10 Best Famous Hauling Poems

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

• All Famous Hauling Poems

As I drive my parents home through the snow 
their frailty hesitates on the edge of a mountainside.
I call over the cliff 
only snow answers.
They talk quietly
of hauling water of eating an orange 
of a grandchild's photograph left behind last night.
When they open the door of their house they disappear.
And the oak when it falls in the forest who hears it through miles and miles of silence?
They sit so close to each other¡­as if pressed together by the snow.

 You mustn't show weakness
and you've got to have a tan.
But sometimes I feel like the thin veils
of Jewish women who faint
at weddings and on Yom Kippur.

You mustn't show weakness
and you've got to make a list
of all the things you can load
in a baby carriage without a baby.

This is the way things stand now:
if I pull out the stopper
after pampering myself in the bath,
I'm afraid that all of Jerusalem, and with it the whole world,
will drain out into the huge darkness.

In the daytime I lay traps for my memories
and at night I work in the Balaam Mills,
turning curse into blessing and blessing into curse.

And don't ever show weakness.
Sometimes I come crashing down inside myself
without anyone noticing. I'm like an ambulance
on two legs, hauling the patient
inside me to Last Aid
with the wailing of cry of a siren,
and people think it's ordinary speech.

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'long-shore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate Jackson, cried.
..."It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

 Grandma, come back, I forgot
How much lard for these rolls 

Think you can put yourself in the ground
Like plain potatoes and grow in Ohio?
I am damn sick of getting fat like you 

Think you can lie through your Slovak?
Tell filthy stories about the blood sausage?
Pish-pish nights at the virgin in Detroit? 

I blame your raising me up for my Slav tongue
You beat me up out back, taught me to dance 

I'll tell you I don't remember any kind of bread
Your wavy loaves of flesh
Stink through my sleep
The stars on your silk robes 

But I'm glad I'll look when I'm old
Like a gypsy dusha hauling milk

 Talking of poetry, hauling the books
arm-full to the table where the heads
bend or gaze upward, listening, reading aloud,
talking of consonants, elision,
caught in the how, oblivious of why:
I look in your face, Jude,
neither frowning nor nodding,
opaque in the slant of dust-motes over the table:
a presence like a stone, if a stone were thinking
What I cannot say, is me. For that I came.

 Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; 
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn. 
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, 
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own; 
There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, 
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I recollect them still. 
I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn 
Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, 
When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. 
The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,
Cast off, cast off - she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps; 
Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew. 
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew. 
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn'
Adieu to Belashanny; and the winding banks of Erne! 

The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,
When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side,
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,
From rocky inis saimer to Coolnargit sand-hills gray;
While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern
Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull on oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-Mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep,
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen Strand,
Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and Curlew stand;
Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you Discern!
Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks ofErne!

Farewell, Coolmore - Bundoran! And your summercrowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy th'Atlantic-setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves; 
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves; 
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, The fish; 
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish; 
The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn 
And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne! 

Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek
And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek; 
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, 
The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below; 
The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green; 
And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between; 
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern 
For I must say adieu-adieu to the winding banks of Erne! 

The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live- long summer day; 
The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay; 
The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, 
Or stray with sweethearts down the path among growing corn; 
Along the river-side they go, where I have often been, 
O never shall I see again the days that I have seen! 
A thousand chances are to one I never may return 
Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, 
And the fiddle says to boys and girls, "Get up shake your feet!"
To 'shanachus' and wise old talk of Erin's gone by - 
Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie 
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, 
And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. 
The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn 
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!

Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, 
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather - I wish no one any hurt; 
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall,and Portnasun, 
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.
I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me; 
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn 
To think of Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast 
My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd; 
Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, 
New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away 
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; 
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide. 
And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return 
To my native Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

 AMONG the bumble-bees in red-top hay, a freckled field of brown-eyed Susans dripping yellow leaves in July,
 I read your heart in a book.

And your mouth of blue pansy—I know somewhere I have seen it rain-shattered.

And I have seen a woman with her head flung between her naked knees, and her head held there listening to the sea, the great naked sea shouldering a load of salt.

And the blue pansy mouth sang to the sea:
 Mother of God, I’m so little a thing,
 Let me sing longer,
 Only a little longer.

And the sea shouldered its salt in long gray combers hauling new shapes on the beach sand.

 I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city, 
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name! 

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;

I see that the word of my city is that word up there, 
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful
 spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen
 miles
 long, solid-founded, 
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly
 uprising toward clear skies; 
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown, 
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the
 villas, 
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black
 sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of
 the
 ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets; 
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week; 
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced
 sailors; 
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft; 
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or
 down,
 with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you
 straight
 in the eyes; 
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and
 shows, 
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating; 
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the
 most
 courageous and friendly young men; 
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and
 masts! 
The city nested in bays! my city! 
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with
 them! 
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk,
 eat,
 drink, sleep, with them!

 furnished rooms, flats, a hayloft,
a tent, motels, under a table,
under an overturned rowboat, in a villa (briefly) but not,
as yet, a yurt. In these places
he has slept, eaten,
put his forehead to the window glass,
looking out. He's in a stilt-house now,
the water passing beneath him half the day;
the other half it's mud. The tides
do this: they come, they go,
while he sleeps, eats, puts his forehead
to the window glass.
He's moving soon: his trailer to a trailer park,
or to the priory to live among the penitents
but in his own cell,
with wheels, to take him, when it's time
to go, to: boathouse, houseboat
with a little motor, putt-putt,
to take him across the sea
or down the river
where at night, anchored by a sandbar
at the bend,
he will eat, sleep, and press his eyelids
to the window
of the pilothouse
until the anchor-hauling hour
when he'll embark again
toward his sanctuary, harborage, saltbox,
home.

 Take this quiet woman, she has been
standing before a polishing wheel
for over three hours, and she lacks
twenty minutes before she can take
a lunch break. Is she a woman?
Consider the arms as they press
the long brass tube against the buffer,
they are striated along the triceps,
the three heads of which clearly show.
Consider the fine dusting of dark down
above the upper lip, and the beads
of sweat that run from under the red
kerchief across the brow and are wiped
away with a blackening wrist band
in one odd motion a child might make
to say No! No! You must come closer
to find out, you must hang your tie
and jacket in one of the lockers
in favor of a black smock, you must
be prepared to spend shift after shift
hauling off the metal trays of stock,
bowing first, knees bent for a purchase, 
then lifting with a gasp, the first word 
of tenderness between the two of you,
then you must bring new trays of dull
unpolished tubes. You must feed her,
as they say in the language of the place.
Make no mistake, the place has a language,
and if by some luck the power were cut,
the wheel slowed to a stop so that you
suddenly saw it was not a solid object
but so many separate bristles forming
in motion a perfect circle, she would turn
to you and say, "Why?" Not the old why
of why must I spend five nights a week?
Just, "Why?" Even if by some magic 
you knew, you wouldn't dare speak
for fear of her laughter, which now
you have anyway as she places the five
tapering fingers of her filthy hand
on the arm of your white shirt to mark
you for your own, now and forever.