotten I'd become while I, bent over the cold confessional, listened to the night's sole point of honesty.

Written by Federico García Lorca | Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude The fat lady came out first, tearing out roots and moistening drumskins. The fat lady who turns dying octopuses inside out. The fat lady, the moon's antagonist, was running through the streets and deserted buildings and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts and summoning the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels. The graveyards, yes the graveyards and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand, the dead, pheasants and apples of another era, pushing it into our throat. There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit with the empty women, with hot wax children, with fermented trees and tireless waiters who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva. There's no other way, my son, vomit! There's no other way. It's not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores, nor the vomit of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs, but the dead who scratch with clay hands on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay. The fat lady came first with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks. Vomit was delicately shaking its drums among a few little girls of blood who were begging the moon for protection. Who could imagine my sadness? The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me, the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol and launching incredible ships through the anemones of the piers. I protect myself with this look that flows from waves where no dawn would go, I, poet without arms, lost in the vomiting multitude, with no effusive horse to shear the thick moss from my temples. The fat lady went first and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies where the bitter tropics could be found. Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.

Written by Seamus Heaney | Blackberry-Picking Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Written by Walt Whitman | Elemental Drifts 1 ELEMENTAL drifts! How I wish I could impress others as you have just been impressing me! As I ebb’d with an ebb of the ocean of life, As I wended the shores I know, As I walk’d where the ripples continually wash you, Paumanok, Where they rustle up, hoarse and sibilant, Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways, I, musing, late in the autumn day, gazing off southward, Alone, held by this eternal Self of me, out of the pride of which I utter my poems, Was seiz’d by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot, In the rim, the sediment, that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe. Fascinated, my eyes, reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender winrows, Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten, Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide: Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me, Paumanok, there and then, as I thought the old thought of likenesses, These you presented to me, you fish-shaped island, As I wended the shores I know, As I walk’d with that eternal Self of me, seeking types. 2 As I wend to the shores I know not, As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck’d, As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me, As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer, I, too, but signify, at the utmost, a little wash’d-up drift, A few sands and dead leaves to gather, Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift. O baffled, balk’d, bent to the very earth, Oppress’d with myself that I have dared to open my mouth, Aware now, that, amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me, I have not once had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my insolent poems the real ME stands yet untouch’d, untold, altogether unreach’d, Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows, With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written, Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath. Now I perceive I have not understood anything—not a single object—and that no man ever can. I perceive Nature, here in sight of the sea, is taking advantage of me, to dart upon me, and sting me, Because I have dared to open my mouth, to sing at all. 3 You oceans both! I close with you; We murmur alike reproachfully, rolling our sands and drift, knowing not why, These little shreds indeed, standing for you and me and all. You friable shore, with trails of debris! You fish-shaped island! I take what is underfoot; What is yours is mine, my father. I too Paumanok, I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been wash’d on your shores; I too am but a trail of drift and debris, I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island. I throw myself upon your breast, my father, I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me, I hold you so firm, till you answer me something. Kiss me, my father, Touch me with your lips, as I touch those I love, Breathe to me, while I hold you close, the secret of the murmuring I envy. 4 Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,) Cease not your moaning, you fierce old mother, Endlessly cry for your castaways—but fear not, deny not me, Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet, as I touch you, or gather from you. I mean tenderly by you and all, I gather for myself, and for this phantom, looking down where we lead, and following me and mine. Me and mine! We, loose winrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles, (See! from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last! See—the prismatic colors, glistening and rolling!) Tufts of straw, sands, fragments, Buoy’d hither from many moods, one contradicting another, From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell; Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil; Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown; A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random; Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature; Just as much, whence we come, that blare of the cloud-trumpets; We, capricious, brought hither, we know not whence, spread out before you, You, up there, walking or sitting, Whoever you are—we too lie in drifts at your feet.