Best Famous Hot Hand Poems

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

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Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Spontaneous Me

 SPONTANEOUS me, Nature, 
The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with, 
The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder, 
The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash, 
The same, late in autumn—the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and light and dark
 green,
The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—the private untrimm’d
 bank—the primitive apples—the pebble-stones, 
Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of one after another, as I happen to
 call them to me, or think of them, 
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,) 
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me, 
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all men carry,
(Know, once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are our lusty,
 lurking, masculine poems;) 
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers, and the climbing sap, 
Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb of love—breasts of
 love—bellies press’d and glued together with love, 
Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love, 
The body of my love—the body of the woman I love—the body of the man—the
 body of the earth,
Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west, 
The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down—that gripes the full-grown
 lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds
 himself tremulous and tight till he is satisfied, 
The wet of woods through the early hours, 
Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an arm slanting down
 across and below the waist of the other, 
The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-bark,
The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming, 
The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and content to the ground, 
The no-form’d stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with, 
The hubb’d sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any one, 
The sensitive, orbic, underlapp’d brothers, that only privileged feelers may be
 intimate where they are,
The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the body—the bashful withdrawing of
 flesh where the fingers soothingly pause and edge themselves, 
The limpid liquid within the young man, 
The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful, 
The torment—the irritable tide that will not be at rest, 
The like of the same I feel—the like of the same in others,
The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that flushes and flushes, 
The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot hand seeking to repress what would master
 him; 
The mystic amorous night—the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats, 
The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers—the young man all
 color’d, red, ashamed, angry; 
The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,
The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the grass in the sun, the mother never
 turning her vigilant eyes from them, 
The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen’d long-round walnuts; 
The continence of vegetables, birds, animals, 
The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent, while birds and
 animals never once skulk or find themselves indecent; 
The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of maternity,
The oath of procreation I have sworn—my Adamic and fresh daughters, 
The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce
 boys to fill my place when I am through, 
The wholesome relief, repose, content; 
And this bunch, pluck’d at random from myself; 
It has done its work—I tossed it carelessly to fall where it may.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

The Poet in the Nursery

 The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling 
In a dim library, just behind the chair 
From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling 
A song about some Lovers at a Fair, 
Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling
That rhymes were beastly things and never there.
And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking About the tragic poem I’d been writing,.
.
.
An old man’s life of beer and whisky drinking, His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting; And how at last, into a fever sinking, Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.
But suddenly I saw the bright green cover Of a thin pretty book right down below; I snatched it up and turned the pages over, To find it full of poetry, and so Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover, And turned to watch if the old man saw it go.
The book was full of funny muddling mazes, Each rounded off into a lovely song, And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver’s thong.
And metre twisting like a chain of daisies With great big splendid words a sentence long.
I took the book to bed with me and gloated, Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand; So soon the pretty emerald green was coated With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand, While round the nursery for long months there floated Wonderful words no one could understand.