Best Famous Get Lost Poems

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

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Poems are below...



Written by William Stafford | Create an image from this poem

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

 If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail, but if one wanders the circus won't find the park, I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy, a remote important region in all who talk: though we could fool each other, we should consider-- lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe-- should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Ode For Mrs. William Settle

 In Lake Forest, a suburb of Chicago,
a woman sits at her desk to write
me a letter.
She holds a photograph of me up to the light, one taken 17 years ago in a high school class in Providence.
She sighs, and the sigh smells of mouthwash and tobacco.
If she were writing by candlelight she would now be in the dark, for a living flame would refuse to be fed by such pure exhaustion.
Actually she is in the dark, for the man she's about to address in her odd prose had a life span of one 125th of a second in the eye of a Nikon, and then he politely asked the photographer to get lost, whispering the request so as not to offend the teacher presiding.
Those students are now in their thirties, the Episcopal girls in their plaid skirts and bright crested blazers have gone unprepared, though French-speaking, into a world of liars, pimps, and brokers.
2.
7% have died by their own hands, and all the others have considered the act at least once.
Not one now remembers my name, not one recalls the reading I gave of César Vallejo's great "memoriam" to his brother Miguel, not even the girl who sobbed and had to be escorted to the school nurse, calmed, and sent home in a cab.
Evenings in Lake Forest in mid-December drop suddenly; one moment the distant sky is a great purple canvas, and then it's gone, and no stars emerge; however, not the least hint of the stockyards or slaughterhouses is allowed to drift out to the suburbs, so it's a deathless darkness with no more perfume than cellophane.
"Our souls are mingling now somewhere in the open spaces between Illinois and you," she writes.
When I read the letter, two weeks from now, forwarded by my publisher, I will suddenly discover a truth of our lives on earth, and I'll bless Mrs.
William Settle of Lake Forest for giving me more than I gave her, for addressing me as Mr.
Levine, the name my father bore, a name a man could take with courage and pride into the empire of death.
I'll read even unto the second page, unstartled by the phrase "By now you must have guessed, I am a dancer.
" Soon snow will fall on the Tudor houses of the suburbs, turning the elegant parked sedans into anonymous mounds; the winds will sweep in over the Rockies and across the great freezing plains where America first died, winds so fierce boys and men turn their backs to them and simply weep, and yet in all that air the soul of Mrs.
William Settle will not release me, not even for one second.
Male and female, aged and middle-aged, we ride it out blown eastward toward our origins, one impure being become wind.
Above the Middle West, truth and beauty are one though never meant to be.
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

The Most

 here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in drag
here comes nothing to do all day long
here comes another night of no sleep
here comes the phone wringing the wrong tone
here comes a termite with a banjo
here comes a flagpole with blank eyes
here comes a a cat and a dog wearing nylons
here comes a machine gun saying
here comes bacon burning in the pan
here comes a voice saying something dull
here comes a newspaper stuffed with small red birds
with flat brown beaks
here comes a cunt carrying a torch
a grenade
a deathly love
here comes a victory carrying
one bucket of blood
and stumbling over the berry bush
and the sheets hang out the windows
and the bombers head east west north south
get lost
get tossed like salad
as all the fish in the sea line up and form
one line
one long line
one very long thin line
the longest line you could ever imagine
and we get lost
walking past purple mountains
we walk lost
bare at last like the knife
having given
having spit it out like an unexpected olive seed
as the girl at the call service
screams over the phone:
"don't call back! you sound like a jerk!"
Written by Susan Rich | Create an image from this poem

Lost By Way of Tchin-Tabarden

 Republic of Niger

Nomads are said to know their way by an exact spot in the sky,

the touch of sand to their fingers, granules on the tongue.
But sometimes a system breaks down.
I witness a shift of light, study the irregular shadings of dunes.
Why am I traveling this road to Zinder, where really there is no road? No service station at this check point, just one commercant hawking Fanta in gangrene hues.
C'est formidable! he gestures --- staring ahead over a pyramid of foreign orange juice.
In the desert life is distilled to an angle of wind, camel droppings, salted food.
How long has this man been here, how long can I stay contemplating a route home? It's so easy to get lost and disappear, die of thirst and longing as the Sultan's three wives did last year.
Found in their Mercedes, the chauffeur at the wheel, how did they fail to return home to Ágadez, retrace a landscape they'd always believed? No cross-streets, no broken yellow lines; I feel relief at the abandonment of my own geography.
I know there's no surveyor but want to imagine the aerial map that will send me above flame trees, snaking through knots of basalt.
I'll mark the exact site for a lean-to where the wind and dust travel easily along my skin, and I'm no longer satiated by the scent of gasoline.
I'll arrive there out of balance, untaught; ready for something called home.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

What is -- Paradise

 What is -- "Paradise" --
Who live there --
Are they "Farmers" --
Do they "hoe" --
Do they know that this is "Amherst" --
And that I -- am coming -- too --

Do they wear "new shoes" -- in "Eden" --
Is it always pleasant -- there --
Won't they scold us -- when we're homesick --
Or tell God -- how cross we are --

You are sure there's such a person
As "a Father" -- in the sky --
So if I get lost -- there -- ever --
Or do what the Nurse calls "die" --
I shan't walk the "Jasper" -- barefoot --
Ransomed folks -- won't laugh at me --
Maybe -- "Eden" a'n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Mamie

 MAMIE beat her head against the bars of a little Indiana
town and dreamed of romance and big things off
somewhere the way the railroad trains all ran.
She could see the smoke of the engines get lost down where the streaks of steel flashed in the sun and when the newspapers came in on the morning mail she knew there was a big Chicago far off, where all the trains ran.
She got tired of the barber shop boys and the post office chatter and the church gossip and the old pieces the band played on the Fourth of July and Decoration Day And sobbed at her fate and beat her head against the bars and was going to kill herself When the thought came to her that if she was going to die she might as well die struggling for a clutch of romance among the streets of Chicago.
She has a job now at six dollars a week in the basement of the Boston Store And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

North Atlantic

 WHEN the sea is everywhere
from horizon to horizon .
.
when the salt and blue fill a circle of horizons .
.
I swear again how I know the sea is older than anything else and the sea younger than anything else.
My first father was a landsman.
My tenth father was a sea-lover, a gipsy sea-boy, a singer of chanties.
(Oh Blow the Man Down!) The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
The sea gives all, and yet the sea keeps something back.
The sea takes without asking.
The sea is a worker, a thief and a loafer.
Why does the sea let go so slow? Or never let go at all? The sea always the same day after day, the sea always the same night after night, fog on fog and never a star, wind on wind and running white sheets, bird on bird always a sea-bird— so the days get lost: it is neither Saturday nor Monday, it is any day or no day, it is a year, ten years.
Fog on fog and never a star, what is a man, a child, a woman, to the green and grinding sea? The ropes and boards squeak and groan.
On the land they know a child they have named Today.
On the sea they know three children they have named: Yesterday, Today, To-morrow.
I made a song to a woman:—it ran: I have wanted you.
I have called to you on a day I counted a thousand years.
In the deep of a sea-blue noon many women run in a man’s head, phantom women leaping from a man’s forehead .
.
to the railings … into the sea … to the sea rim … .
.
a man’s mother … a man’s wife … other women … I asked a sure-footed sailor how and he said: I have known many women but there is only one sea.
I saw the North Star once and our old friend, The Big Dipper, only the sea between us: “Take away the sea and I lift The Dipper, swing the handle of it, drink from the brim of it.
” I saw the North Star one night and five new stars for me in the rigging ropes, and seven old stars in the cross of the wireless plunging by night, plowing by night— Five new cool stars, seven old warm stars.
I have been let down in a thousand graves by my kinfolk.
I have been left alone with the sea and the sea’s wife, the wind, for my last friends And my kinfolk never knew anything about it at all.
Salt from an old work of eating our graveclothes is here.
The sea-kin of my thousand graves, The sea and the sea’s wife, the wind, They are all here to-night between the circle of horizons, between the cross of the wireless and the seven old warm stars.
Out of a thousand sea-holes I came yesterday.
Out of a thousand sea-holes I come to-morrow.
I am kin of the changer.
I am a son of the sea and the sea’s wife, the wind.
Written by Chris Jones | Create an image from this poem

Name

 His name has been ghosted over the fence,
leaving an alias, burn, prison clothes.
I'm half the man, he says, not my sentence, waiting on time that other people chose.
From their windows men sing out numbers, names, hands to the grille light for the come-back call, but words get lost, change allegiance, and blame's out of their mouths, love's over the wall.
Later when I phone home and catch your voice I think of slipping out to wind and rain, to burning winter lights, and city noise, to waiting on the platform for the train, the slow bus climbing toward our terrace house, and in that space, to reach you, say your name.
Written by Vasko Popa | Create an image from this poem

Give Me Back My Rags #12

 Enough chattering violets enough sweet trash
I won't hear anything know anything
Enough enough of all

I'll say the last enough
Fill my mouth with earth
Grit my teeth

To break off you skull guzzler
To break off once for all

I'll just be what I am
Without root without branch without crown
I'll lean on myself
On my own bumps and bruises

I'll be the hawthorn stake through you
That's all I can be in you
In you spoilsport in you muddlehead

Get lost
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

christmas the delinquent

 i got nothing last year
and i expect nothing this
so i've got to find
if i'm to be rewarded

so all good people
you'd better learn to give
from the goodness of your heart 
or at knife-point

i'm a taker by trade
takers is keepers
it won't hurt you to bleed
it's a good colour - red

give of your blood
you're not having mine
i'm the collector
santa looks after himself

your birthright - get lost
when i'm on my rounds
what i see i snaffle
that's today's lesson

give to santa - or
i'll cut your throat
that's today's christmas
the future looks good