10 Best Famous Flyers Poems

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

• All Famous Flyers Poems

 Athelstan King,
Lord among Earls,
Bracelet-bestower and
Baron of Barons,
He with his brother,
Edmund Atheling,
Gaining a lifelong
Glory in battle,
Slew with the sword-edge
There by Brunanburh,
Brake the shield-wall,
Hew'd the lindenwood,
Hack'd the battleshield,
Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. 

Theirs was a greatness
Got from their Grandsires--
Theirs that so often in
Strife with their enemies
Struck for their hoards and their hearths and their homes. 

Bow'd the spoiler,
Bent the Scotsman,
Fell the shipcrews
Doom'd to the death.
All the field with blood of the fighters
Flow'd, from when first the great
Sun-star of morningtide,
Lamp of the Lord God
Lord everlasting,
Glode over earth till the glorious creature
Sank to his setting.
There lay many a man
Marr'd by the javelin,
Men of the Northland
Shot over shield.
There was the Scotsman
Weary of war. 

We the West-Saxons,
Long as the daylight
Lasted, in companies
Troubled the track of the host that we hated;
Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstone
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before us. 

Mighty the Mercian,
Hard was his hand-play,
Sparing not any of
Those that with Anlaf,
Warriors over the
Weltering waters
Borne in the bark's-bosom,
Drew to this island:
Doom'd to the death. 

Five young kings put asleep by the sword-stroke,
Seven strong earls of the army of Anlaf
Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers,
Shipmen and Scotsmen. 

Then the Norse leader,
Dire was his need of it,
Few were his following,
Fled to his warship;
Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it,
Saving his life on the fallow flood. 

Also the crafty one,
Constantinus,
Crept to his north again,
Hoar-headed hero! 

Slender warrant had
He to be proud of
The welcome of war-knives--
He that was reft of his
Folk and his friends that had
Fallen in conflict,
Leaving his son too
Lost in the carnage,
Mangled to morsels,
A youngster in war! 

Slender reason had
He to be glad of
The clash of the war-glaive--
Traitor and trickster
And spurner of treaties--
He nor had Anlaf
With armies so broken
A reason for bragging
That they had the better
In perils of battle
On places of slaughter--
The struggle of standards,
The rush of the javelins,
The crash of the charges,
The wielding of weapons--
The play that they play'd with
The children of Edward. 

Then with their nail'd prows
Parted the Norsemen, a
Blood-redden'd relic of
Javelins over
The jarring breaker, the deep-sea billow,
Shaping their way toward Dyflen again,
Shamed in their souls. 

Also the brethren,
King and Atheling,
Each in his glory,
Went to his own in his own West-Saxonland,
Glad of the war. 

Many a carcase they left to be carrion,
Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin--
Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear it, and
Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend it, and
Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and
That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 

Never had huger
Slaughter of heroes
Slain by the sword-edge--
Such as old writers
Have writ of in histories--
Hapt in this isle, since
Up from the East hither
Saxon and Angle from
Over the broad billow
Broke into Britain with
Haughty war-workers who
Harried the Welshman, when
Earls that were lured by the
Hunger of glory gat
Hold of the land.

 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog 
By the troopers of the upper Murray side, 
They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log, 
But never sight or track of him they spied, 
Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late 
And a whisper "Father Riley -- come across!" 
So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate 
And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! 
"Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, 
For it's close upon my death I am tonight. 
With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day 
In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. 
But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, 
And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, 
So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, 
'Tis the only way I see to save my life. 

"Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next 
An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course, 
I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed 
And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse! 
He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear 
To his owner or his breeder, but I know, 
That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare 
And his dam was close related to The Roe. 

"And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, 
He could canter while they're going at their top: 
He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, 
A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop! 
So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, 
Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, 
You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain 
If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse! 

"But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say goodbye, 
For the stars above the east are growing pale. 
And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! 
But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! 
You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip 
Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. 
Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip 
Or he'll rush 'em! -- now, goodbye!" and he had fled! 

So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, 
In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; 
There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights 
Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. 
There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, 
And their riders flogged each other all the while. 
And the lashin's of the liquor! And the lavin's of the grub! 
Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style. 

Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, 
For the folk were mostly Irish round about, 
And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, 
They were training morning in and morning out. 
But they never started training till the sun was on the course 
For a superstitious story kept 'em back, 
That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, 
Had been training by the starlight on the track. 

And they read the nominations for the races with surprise 
And amusement at the Father's little joke, 
For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize, 
And they found it was Father Riley's moke! 
He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay! 
But his owner's views of training were immense, 
For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, 
And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence. 

And the priest would join the laughter: "Oh," said he, "I put him in, 
For there's five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won. 
And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, 
And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!" 
He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for 'Clear the course', 
And his colours were a vivid shade of green: 
All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse, 
While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin! 

It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise, 
Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, 
And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, 
That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. 
"You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled, 
And the fences is terrific, and the rest! 
When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, 
And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. 

"For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure, 
And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight, 
But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor, 
Will be running by his side to keep him straight. 
And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track, 
Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course! 
I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! 
And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!" 

* 

Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin' round and round, 
And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. 
There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, 
Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! 
But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, 
For the finish down the long green stretch of course, 
And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo, 
Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse! 

Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! 
For he left the others standing, in the straight; 
And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, 
And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight! 
But he weighed in, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, 
Like a banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), 
And old Hogan muttered sagely, "If it wasn't for the beard 
They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!" 

And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide 
Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green. 
There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, 
And they wondered who on earth he could have been. 
But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, 
'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, 
That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out 
For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse!

ZONE 


In the end you are tired of this ancient world 
Shepherd oh Eiffel Tower the herd of bridges is bleating this morning 

You've had enough of living in Greek and Roman antiquity 

Here even the cars look antique 
Only religion has stayed new religion 
Has stayed simple like the hangars at Port-Aviation 

You alone in Europe are not ancient oh Christianity 
The most modern European is you Pope Pius X 
And shame keeps you whom the windows are watching 
From entering a church and going to confession this morning 
You read the flyers catalogues posters that shout out 
There's the morning's poetry and as for prose there are the newspapers 
There are 25 cent tabloids full of crimes 
Celebrity items and a thousand different headlines 

This morning I saw a pretty street whose name I forget 
New and clean it was the sun's herald 
Executives workers and beautiful stenos 
Cross it four times a day from Monday morning to Saturday evening 
In the morning the siren moans three times 
An angry bell barks at noon 
The inscriptions on the signs and walls 
The billboards the notices squawk like parrots 
I love the charm of this industrial street 
In Paris between the Rue Aumont-Thiéville and the Avenue des Ternes 

There's the young street and you're still just a little boy 
Your mother dresses you only in blue and white 
You're very pious and along with your oldest friend René Dalize 
You like nothing better than the rituals of the Church 
It is nine o'clock the gas is low and blue you sneak out of the dormitory 
You pray all night in the school's chapel 
While in eternal adorable amethyst depths 
The flaming glory of Christ revolves forever 
It's the beautiful lily we all cultivate 
It's the torch with red hair the wind can't blow out 
It's the pale rosy son of the grieving mother 
It's the tree always leafy with prayers 
It's the paired gallows of honor and eternity 
It's the star with six branches 
It's God who dies on Friday and comes back to life on Sunday 
It's Christ who climbs to the sky better than any pilot 
He holds the world record for altitude 

Apple Christ of the eye 
Twentieth pupil of the centuries he knows how to do it 
And changed into a bird this century like Jesus climbs into the air 
Devils in their depths raise their heads to look at him 
They say he's copying Simon Magus in Judea 
They shout if he's so good at flying let's call him a fugitive 
Angels gyre around the handsome gymnast 
Icarus Enoch Elijah Apollonius of Tyana 
Hover around the first airplane 
They scatter sometimes to let the ones carrying the Eucharist pass 
Those priests that are forever ascending carrying the host 
Finally the plane lands without folding its wings 
And the sky is full of millions of swallows 
Crows falcons owls come in full flight 
Ibises flamingos storks come from Africa 
The Roc Bird made famous by storytellers and poets 
Soars holding in its claws Adam's skull the first head 
The eagle swoops screaming from the horizon 
And from America the little hummingbird comes 
From China the long agile peehees have come 
They have only one wing and fly in pairs 
Now here's the dove immaculate spirit 
Escorted by the lyre-bird and the spotted peacock 
The phoenix that self-engendering pyre 
For an instant hides all with its burning ash 
Sirens leaving the dangerous straits 
Arrive singing beautifully all three 
And all eagle phoenix peehees from China 
Hang out with the flying Machine 

Now you're walking in Paris all alone in the crowd 
Herds of buses amble by you mooing 
The anguish of love tightens your throat 
As if you were never going to be loved again 
If you lived in the old days you would enter a monastery 
You are ashamed when you catch yourself saying a prayer 
You make fun of yourself and your laughter crackles like the fire of Hell 
The sparks of your laughter gild the abyss of your life 
It is a painting hung in a dark museum 
And sometimes you go look at it close up 

Today you're walking in Paris the women have turned blood-red 
It was and I wish I didn't remember it was at the waning of beauty 
Surrounded by fervent flames Our Lady looked at me in Chartres 
The blood of your Sacred Heart drenched me in Montmartre 
I am sick from hearing blissful phrases 
The love I suffer from is a shameful sickness 
And the image that possesses you makes you survive in insomnia and anguish 
It is always near you this image that passes 

Now you're on the shores of the Mediterranean 
Under the lemon trees that are in flower all year long 
You go boating with some friends 
One is from Nice there's one from Menton and two from La Turbie 
We look with dread at the octopus of the deep 
And among the seaweed fish are swimming symbols of the Savior 

You are in the garden of an inn just outside of Prague 
You feel so happy a rose is on the table 
And you observe instead of writing your story in prose 
The Japanese beetle sleeping in the heart of the rose 

Terrified you see yourself drawn in the agates of Saint Vitus 
You were sad enough to die the day you saw yourself 
You look like Lazarus thrown into a panic by the daylight 
The hands on the clock in the Jewish district go counter-clockwise 
And you too are going slowly backwards in your life 
Climbing up to Hradcany and listening at night 
To Czech songs being sung in taverns 

Here you are in Marseilles in the middle of watermelons 

Here you are in Coblenz at the Giant Hotel 

Here you are in Rome sitting under a Japanese medlar tree 

Here you are in Amsterdam with a young woman you think is beautiful she is ugly 
She is engaged to a student from Leyden 
There they rent rooms in Latin Cubicula Locanda 
I remember I spent three days there and just as many in Gouda 

You are in Paris getting interrogated 
They're arresting you like a criminal 

You made some miserable and happy journeys 
Before you became aware of lies and of age 
You suffered from love at twenty and at thirty 
I've lived like a madman and I've wasted my time 
You don't dare look at your hands anymore and all the time I want to cry 
Over you over the women I love over everything that's terrified you 

Your tear-filled eyes watch the poor emigrants 
They believe in God they pray the women breast-feed the children 
They fill the waiting-room at the St. Lazaire station with their smell 
They have faith in their star like the Magi 
They hope to earn money in Argentina 
And go back to their country after making their fortune 
One family is carrying a red eiderdown the way you carry your heart 
The eiderdown and our dreams are equally unreal 
Some of these emigrants stay here and put up at the 
Rue des Rosiers or the Rue des Ecouffes in hovels 
I've seen them often at night they're out for a breath of air in the street 
And like chess pieces they rarely move 
They are mostly Jews the wives wearing wigs 
Sit still bloodless at the back of store-fronts 

You're standing in front of the counter at a sleazy bar 
You're having coffee for two sous with the down-and-out 

At night you're in a big restaurant 

These women aren't mean but they do have their troubles 
All of them even the ugliest has made her lover suffer 

She is a Jersey policeman's daughter 

Her hands that I hadn't seen are hard and chapped 

I feel immense pity for the scars on her belly 

I humble my mouth now to a poor hooker with a horrible laugh 

You are alone morning is approaching 
Milkmen clink their cans in the streets 

Night withdraws like a half-caste beauty 
Ferdine the false or thoughtful Leah 

And you drink this alcohol burning like your life 
Your life that you drink like an eau-de-vie 

You walk towards Auteuil you want to go home on foot 
To sleep surrounded by your fetishes from the South Seas and from Guinea 
They are Christs in another form and from a different creed 
They are lower Christs of dim expectations 

Goodbye Goodbye 

Sun neck cut 

  


from Alcools, 1913 

Translation copyright Charlotte Mandell