Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Helium Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Margaret Atwood | Create an image from this poem

Flying Inside Your Own Body

 Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
wings of pink blood, and your bones
empty themselves and become hollow.
When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon
and your heart is light too & huge,
beating with pure joy, pure helium.
The sun’s white winds blow through you,
there’s nothing above you,
you see the earth now as an oval jewel,
radiant & seablue with love.
It’s only in dreams you can do this.
Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,
a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;
the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight
down on the think pink rind of your skull.
It’s always the moment just before gunshot.
You try & try to rise but you cannot.


Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Love Lies Sleeping

 Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
 coupling the ends of streets 
 to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
 put out the neon shapes 
 that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
 Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
 From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
 detail upon detail,
 cornice upon facade,

reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
 (Where it has slowly grown
 in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
 trembles and stands again,
 pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
 "Boom!" and the exploding ball
 of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in a plants 
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
 turn in their sleep and feel
 the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
 Along the street below
 the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
 light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
 of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
 scattered or grouped cascades, 
 alarms for the expected:

***** cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
 you will dine well
 on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
 Scourge them with roses only,
 be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
 whose face is turned
 so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
 distorted and revealed,
 if he sees it at all.
Written by Ai | Create an image from this poem

Conversation

 We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?

Book: Reflection on the Important Things