10 Best Famous Hangers Poems

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

• All Famous Hangers Poems

 In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.

The spoon which was melted scrapes against 
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.

Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,

their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,

every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,

the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud 
rises up silently like dark bread. 

I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.

I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything

in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,

including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,

bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts

and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.

 Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,— 
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,— 
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways,— 
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew,— 
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,— 
When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,— 
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,— 
She had not died today.

 The long lines of diesels 
groan toward evening 
carrying off the breath 
of the living. 
The face of your house 
is black, 
it is your face, black 
and fire bombed 
in the first street wars, 
a black tooth planted in the earth 
of Michigan 
and bearing nothing, 
and the earth is black, 
sick on used oils. 

Did you look for me in that house 
behind the sofa 
where I had to be? 
in the basement where the shirts 
yellowed on hangers? 
in the bedroom 
where a woman lay her face 
on a locked chest? 
I waited 
at windows the rain streaked 
and no one told me. 

I found you later 
face torn 
from The History of Siege, 
eyes turned to a public wall 
and gone 
before I turned back, mouth 
in mine and gone. 
I found you whole 
toward the autumn of my 43rd year 
in this chair beside 
a masonjar of dried zinnias 
and I turned away. 

I find you 
in these tears, few, 
useless and here at last. 

Don't come back.

 Give away her gowns,
Give away her shoes;
She has no more use
For her fragrant gowns;
Take them all down,
Blue, green, blue,
Lilac, pink, blue,
From their padded hangers;
She will dance no more
In her narrow shoes;
Sweep her narrow shoes
From the closet floor.