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Best Famous Godfather Poems

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

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Saturdays Child

 Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black racoon--
For implements of battle.
Some are swaddled in silk and down,
And heralded by a star;
They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown
On a night that was black as tar.
For some, godfather and goddame
The opulent fairies be;
Dame Poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me.
For I was born on Saturday--
"Bad time for planting a seed,"
Was all my father had to say,
And, "One mouth more to feed."
Death cut the strings that gave me life,
And handed me to Sorrow,
The only kind of middle wife
My folks could beg or borrow.

Written by Rg Gregory |

against the ladling of doom

 crisis has a fact to get straight
it needn't be the end of the world
beginnings too are coated with death

because we've had enough of the old's
dirty jokes doesn't mean there's no
more grass ready to push itself up

or dreams can't go on being lived
the dreamers' necks having been twisted
(visions root in mists and spread outwards)
the chrysalis has to be taken apart
for the wings to erupt into freedom
ideas grow from the flesh they've grown into

murder's a godfather to birth
and the born sing illiterate songs
they intend as a new kind of language

only as their hands bloom red
with their own brand of murders
will their words simmer down to the same

but their rawness is something to hope for
and the cry in the middle of hate
is a cord we should grasp - no matter

how often it will serve as a noose
- when the dungeon we're in is so cosy
crimes-to-come put the boot in for eden

Written by Victor Hugo |

On Hearing The Princess Royal{1} Sing

 ("Dans ta haute demeure.") 
 
 {Bk. III. ix., 1881.} 


 In thine abode so high 
 Where yet one scarce can breathe, 
 Dear child, most tenderly 
 A soft song thou dost wreathe. 
 
 Thou singest, little girl— 
 Thy sire, the King is he: 
 Around thee glories whirl, 
 But all things sigh in thee. 
 
 Thy thought may seek not wings 
 Of speech; dear love's forbidden; 
 Thy smiles, those heavenly things, 
 Being faintly born, are chidden. 
 
 Thou feel'st, poor little Bride, 
 A hand unknown and chill 
 Clasp thine from out the wide 
 Deep shade so deathly still. 
 
 Thy sad heart, wingless, weak, 
 Is sunk in this black shade 
 So deep, thy small hands seek, 
 Vainly, the pulse God made. 
 
 Thou art yet but highness, thou 
 That shaft be majesty: 
 Though still on thy fair brow 
 Some faint dawn-flush may be, 
 
 Child, unto armies dear, 
 Even now we mark heaven's light 
 Dimmed with the fume and fear 
 And glory of battle-might. 
 
 Thy godfather is he, 
 Earth's Pope,—he hails thee, child! 
 Passing, armed men you see 
 Like unarmed women, mild. 
 
 As saint all worship thee; 
 Thyself even hast the strong 
 Thrill of divinity 
 Mingled with thy small song. 
 
 Each grand old warrior 
 Guards thee, submissive, proud; 
 Mute thunders at thy door 
 Sleep, that shall wake most loud. 
 
 Around thee foams the wild 
 Bright sea, the lot of kings. 
 Happier wert thou, my child, 
 I' the woods a bird that sings! 
 
 NELSON R. TYERMAN. 
 
 {Footnote 1: Marie, daughter of King Louis Philippe, afterwards Princess 
 of Würtemburg.}