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Best Famous Horrify Poems

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

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Written by Philip Larkin | Create an image from this poem

Aubade

 I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring 
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator

 The end of the affair is always death. 
She's my workshop. Slippery eye, 
out of the tribe of myself my breath 
finds you gone. I horrify 
those who stand by. I am fed. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 
Finger to finger, now she's mine. 
She's not too far. She's my encounter. 
I beat her like a bell. I recline 
in the bower where you used to mount her. 
You borrowed me on the flowered spread. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 
Take for instance this night, my love, 
that every single couple puts together 
with a joint overturning, beneath, above, 
the abundant two on sponge and feather, 
kneeling and pushing, head to head. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 
I break out of my body this way, 
an annoying miracle. Could I 
put the dream market on display? 
I am spread out. I crucify. 
My little plum is what you said. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 
Then my black-eyed rival came. 
The lady of water, rising on the beach, 
a piano at her fingertips, shame 
on her lips and a flute's speech. 
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 
She took you the way a women takes 
a bargain dress off the rack 
and I broke the way a stone breaks. 
I give back your books and fishing tack. 
Today's paper says that you are wed. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed. 
The boys and girls are one tonight. 
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. 
They take off shoes. They turn off the light. 
The glimmering creatures are full of lies. 
They are eating each other. They are overfed. 
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Giant Snail

 The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all 
night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot,
that is--is wet and cold and covered with sharp gravel. It is
white, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, a 
certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there. 
Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze 
the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are 
already tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is 
only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the 
smallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be dis-
tracted by those rough spears of grass. Don't touch them. Draw 
back. Withdrawal is always best. 
 The rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (And
what if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such 
clouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides. 
When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods have 
come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarp-
ments, much less dream of climbing them. 
 That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my 
love. Our proportions horrify our neighbors. 
 Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like 
a pallid, decomposing leaf. What's that tapping on my shell? 
Nothing. Let's go on. 
 My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from 
front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowly 
melting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull's 
head was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns that 
can't attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They 
press the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell is 
beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well, 
although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finest 
enamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection. 
 My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely 
opalescent ribbon: I know this. 
 But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me. 
 If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack 
there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate through 
my shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I can 
rest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry