Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Hams Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Hams poems, articles about Hams poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Hams poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | Create an image from this poem

Standardization

 When, darkly brooding on this Modern Age, 
The journalist with his marketable woes 
Fills up once more the inevitable page 
Of fatuous, flatulent, Sunday-paper prose; 

Whenever the green aesthete starts to whoop 
With horror at the house not made with hands 
And when from vacuum cleaners and tinned soup 
Another pure theosophist demands 

Rebirth in other, less industrial stars 
Where huge towns thrust up in synthetic stone 
And films and sleek miraculous motor cars 
And celluloid and rubber are unknown; 

When from his vegetable Sunday School 
Emerges with the neatly maudlin phrase 
Still one more Nature poet, to rant or drool 
About the "Standardization of the Race"; 

I see, stooping among her orchard trees, 
The old, sound Earth, gathering her windfalls in, 
Broad in the hams and stiffening at the knees, 
Pause and I see her grave malicious grin. 

For there is no manufacturer competes 
With her in the mass production of shapes and things. 
Over and over she gathers and repeats 
The cast of a face, a million butterfly wings. 

She does not tire of the pattern of a rose. 
Her oldest tricks still catch us with surprise. 
She cannot recall how long ago she chose 
The streamlined hulls of fish, the snail's long eyes, 

Love, which still pours into its ancient mould 
The lashing seed that grows to a man again, 
From whom by the same processes unfold 
Unending generations of living men. 

She has standardized his ultimate needs and pains. 
Lost tribes in a lost language mutter in 
His dreams: his science is tethered to their brains, 
His guilt merely repeats Original Sin. 

And beauty standing motionless before 
Her mirror sees behind her, mile on mile, 
A long queue in an unknown corridor, 
Anonymous faces plastered with her smile.


Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

They Feed They Lion

 Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
They Lion grow. 

 Out of the gray hills
Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride, 
West Virginia to Kiss My Ass, out of buried aunties,
Mothers hardening like pounded stumps, out of stumps,
Out of the bones' need to sharpen and the muscles' to stretch,
They Lion grow.

 Earth is eating trees, fence posts,
Gutted cars, earth is calling in her little ones, 
"Come home, Come home!" From pig balls,
From the ferocity of pig driven to holiness,
From the furred ear and the full jowl come
The repose of the hung belly, from the purpose
They Lion grow.

 From the sweet glues of the trotters
Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the full flower
Of the hams the thorax of caves,
From "Bow Down" come "Rise Up,"
Come they Lion from the reeds of shovels, 
The grained arm that pulls the hands,
They Lion grow.

 From my five arms and all my hands,
From all my white sins forgiven, they feed, 
From my car passing under the stars,
They Lion, from my children inherit, 
From the oak turned to a wall, they Lion,
From they sack and they belly opened
And all that was hidden burning on the oil-stained earth 
They feed they Lion and he comes.
Written by Alden Nowlan | Create an image from this poem

A Certain Kind of Holy Men

 Not every wino is a Holy Man.
Oh, but some of them are.
I love those who've learned
to sit comfortably
for long periods with their hams
pressed against their calves,
outdoors,
with a wall for a back-rest,
contentedly saying nothing.
These move about only when
necessary,
on foot, and almost always
in pairs.
I think of them as oblates.
Christ's blood is in their veins
or they thirst for it.
They have looked into the eyes
of God,
unprotected by smoked glass.
Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Create an image from this poem

Rain After a Vaudeville Show

 The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white 
Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light 
Stabbing the eyes; and as I stumbled out 
The curtain rose. A fat girl with a pout 
And legs like hams, began to sing "His Mother". 
Gusts of bad air rose in a choking smother; 
Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush, 
Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush. 
I stepped into the lobby -- and stood still 
Struck dumb by sudden beauty, body and will. 
Cleanness and rapture -- excellence made plain -- 
The storming, thrashing arrows of the rain! 
Pouring and dripping on the roofs and rods, 
Smelling of woods and hills and fresh-turned sods, 
Black on the sidewalks, gray in the far sky, 
Crashing on thirsty panes, on gutters dry, 
Hurrying the crowd to shelter, making fair 
The streets, the houses, and the heat-soaked air, -- 
Merciful, holy, charging, sweeping, flashing, 
It smote the soul with a most iron clashing! . . . 
Like dragons' eyes the street-lamps suddenly gleamed, 
Yellow and round and dim-low globes of flame. 
And, scarce-perceived, the clouds' tall banners streamed. 
Out of the petty wars, the daily shame, 
Beauty strove suddenly, and rose, and flowered. . . . 
I gripped my coat and plunged where awnings lowered. 
Made one with hissing blackness, caught, embraced, 
By splendor and by striving and swift haste -- 
Spring coming in with thunderings and strife -- 
I stamped the ground in the strong joy of life!
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Wedding Song

 THE tale of the Count our glad song shall record

Who had in this castle his dwelling,
Where now ye are feasting the new-married lord,

His grandson of whom we are telling.
The Count as Crusader had blazon'd his fame,
Through many a triumph exalted his name,
And when on his steed to his dwelling he came,

His castle still rear'd its proud head,
But servants and wealth had all fled.

'Tis true that thou, Count, hast return'd to thy home,

But matters are faring there ill.
The winds through the chambers at liberty roam,

And blow through the windows at will
What's best to be done in a cold autumn night?
Full many I've pass'd in more piteous plight;
The morn ever settles the matter aright.

Then quick, while the moon shines so clear,

To bed on the straw, without fear,

And whilst in a soft pleasing slumber he lay,

A motion he feels 'neath his bed.
The rat, an he likes it, may rattle away!

Ay, had he but crumbs there outspread!
But lo! there appears a diminutive wight,
A dwarf 'tis, yet graceful, and bearing a light,
With orator-gestures that notice invite,

At the feet of the Count on the floor

Who sleeps not, though weary full sore.

"We've long been accustom'd to hold here our feast,

Since thou from thy castle first went;
And as we believed thou wert far in the East,

To revel e'en now we were bent.
And if thou'lt allow it, and seek not to chide,
We dwarfs will all banquet with pleasure and pride,
To honour the wealthy, the beautiful bride

Says the Count with a smile, half-asleep;--

"Ye're welcome your quarters to keep!"

Three knights then advance, riding all in a group,

Who under the bed were conceal'd;
And then is a singing and noise-making troop

Of strange little figures reveal'd;
And waggon on waggon with all kinds of things--
The clatter they cause through the ear loudly rings--
The like ne'er was seen save in castles of kings;

At length, in a chariot of gold,

The bride and the guests too, behold!

Then all at full gallop make haste to advance,

Each chooses his place in the hall;
With whirling and waltzing, and light joyous dance,

They begin with their sweethearts the ball.
The fife and the fiddle all merrily sound,
Thy twine, and they glide, and with nimbleness bound,
Thy whisper, and chatter, and, chatter around;

The Count on the scene casts his eye,

And seems in a fever to lie.

They hustle, and bustle, and rattle away

On table, on bench, and on stool;
Then all who had joined in the festival gay

With their partners attempt to grow cool.
The hams and the sausages nimbly they bear,
And meat, fish, and poultry in plenty are there,
Surrounded with wine of the vintage most rare:

And when they have revell'd full long,

They vanish at last with a song.


* * * * * *

And if we're to sing all that further occurr'd,

Pray cease ye to bluster and prate;
For what he so gladly in small saw and heard

He enjoy'd and he practis'd in great.
For trumpets, and singing, and shouts without end
On the bridal-train, chariots and horsemen attend,
They come and appear, and they bow and they bend,

In merry and countless array.

Thus was it, thus is it to-day.

1802.


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Old Trouper

 I was Mojeska's leading man
And famous parts I used to play,
But now I do the best I can
To earn my bread from day to day;
Here in this Burg of Breaking Hears,
Where one wins as a thousand fail,
I play a score of scurvy parts
Till Time writes Finis to my tale.

My wife is dead, my daughter wed,
With heaps of trouble of their own;
And though I hold aloft my head
I'm humble, scared and all alone . . .
To-night I burn each photograph,
Each record of my former fame,
And oh, how bitterly I laugh
And feed them to the hungry flame!

Behold how handsome I was then -
What glowing eye, what noble mien;
I towered above my fellow men,
And proudly strode the painted scene.
Ah, Vanity! What fools are we,
With empty ends and foolish aims . . .
There now, I fling with savage glee
My David Garrick to the flames.

"Is this a dagger that I see":
Oh, how I used to love that speech;
We were old-fashioned - "hams" maybe,
Yet we Young Arrogance could teach.
"Out, out brief candle!" There are gone
My Lear, my Hamlet and MacBeth;
And now by ashes cold and wan
I wait my cue, my prompter Death.

This life of ours is just a play;
Its end is fashioned from the start;
Fate writes each word we have to say,
And puppet-like we strut our part.
Once I wore laurels on my brow,
But now I wait, a sorry clown,
To make my furtive, farewell bow . . .
Haste Time! Oh, ring the Curtain down.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

The Real Question

Folks is talkin' 'bout de money, 'bout de silvah an' de gold;
All de time de season 's changin' an' de days is gittin' cold.
An' dey 's wond'rin' 'bout de metals, whethah we'll have one er two.
While de price o' coal is risin' an' dey 's two months' rent dat 's due.
Some folks says dat gold 's de only money dat is wuff de name,
Den de othahs rise an' tell 'em dat dey ought to be ashame,[Pg 136]
An' dat silvah is de only thing to save us f'om de powah
Of de gold-bug ragin' 'roun' an' seekin' who he may devowah.
Well, you folks kin keep on shoutin' wif yo' gold er silvah cry,
But I tell you people hams is sceerce an' fowls is roostin' high.
An' hit ain't de so't o' money dat is pesterin' my min',
But de question I want answehed 's how to get at any kin'!
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

God has promised us wine in Paradise. In that case

God has promised us wine in Paradise. In that case
why should He prohibit it in this world? One day an
Arab in a state of drunkenness cut the hams of Hamzah's
camel with his sword. It is only for him that our
Prophet makes wine illicit.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry