Best Famous Hot Water Poems

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

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Written by Sandra Cisneros | Create an image from this poem

One Last Poem For Richard

December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t throw you out — and anyway we waved.
No shoes.
No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went our separate ways.
You left behind that flannel shirt of yours I liked but remembered to take your toothbrush.
Where are you tonight? Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree wondering where did we go wrong.
Okay, we didn’t work, and all memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good.
I loved your crooked sleep beside me and never dreamed afraid.
There should be stars for great wars like ours.
There ought to be awards and plenty of champagne for the survivors.
After all the years of degradations, the several holidays of failure, there should be something to commemorate the pain.
Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water, and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once, remember? Maybe in this season, drunk and sentimental, I’m willing to admit a part of me, crazed and kamikaze, ripe for anarchy, loves still.
Written by Jorge Luis Borges | Create an image from this poem

Instants

 If I could live again my life,
In the next - I'll try,
- to make more mistakes,
I won't try to be so perfect,
I'll be more relaxed,
I'll be more full - than I am now,
In fact, I'll take fewer things seriously,
I'll be less hygenic,
I'll take more risks,
I'll take more trips,
I'll watch more sunsets,
I'll climb more mountains,
I'll swim more rivers,
I'll go to more places - I've never been,
I'll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,
I'll have more real problems - and less imaginary
 ones,
I was one of those people who live
 prudent and prolific lives -
 each minute of his life,
Offcourse that I had moments of joy - but,
 if I could go back I'll try to have only good moments,

If you don't know - thats what life is made of,
Don't lose the now!

I was one of those who never goes anywhere
 without a thermometer,
without a hot-water bottle,
 and without an umberella and without a parachute,

If I could live again - I will travel light,
If I could live again - I'll try to work bare feet
 at the beginning of spring till
 the end of autumn,
I'll ride more carts,
I'll watch more sunrises and play with more children,
If I have the life to live - but now I am 85,
 - and I know that I am dying .
.
.
Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

A GAME OF CHESS

  The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
  Glowed on the marble, where the glass
  Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
  From which a golden Cupidon peeped out                                  80
  (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
  Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
  Reflecting light upon the table as
  The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
  From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
  In vials of ivory and coloured glass
  Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
  Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused
  And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
  That freshened from the window, these ascended                          90
  In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
  Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
  Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100 Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, "Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
110 "My nerves are bad to-night.
Yes, bad.
Stay with me.
"Speak to me.
Why do you never speak.
Speak.
"What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? "I never know what you are thinking.
Think.
" I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
"What is that noise?" The wind under the door.
"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?" Nothing again nothing.
120 "Do "You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember "Nothing?" I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes.
"Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?" But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It's so elegant So intelligent 130 "What shall I do now? What shall I do?" I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street "With my hair down, so.
What shall we do to-morrow? "What shall we ever do?" The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said— I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140 HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth.
He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said.
Something o' that, I said.
150 Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.
) I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face, It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.
) 160 The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don't want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill.
Goonight Lou.
Goonight May.
Goonight.
170 Ta ta.
Goonight.
Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Written by Erica Jong | Create an image from this poem

Climbing You

 I want to understand the steep thing
that climbs ladders in your throat.
I can't make sense of you.
Everywhere I look you're there-- a vast landmark, a volcano poking its head through the clouds, Gulliver sprawled across Lilliput.
I climb into your eyes, looking.
The pupils are black painted stage flats.
They can be pulled down like window shades.
I switch on a light in your iris.
Your brain ticks like a bomb.
In your offhand, mocking way you've invited me into your chest.
Inside: the blur that poses as your heart.
I'm supposed to go in with a torch or maybe hot water bottles & defrost it by hand as one defrosts an old refrigerator.
It will shudder & sigh (the icebox to the insomniac).
Oh there's nothing like love between us.
You're the mountain, I am climbing you.
If I fall, you won't be all to blame, but you'll wait years maybe for the next doomed expedition.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

LETTER FROM LEEDS

 Would ‘any woman’ find me difficult to live with?

My tastes are simple: space for several thousand books,

The smoke from my pipe stuffed with aromatic Balkan Sobranie, 

A leftover from the Sixties, frequent brief absences to fulfil

My duties as a carer, unending phone calls

And the unenviable reputation as England’s worst or best complainer,

"Treading on toes or keeping people on their toes"

Also a warm and welcoming vagina, an insatiable need

For fellatio and cunnilingus, a bed with clean sheets

I can retire to by five with a hot water bottle 

To calm my churning viscera while I read 

Endless analytic texts, tomes of French poems to translate,

A notorious weekly newsletter to edit, a quarterly to write reviews for

And – I must confess – cable TV so I can access Starsky and Hutch.
I need a cottage in Haworth to go with the wife, Companion or whatever, to see with me the changing Seasons of heather from purple September glory To the browns of winter and wisps of summer green And meet with Michael Haslam, fellow poet, Maestro of the moors and shape-shifter supreme.
I write these verses sitting in the marble hall Of City Station’s restored art deco glory, The rats and debris of decades swept away, How much I need the kindness of strangers, The welcome from my son’s nurses on the Ward with the highest security rating Leeds possesses, A magnificent rotunda among lawns and wooded glades, Air conditioned with more staff than patients- When visiting times are readily extended to encompass My moorland walks and journeys to the capital When I visit Brenda Williams, England’s leading protest poet.
In an Eden garden which spreads its lawned sleeves To envelop my tobacco smoke which irritates everyone Or is it a displacement onto the smoker As I ecstasise the red and yellow splendour of the red hot poker Defiantly erect among the flowering robes of magnolia? Here we reminisce of long ago days when our children Blossomed with talent and showed no signs Of the unending torment of their adult years, Depot injections, Red clouds which whirl as in end-on sections, absconding, Liasing, losing and finding…
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

New Mexico

 I was fairly drunk when it
began and I took out my bottle and used it
along the way.
I was reading a week or two after Kandel and I did not look quite as pretty but I brought it off and we ended up at the Webbs, 6, 8, 10 of us, and I drank scotch, wine, beer, tequila and noticed a nice one sitting next to me - one tooth missing when she smiled, lovely, and I put my arm around her and began loading her with bullshit.
when I awakened at 10 a.
m.
the next morning I was in a strange house in bed with this woman.
she was asleep but looked familiar.
I got up and here was one kid running around in a crib and another one running around the floor in pajamas.
I picked up a letter addressed to one "Betsy R.
", so I went back and said, "hey, Betsy, there are kids running around all over this place.
" "oh Hank, damn it, I'm sick.
I want to sleep, not rap.
" "but look, the .
.
.
" "make yourself some coffee.
" I put the pot on and the little boy ran up in his pajamas.
I found a shirt and some pants and some shoes and dressed him.
then I cleaned a bottle with hot water, filled it with milk and gave it to the kid in the crib.
he went for it.
then I went in and squeezed her hand.
"I've got to go.
are you all right ?" "yes, a little sick.
but please don't feel bad.
" I called a yellow cab and we went back across town.
is this what happened to D.
Thomas ? I thought.
if a man didn't think too much he could be proud of his little conquests - except that the women were better than we - asking nothing as we squirted our poetry our bullshit our sperm to them.
we were sick poets sick people.
across town I knocked on the door of my host and hostess.
"what happened ?" they asked.
"nothing.
got lost.
" they sat a beer in front of me and I drank it as if I were wordly: a piece-of-ass any-night anywhere type.
"somebody got a cigarette ?" I asked.
"sure, sure.
" I lit up and asked, "heard from Creely lately ?" not giving a damn whether they had or not.
Written by Tony Harrison | Create an image from this poem

Long Distance II

 Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass.
You couldn't just drop in.
You had to phone.
He'd put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he'd hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven't both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there's your name and the disconnected number I still call.
Written by J R R Tolkien | Create an image from this poem

Bath-Song

 Sing hey! For the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away
A loon is he that will not sing
O! Water Hot is a noble thing!

O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better then rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams.
O! Water cold we may pour at need down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed but better is beer if drink we lack, and Water Hot poured down the back.
O! Water is fair that leaps on high in a fountain white beneath the sky; but never did fountain sound so sweet as splashing Hot Water with my feet!
Written by Ezra Pound | Create an image from this poem

The Bath-Tub

 As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, 
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid, 
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion, 
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

The Great Lover

 I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and silent content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, My night shall be remembered for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see The inenarrable godhead of delight? Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.
A city:—and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, And the high cause of Love's magnificence, And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, And set them as a banner, that men may know, To dare the generations, burn, and blow Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming.
.
.
These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes; and other such— The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns.
.
.
Dear names, And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames; Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; Holes in the groud; and voices that do sing; Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould; Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew; And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;— And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;— All these have been my loves.
And these shall pass, Whatever passes not, in the great hour, Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust And sacramented covenant to the dust.
- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, And give what's left of love again, and make New friends, now strangers.
.
.
But the best I've known Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies.
Nothing remains.
O dear my loves, O faithless, once again This one last gift I give: that after men Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say "He loved".
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