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Best Famous Hammered Poems

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

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Written by Joyce Kilmer | Create an image from this poem

Apology

 (For Eleanor Rogers Cox)

For blows on the fort of evil
That never shows a breach,
For terrible life-long races
To a goal no foot can reach,
For reckless leaps into darkness
With hands outstretched to a star,
There is jubilation in Heaven
Where the great dead poets are.
There is joy over disappointment And delight in hopes that were vain.
Each poet is glad there was no cure To stop his lonely pain.
For nothing keeps a poet In his high singing mood Like unappeasable hunger For unattainable food.
So fools are glad of the folly That made them weep and sing, And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne And Drummond for his king.
They know that on flinty sorrow And failure and desire The steel of their souls was hammered To bring forth the lyric fire.
Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett, McDonough and Hunt and Pearse See now why their hatred of tyrants Was so insistently fierce.
Is Freedom only a Will-o'-the-wisp To cheat a poet's eye? Be it phantom or fact, it's a noble cause In which to sing and to die! So not for the Rainbow taken And the magical White Bird snared The poets sing grateful carols In the place to which they have fared; But for their lifetime's passion, The quest that was fruitless and long, They chorus their loud thanksgiving To the thorn-crowned Master of Song.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

All In The Golden Afternoon

 All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretense
Our wanderings to guide.
Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour, Beneath such dreamy weather, To beg a tale of breath too weak To stir the tiniest feather! Yet what can one poor voice avail Against three tongues together? Imperious Prima flashes forth Her edict to "begin it"-- In gentler tones Secunda hopes "There will be nonsense in it"-- While Tertia interrupts the tale Not more than once a minute.
Anon, to sudden silence won, In fancy they pursue The dream-child moving through a land Of wonders wild and new, In friendly chat with bird or beast-- And half believe it true.
And ever, as the story drained The wells of fancy dry, And faintly strove that weary one To put the subject by, "The rest next time"--"It is next time!" The happy voices cry.
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland: Thus slowly, one by one, Its quaint events were hammered out-- And now the tale is done, And home we steer, a merry crew, Beneath the setting sun.
Alice! a childish story take, And with a gentle hand Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined In Memory's mystic band, Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers Plucked in a far-off land.
Written by Philip Larkin | Create an image from this poem

Like The Trains Beat

 Like the train's beat
Swift language flutters the lips
Of the Polish airgirl in the corner seat,
The swinging and narrowing sun
Lights her eyelashes, shapes
Her sharp vivacity of bone.
Hair, wild and controlled, runs back: And gestures like these English oaks Flash past the windows of her foreign talk.
The train runs on through wilderness Of cities.
Still the hammered miles Diversify behind her face.
And all humanity of interest Before her angled beauty falls, As whorling notes are pressed In a bird's throat, issuing meaningless Through written skies; a voice Watering a stony place.
Written by Adrienne Rich | Create an image from this poem

Integrity

 the quality of being complete; unbroken condition; entirety
~ Webster
A wild patience has taken me this far

as if I had to bring to shore
a boat with a spasmodic outboard motor
old sweaters, nets, spray-mottled books
tossed in the prow
some kind of sun burning my shoulder-blades.
Splashing the oarlocks.
Burning through.
Your fore-arms can get scalded, licked with pain in a sun blotted like unspoken anger behind a casual mist.
The length of daylight this far north, in this forty-ninth year of my life is critical.
The light is critical: of me, of this long-dreamed, involuntary landing on the arm of an inland sea.
The glitter of the shoal depleting into shadow I recognize: the stand of pines violet-black really, green in the old postcard but really I have nothing but myself to go by; nothing stands in the realm of pure necessity except what my hands can hold.
Nothing but myself?.
.
.
.
My selves.
After so long, this answer.
As if I had always known I steer the boat in, simply.
The motor dying on the pebbles cicadas taking up the hum dropped in the silence.
Anger and tenderness: my selves.
And now I can believe they breathe in me as angels, not polarities.
Anger and tenderness: the spider's genius to spin and weave in the same action from her own body, anywhere -- even from a broken web.
The cabin in the stand of pines is still for sale.
I know this.
Know the print of the last foot, the hand that slammed and locked the door, then stopped to wreathe the rain-smashed clematis back on the trellis for no one's sake except its own.
I know the chart nailed to the wallboards the icy kettle squatting on the burner.
The hands that hammered in those nails emptied that kettle one last time are these two hands and they have caught the baby leaping from between trembling legs and they have worked the vacuum aspirator and stroked the sweated temples and steered the boat there through this hot misblotted sunlight, critical light imperceptibly scalding the skin these hands will also salve.
Written by Denise Levertov | Create an image from this poem

Wedding-Ring

 My wedding-ring lies in a basket 
as if at the bottom of a well.
Nothing will come to fish it back up and onto my finger again.
It lies among keys to abandoned houses, nails waiting to be needed and hammered into some wall, telephone numbers with no names attached, idle paperclips.
It can't be given away for fear of bringing ill-luck.
It can't be sold for the marriage was good in its own time, though that time is gone.
Could some artificer beat into it bright stones, transform it into a dazzling circlet no one could take for solemn betrothal or to make promises living will not let them keep? Change it into a simple gift I could give in friendship?
Written by Olu Oguibe | Create an image from this poem

All because i loved you

once i wrote with the irreverence of youth
and the fire of a heart burning to ash 
i plucked words like faggots from blazing coal 
and on the anvil of exile i hammered sorrow into verse 
the burden of your suffering tore poetry from my flesh 
and on the night of your hanging there was dust in my lines 
i aimed for song and there was not an eye without tears 

i marked the fourteen stations of the cross 
but your death has killed my verse 
each day i wake on the hour to mourn 
and i feel like a wanderer in a city without lights 
passion flees in the fog and words crumble at my touch 
and my throat feels like a concrete floor 
the power of tears has deserted me 

i walk through the streets of this forbidding town 
searching for faces i used to know 
and your memory is like a faded picture in the pocket 
here and there i hear your name like the distant crack of a whip 
and there is a dull pain where the scars remain 
i recall your stubbornness and the ring of blood on your wrist 
and i embrace this cold that severed you from me 

once i howled with the rage of a bard 
there was epiphany in the pain 
and all because i loved you 
now i claw the walls for the naked word 
my lines are a hollow sepulchre 
ready for the final dust 
silence claims us at last 
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Pagett M.P

 The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where eath tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road Preaches contentment to that toad.
Pagett, M.
P.
, was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith -- He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth"; Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.
March came in with the koil.
Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay.
" March went out with the roses.
"Where is your heat?" said he.
"Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.
P.
April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, -- Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and mumpy-hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.
May set in with a dust-storm, -- Pagett went down with the sun.
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis -- ten day's "liver" -- due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever --slight, but he called it severe.
Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat -- Lowered his portly person -- made him yearn to depart.
He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid," But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.
July was a trifle unhealthy, -- Pagett was ill with fear.
'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.
We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.
And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips," And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A British-Roman Song

 (A.
D.
406) "A Centurion of the Thirtieth" -- Puck of Pook's Hill My father's father saw it not, And I, belike, shall never come To look on that so-holly spot-- That very Rome-- Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might, The equal work of Gods and Man, City beneath whose oldest height-- The Race began! Soon to send forth again a brood, Unshakable, we pray, that clings To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood-- In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound, Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs, Age after Age, the Empire round-- In us thy Sons Who, distant from the Seven Hills, Loving and serving much, require Thee-thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills The Imperial Fire!
Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

My Soviet Passport

 I'd tear
 like a wolf
 at bureaucracy.
For mandates my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper.
But this .
.
.
Down the long front of coupés and cabins File the officials politely.
They gather up passports and I give in My own vermilion booklet.
For one kind of passport - smiling lips part For others - an attitude scornful.
They take with respect, for instance, the passport From a sleeping-car English Lionel.
The good fellows eyes almost slip like pips when, bowing as low as men can, they take, as if they were taking a tip, the passport from an American.
At the Polish, they dolefully blink and wheeze in dumb police elephantism - where are they from, and what are these geographical novelties? And without a turn of their cabbage heads, their feelings hidden in lower regions, they take without blinking, the passports from Swedes and various old Norwegians.
Then sudden as if their mouths were aquake those gentlemen almost whine Those very official gentlemen take that red-skinned passport of mine.
Take- like a bomb take - like a hedgehog, like a razor double-edge stropped, take - like a rattlesnake huge and long with at least 20 fangs poison-tipped.
The porter's eyes give a significant flick (I'll carry your baggage for nix, mon ami.
.
.
) The gendarmes enquiringly look at the tec, the tec, - at the gendarmerie.
With what delight that gendarme caste would have me strung-up and whipped raw because I hold in my hands hammered-fast sickle-clasped my red Soviet passport.
I'd tear like a wolf at bureaucracy.
For mandates my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper, But this .
.
.
I pull out of my wide trouser-pockets duplicate of a priceless cargo.
You now: read this and envy, I'm a citizen of the Soviet Socialist Union! Transcribed: by Liviu Iacob.
Written by Roger McGough | Create an image from this poem

The Identification

 So you think its Stephen?
Then I'd best make sure
Be on the safe side as it were.
Ah, theres been a mistake.
The hair you see, its black, now Stephens fair .
.
.
Whats that? The explosion? Of course, burnt black.
Silly of me.
I should have known.
Then lets get on.
The face, is that the face mask? that mask of charred wood blistered scarred could that have been a child's face? The sweater, where intact, looks in fact all too familiar.
But one must be sure.
The scoutbelt.
Yes thats his.
I recognise the studs he hammered in not a week ago.
At the age when boys get clothes-conscious now you know.
Its almost certainly Stephen.
But one must be sure.
Remove all trace of doubt.
Pull out every splinter of hope.
Pockets.
Empty the pockets.
Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy's.
Dirty enough.
Cigarettes? Oh this can't be Stephen.
I dont allow him to smoke you see.
He wouldn't disobey me.
Not his father.
But that's his penknife.
Thats his alright.
And thats his key on the keyring Gran gave him just the other night.
Then this must be him.
I think I know what happened .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
about the cigarettes No doubt he was minding them for one of the older boys.
Yes thats it.
Thats him.
Thats our Stephen.
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