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Best Famous Fifty Four Poems

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

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Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

A Humble Heroine

 'Twas at the Seige of Matagarda, during the Peninsular War,
That a Mrs Reston for courage outshone any man there by far;
She was the wife of a Scottish soldier in Matagarda Port,
And to attend to her husband she there did resort. 

'Twas in the Spring of the year 1810,
That General Sir Thomas Graham occupied Matagarda with 150 men;
These consisted of a detachment from the Scots Brigade,
And on that occasion they weren't in the least afraid. 

And Captain Maclaine of the 94th did the whole of them command,
And the courage the men displayed was really grand;
Because they held Matagarda for fifty-four days,
Against o'erwhelming numbers of the French - therefore they are worthy of praise. 

The British were fighting on behalf of Spain,
But if they fought on their behalf they didn't fight in vain;
For they beat them manfully by land and sea,
And from the shores of Spain they were forced to flee. 

Because Captain Maclaine set about repairing the old fort,
So as to make it comfortable for his men to resort;
And there he kept his men at work day by day,
Filling sand-bags and stuffing them in the walls without delay. 

There was one woman in the fort during those trying dags,
A Mrs Reston, who is worthy of great praise;
She acted like a ministering angel to the soldiers while there,
By helping them to fill sand-bags, it was her constant care. 

Mrs Reston behaved as fearlessly as any soldier in the garrison,
And amongst the soldiers golden opinions she won,
For her presence was everywhere amongst the men,
And the service invaluable she rendered to them. 

Methinks I see that brave heroine carrying her child,
Whilst the bullets were falling around her, enough to drive her wild;
And bending over it to protect it from danger,
Because to war's alarms it was a stranger. 

And while the shells shrieked around, and their fragments did scatter,
She was serving the men at the guns with wine and water;
And while the shot whistled around, her courage wasn't slack,
Because to the soldiers she carried sand-bags on her back. 

A little drummer boy was told to fetch water from the well,
But he was afraid because the bullets from the enemy around it fell;
And the Doctor cried to the boy, Why are you standing there?
But Mrs Reston said, Doctor, the bairn is feared, I do declare. 

And she said, Give me the pail, laddie, I'll fetch the water,
Not fearing that the shot would her brains scatter;
And without a moment's hesitation she took the pail,
Whilst the shot whirred thick around her, yet her courage didn't fail. 

And to see that heroic woman the scene was most grand,
Because as she drew the water a shot cut the rope in her hand;
But she caught the pail with her hand dexterously,
Oh! the scene was imposing end most beautiful to see. 

The British fought bravely, as they are always willing to do,
Although their numbers were but few;
So they kept up the cannonading with their artillery,
And stood manfully at their guns against the enemy. 

And five times the flagstaff was shot away,
And as often was it replaced without dismay;
And the flag was fastened to an angle of the wall,
And the British resolved to defend it whatever did befall. 

So the French were beaten and were glad to run,
And the British for defeating them golden opinions have won
Ah through brave Captain Maclaine and his heroes bold,
Likewise Mrs Reston, whose name should be written in letters of gold.


Written by Lisel Mueller | Create an image from this poem

Monet Refuses The Operation

 Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair 
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands 
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Bridge Over The Aire Book 6

 THE WALK TO THE PARADISE GARDENS



1



Bonfire Night beckoned us to the bridge

By Saint Hilda’s where we started down

Knostrop to chump but I trailed behind

With Margaret when it was late September

The song of summer ceased and fires in

Blackleaded grates began and we were

Hidden from the others by the bridge’s span.

2



When you bent I saw the buds of your breasts

As you meant and I laughed at your craft when

You blushed and denied and finally cried

But there was a smile in your eyes.





3



It was the season of yo-yo’s in yellow or

Pink or pillar-box red and you spooled out

The thread as only you could and it dipped

And rose like a dancer.





4



The paddock by the tusky sheds was cropped

And polished by the horses’ hooves, their

Nostrils flared and they bared their teeth

As we passed and tossed their manes as we

Shied from the rusty fence where peg-legged

We jumped the cracks and pulled away each

Dandelion head, “Pee-the-bed! Pee-the bed!”

Rubbing the yellow dust into each other’s

Cheeks and chins as we kissed.





5



The bluebells had died and on the other side

The nettle beds were filled with broken branches

White as bone, clouds were tags of wool, the

Night sky magenta sands with bands of gold

And bright stars beckoned and burned like

Ragged robins in a ditch and rich magnolias

In East End Park.





6



I am alone in the dark

Remembering Bonfire Night

Of nineteen-fifty four

When it was early dusk

Your hair was gold

As angels’ wings.





7



From the binyard in the backstreet we brought

The dry stored branches, broken staves under

The taunting stars and we have never left

That night or that place on the Hollows

The fire we built has never gone out and

The light in your eyes is bright:

We took the road by the river with a star

Map and dream sacks on our backs.



8



The Hollows stretched into darkness

The fire burned in the frost, sparks

Crackled and jumped and floated

Stars into the invisible night and

The log glowed red and the fire we

Fed has never died.







9



The catherine-wheel pinned to the palings

Hissed and spun as we ran passed the railings

Rattling our sticks until the stars had beat retreat.





10



From the night comes a figure

Into the firelight: Margaret Gardiner

My first, my only love, the violet pools

Of your eyes, your voice still calling,

“I am here, I am waiting.”





11



Where the road turns

Past St Hilda’s

Down Knostrop

By the Black Road

By the Red Road

Interminable blue

And I remember you,

Margaret, in your

Mauve blazer standing

By the river, your

Worn-out flower patterned

Frock and black

Laceless runners





12



Into the brewer’s yard

Stumbled the drayhorses

Armoured in leather

And clashing brass

Strident as Belshazzar’s

Feast, rich as yeast

On Auntie Nellie’s

Baking board, barrels

Banked on barrels

From the cooper’s yard.





13



Margaret, are you listening?

Are your eyes still distant

And dreaming? Can you hear

My voice in Eden?

My poems are all for you

The one who never knew

Silent and most generous

Muse, eternal primavera

Under the streetlamps

Of Leeds Nine.





14



Margaret, hold my hand

As we set out into the

Land of summers lost

A day-time ghost surrenders

At the top of the steps

To the Aire where we

Looked over the Hollows

Misted with memory and

Images of summer.

We are standing on the corner of Falmouth Place

We are standing by the steps to the Aire

We are standing outside the Maypole

Falling into Eden.





15



Falling into Eden is just a beginning

Hoardings on the gable ends for household

Soap, washing is out on the lines

Falmouth Street full of children playing,

Patrick Keown, Keith Ibbotson, the Flaherty

Twins spilling over the pavements, holding

A skipping rope, whirling and twirling;

Margaret you never missed a turn

While I could never make one, out before I began.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry