Best Famous Hyena Poems

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

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

See Also:

Poems are below...



Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Ballad Of The Long-Legged Bait

 The bows glided down, and the coast
Blackened with birds took a last look
At his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye;
The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck.
Then good-bye to the fishermanned Boat with its anchor free and fast As a bird hooking over the sea, High and dry by the top of the mast, Whispered the affectionate sand And the bulwarks of the dazzled quay.
For my sake sail, and never look back, Said the looking land.
Sails drank the wind, and white as milk He sped into the drinking dark; The sun shipwrecked west on a pearl And the moon swam out of its hulk.
Funnels and masts went by in a whirl.
Good-bye to the man on the sea-legged deck To the gold gut that sings on his reel To the bait that stalked out of the sack, For we saw him throw to the swift flood A girl alive with his hooks through her lips; All the fishes were rayed in blood, Said the dwindling ships.
Good-bye to chimneys and funnels, Old wives that spin in the smoke, He was blind to the eyes of candles In the praying windows of waves But heard his bait buck in the wake And tussle in a shoal of loves.
Now cast down your rod, for the whole Of the sea is hilly with whales, She longs among horses and angels, The rainbow-fish bend in her joys, Floated the lost cathedral Chimes of the rocked buoys.
Where the anchor rode like a gull Miles over the moonstruck boat A squall of birds bellowed and fell, A cloud blew the rain from its throat; He saw the storm smoke out to kill With fuming bows and ram of ice, Fire on starlight, rake Jesu's stream; And nothing shone on the water's face But the oil and bubble of the moon, Plunging and piercing in his course The lured fish under the foam Witnessed with a kiss.
Whales in the wake like capes and Alps Quaked the sick sea and snouted deep, Deep the great bushed bait with raining lips Slipped the fins of those humpbacked tons And fled their love in a weaving dip.
Oh, Jericho was falling in their lungs! She nipped and dived in the nick of love, Spun on a spout like a long-legged ball Till every beast blared down in a swerve Till every turtle crushed from his shell Till every bone in the rushing grave Rose and crowed and fell! Good luck to the hand on the rod, There is thunder under its thumbs; Gold gut is a lightning thread, His fiery reel sings off its flames, The whirled boat in the burn of his blood Is crying from nets to knives, Oh the shearwater birds and their boatsized brood Oh the bulls of Biscay and their calves Are making under the green, laid veil The long-legged beautiful bait their wives.
Break the black news and paint on a sail Huge weddings in the waves, Over the wakeward-flashing spray Over the gardens of the floor Clash out the mounting dolphin's day, My mast is a bell-spire, Strike and smoothe, for my decks are drums, Sing through the water-spoken prow The octopus walking into her limbs The polar eagle with his tread of snow.
From salt-lipped beak to the kick of the stern Sing how the seal has kissed her dead! The long, laid minute's bride drifts on Old in her cruel bed.
Over the graveyard in the water Mountains and galleries beneath Nightingale and hyena Rejoicing for that drifting death Sing and howl through sand and anemone Valley and sahara in a shell, Oh all the wanting flesh his enemy Thrown to the sea in the shell of a girl Is old as water and plain as an eel; Always good-bye to the long-legged bread Scattered in the paths of his heels For the salty birds fluttered and fed And the tall grains foamed in their bills; Always good-bye to the fires of the face, For the crab-backed dead on the sea-bed rose And scuttled over her eyes, The blind, clawed stare is cold as sleet.
The tempter under the eyelid Who shows to the selves asleep Mast-high moon-white women naked Walking in wishes and lovely for shame Is dumb and gone with his flame of brides.
Susannah's drowned in the bearded stream And no-one stirs at Sheba's side But the hungry kings of the tides; Sin who had a woman's shape Sleeps till Silence blows on a cloud And all the lifted waters walk and leap.
Lucifer that bird's dropping Out of the sides of the north Has melted away and is lost Is always lost in her vaulted breath, Venus lies star-struck in her wound And the sensual ruins make Seasons over the liquid world, White springs in the dark.
Always good-bye, cried the voices through the shell, Good-bye always, for the flesh is cast And the fisherman winds his reel With no more desire than a ghost.
Always good luck, praised the finned in the feather Bird after dark and the laughing fish As the sails drank up the hail of thunder And the long-tailed lightning lit his catch.
The boat swims into the six-year weather, A wind throws a shadow and it freezes fast.
See what the gold gut drags from under Mountains and galleries to the crest! See what clings to hair and skull As the boat skims on with drinking wings! The statues of great rain stand still, And the flakes fall like hills.
Sing and strike his heavy haul Toppling up the boatside in a snow of light! His decks are drenched with miracles.
Oh miracle of fishes! The long dead bite! Out of the urn a size of a man Out of the room the weight of his trouble Out of the house that holds a town In the continent of a fossil One by one in dust and shawl, Dry as echoes and insect-faced, His fathers cling to the hand of the girl And the dead hand leads the past, Leads them as children and as air On to the blindly tossing tops; The centuries throw back their hair And the old men sing from newborn lips: Time is bearing another son.
Kill Time! She turns in her pain! The oak is felled in the acorn And the hawk in the egg kills the wren.
He who blew the great fire in And died on a hiss of flames Or walked the earth in the evening Counting the denials of the grains Clings to her drifting hair, and climbs; And he who taught their lips to sing Weeps like the risen sun among The liquid choirs of his tribes.
The rod bends low, divining land, And through the sundered water crawls A garden holding to her hand With birds and animals With men and women and waterfalls Trees cool and dry in the whirlpool of ships And stunned and still on the green, laid veil Sand with legends in its virgin laps And prophets loud on the burned dunes; Insects and valleys hold her thighs hard, Times and places grip her breast bone, She is breaking with seasons and clouds; Round her trailed wrist fresh water weaves, with moving fish and rounded stones Up and down the greater waves A separate river breathes and runs; Strike and sing his catch of fields For the surge is sown with barley, The cattle graze on the covered foam, The hills have footed the waves away, With wild sea fillies and soaking bridles With salty colts and gales in their limbs All the horses of his haul of miracles Gallop through the arched, green farms, Trot and gallop with gulls upon them And thunderbolts in their manes.
O Rome and Sodom To-morrow and London The country tide is cobbled with towns And steeples pierce the cloud on her shoulder And the streets that the fisherman combed When his long-legged flesh was a wind on fire And his loin was a hunting flame Coil from the thoroughfares of her hair And terribly lead him home alive Lead her prodigal home to his terror, The furious ox-killing house of love.
Down, down, down, under the ground, Under the floating villages, Turns the moon-chained and water-wound Metropolis of fishes, There is nothing left of the sea but its sound, Under the earth the loud sea walks, In deathbeds of orchards the boat dies down And the bait is drowned among hayricks, Land, land, land, nothing remains Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech, And into its talkative seven tombs The anchor dives through the floors of a church.
Good-bye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon, To the fisherman lost on the land.
He stands alone in the door of his home, With his long-legged heart in his hand.
Written by Gregory Corso | Create an image from this poem

Gregory Corso

 Budger of history Brake of time You Bomb
 Toy of universe Grandest of all snatched sky I cannot hate you
 Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt the jawbone of an ass
 The bumpy club of One Million B.
C.
the mace the flail the axe Catapult Da Vinci tomahawk Cochise flintlock Kidd dagger Rathbone Ah and the sad desparate gun of Verlaine Pushkin Dillinger Bogart And hath not St.
Michael a burning sword St.
George a lance David a sling Bomb you are as cruel as man makes you and you're no crueller than cancer All Man hates you they'd rather die by car-crash lightning drowning Falling off a roof electric-chair heart-attack old age old age O Bomb They'd rather die by anything but you Death's finger is free-lance Not up to man whether you boom or not Death has long since distributed its categorical blue I sing thee Bomb Death's extravagance Death's jubilee Gem of Death's supremest blue The flyer will crash his death will differ with the climbor who'll fall to die by cobra is not to die by bad pork Some die by swamp some by sea and some by the bushy-haired man in the night O there are deaths like witches of Arc Scarey deaths like Boris Karloff No-feeling deaths like birth-death sadless deaths like old pain Bowery Abandoned deaths like Capital Punishment stately deaths like senators And unthinkable deaths like Harpo Marx girls on Vogue covers my own I do not know just how horrible Bombdeath is I can only imagine Yet no other death I know has so laughable a preview I scope a city New York City streaming starkeyed subway shelter Scores and scores A fumble of humanity High heels bend Hats whelming away Youth forgetting their combs Ladies not knowing what to do with their shopping bags Unperturbed gum machines Yet dangerous 3rd rail Ritz Brothers from the Bronx caught in the A train The smiling Schenley poster will always smile Impish death Satyr Bomb Bombdeath Turtles exploding over Istanbul The jaguar's flying foot soon to sink in arctic snow Penguins plunged against the Sphinx The top of the Empire state arrowed in a broccoli field in Sicily Eiffel shaped like a C in Magnolia Gardens St.
Sophia peeling over Sudan O athletic Death Sportive Bomb the temples of ancient times their grand ruin ceased Electrons Protons Neutrons gathering Hersperean hair walking the dolorous gulf of Arcady joining marble helmsmen entering the final ampitheater with a hymnody feeling of all Troys heralding cypressean torches racing plumes and banners and yet knowing Homer with a step of grace Lo the visiting team of Present the home team of Past Lyre and tube together joined Hark the hotdog soda olive grape gala galaxy robed and uniformed commissary O the happy stands Ethereal root and cheer and boo The billioned all-time attendance The Zeusian pandemonium Hermes racing Owens The Spitball of Buddha Christ striking out Luther stealing third Planeterium Death Hosannah Bomb Gush the final rose O Spring Bomb Come with thy gown of dynamite green unmenace Nature's inviolate eye Before you the wimpled Past behind you the hallooing Future O Bomb Bound in the grassy clarion air like the fox of the tally-ho thy field the universe thy hedge the geo Leap Bomb bound Bomb frolic zig and zag The stars a swarm of bees in thy binging bag Stick angels on your jubilee feet wheels of rainlight on your bunky seat You are due and behold you are due and the heavens are with you hosanna incalescent glorious liaison BOMB O havoc antiphony molten cleft BOOM Bomb mark infinity a sudden furnace spread thy multitudinous encompassed Sweep set forth awful agenda Carrion stars charnel planets carcass elements Corpse the universe tee-hee finger-in-the-mouth hop over its long long dead Nor From thy nimbled matted spastic eye exhaust deluges of celestial ghouls From thy appellational womb spew birth-gusts of of great worms Rip open your belly Bomb from your belly outflock vulturic salutations Battle forth your spangled hyena finger stumps along the brink of Paradise O Bomb O final Pied Piper both sun and firefly behind your shock waltz God abandoned mock-nude beneath His thin false-talc's apocalypse He cannot hear thy flute's happy-the-day profanations He is spilled deaf into the Silencer's warty ear His Kingdom an eternity of crude wax Clogged clarions untrumpet Him Sealed angels unsing Him A thunderless God A dead God O Bomb thy BOOM His tomb That I lean forward on a desk of science an astrologer dabbling in dragon prose half-smart about wars bombs especially bombs That I am unable to hate what is necessary to love That I can't exist in a world that consents a child in a park a man dying in an electric-chair That I am able to laugh at all things all that I know and do not know thus to conceal my pain That I say I am a poet and therefore love all man knowing my words to be the acquainted prophecy of all men and my unwords no less an acquaintanceship That I am manifold a man pursuing the big lies of gold or a poet roaming in bright ashes or that which I imagine myself to be a shark-toothed sleep a man-eater of dreams I need not then be all-smart about bombs Happily so for if I felt bombs were caterpillars I'd doubt not they'd become butterflies There is a hell for bombs They're there I see them there They sit in bits and sing songs mostly German songs And two very long American songs and they wish there were more songs especially Russian and Chinese songs and some more very long American songs Poor little Bomb that'll never be an Eskimo song I love thee I want to put a lollipop in thy furcal mouth A wig of Goldilocks on thy baldy bean and have you skip with me Hansel and Gretel along the Hollywoodian screen O Bomb in which all lovely things moral and physical anxiously participate O fairylike plucked from the grandest universe tree O piece of heaven which gives both mountain and anthill a sun I am standing before your fantastic lily door I bring you Midgardian roses Arcadian musk Reputed cosmetics from the girls of heaven Welcome me fear not thy opened door nor thy cold ghost's grey memory nor the pimps of indefinite weather their cruel terrestial thaw Oppenheimer is seated in the dark pocket of Light Fermi is dry in Death's Mozambique Einstein his mythmouth a barnacled wreath on the moon-squid's head Let me in Bomb rise from that pregnant-rat corner nor fear the raised-broom nations of the world O Bomb I love you I want to kiss your clank eat your boom You are a paean an acme of scream a lyric hat of Mister Thunder O resound thy tanky knees BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM ye skies and BOOM ye suns BOOM BOOM ye moons ye stars BOOM nights ye BOOM ye days ye BOOM BOOM BOOM ye winds ye clouds ye rains go BANG ye lakes ye oceans BING Barracuda BOOM and cougar BOOM Ubangi BOOM orangutang BING BANG BONG BOOM bee bear baboon ye BANG ye BONG ye BING the tail the fin the wing Yes Yes into our midst a bomb will fall Flowers will leap in joy their roots aching Fields will kneel proud beneath the halleluyahs of the wind Pinkbombs will blossom Elkbombs will perk their ears Ah many a bomb that day will awe the bird a gentle look Yet not enough to say a bomb will fall or even contend celestial fire goes out Know that the earth will madonna the Bomb that in the hearts of men to come more bombs will be born magisterial bombs wrapped in ermine all beautiful and they'll sit plunk on earth's grumpy empires fierce with moustaches of gold
Written by Ruth Padel | Create an image from this poem

NIGHT

 (published on BLINKING EYE, http://www.
blinking-eye.
co.
uk/writer/padel2.
html ) Then spoke the thunder, shattering the looming blackness of our national life.
The rumble that breaks a spell of the dry season – Saro-Wiwa, "The Storm Breaks" Does a zebra foal dream? Head lower, lower under lenticular dark cloud, he drags harlequin fetlocks, porcelain quails' egg hooflets through pimpling dust, slower, slower through the silver rainbow night, this soot and fester cellar-lighting, electricity of the blue and evil eye.
Night ringed with eyes, gutter-glow of new-soused theatre, hyena, leopard, caracal (that caramel cat with ear tufts, anxious to feed her cubs) watching the lame foal weakened by drought.
All you know is, that you don't know, and are afraid.
Moonshadow where the big rocks laugh apart.
Predator-senses.
Cilia.
Heat detectors crowd this long auditorium, segment after segment of the midnight shuffle-plains.
They radar in on bodies, fluids, molecules of flesh that do not know they glow, they draw.
Let's give him one dream-memory, a zebra wish fulfilled in dazing plod, some sheer green wall of sugarcane.
And look - he's made it through into the bleach and blaze, rose curdling over indigo and lard, this granult scar of dawn.
One more dawn nearer the water.
Sky blood-taggled, blood-tufted, rushes over him like a white bowl at the end of things, the little safe horizon of a pilot's dial, an inventory of therapeutic gems.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Light o the Moon

 [How different people and different animals look upon the moon: showing that each creature finds in it his own mood and disposition]


The Old Horse in the City

The moon's a peck of corn.
It lies Heaped up for me to eat.
I wish that I might climb the path And taste that supper sweet.
Men feed me straw and scanty grain And beat me till I'm sore.
Some day I'll break the halter-rope And smash the stable-door, Run down the street and mount the hill Just as the corn appears.
I've seen it rise at certain times For years and years and years.
What the Hyena Said The moon is but a golden skull, She mounts the heavens now, And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worms Are wreathed around her brow.
The Moon-Worms are a doughty race: They eat her gray and golden face.
Her eye-sockets dead, and molding head: These caverns are their dwelling-place.
The Moon-Worms, serpents of the skies, From the great hollows of her eyes Behold all souls, and they are wise: With tiny, keen and icy eyes, Behold how each man sins and dies.
When Earth in gold-corruption lies Long dead, the moon-worm butterflies On cyclone wings will reach this place — Yea, rear their brood on earth's dead face.
What the Snow Man Said The Moon's a snowball.
See the drifts Of white that cross the sphere.
The Moon's a snowball, melted down A dozen times a year.
Yet rolled again in hot July When all my days are done And cool to greet the weary eye After the scorching sun.
The moon's a piece of winter fair Renewed the year around, Behold it, deathless and unstained, Above the grimy ground! It rolls on high so brave and white Where the clear air-rivers flow, Proclaiming Christmas all the time And the glory of the snow! What the Scare-crow Said The dim-winged spirits of the night Do fear and serve me well.
They creep from out the hedges of The garden where I dwell.
I wave my arms across the walk.
The troops obey the sign, And bring me shimmering shadow-robes And cups of cowslip-wine.
Then dig a treasure called the moon, A very precious thing, And keep it in the air for me Because I am a King.
What Grandpa Mouse Said The moon's a holy owl-queen.
She keeps them in a jar Under her arm till evening, Then sallies forth to war.
She pours the owls upon us.
They hoot with horrid noise And eat the naughty mousie-girls And wicked mousie-boys.
So climb the moonvine every night And to the owl-queen pray: Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees For her to take away.
And never squeak, my children, Nor gnaw the smoke-house door: The owl-queen then will love us And send her birds no more.
The Beggar Speaks "What Mister Moon Said to Me.
" Come, eat the bread of idleness, Come, sit beside the spring: Some of the flowers will keep awake, Some of the birds will sing.
Come, eat the bread no man has sought For half a hundred years: Men hurry so they have no griefs, Nor even idle tears: They hurry so they have no loves: They cannot curse nor laugh — Their hearts die in their youth with neither Grave nor epitaph.
My bread would make them careless, And never quite on time — Their eyelids would be heavy, Their fancies full of rhyme: Each soul a mystic rose-tree, Or a curious incense tree: Come, eat the bread of idleness, Said Mister Moon to me.
What the Forester Said The moon is but a candle-glow That flickers thro' the gloom: The starry space, a castle hall: And Earth, the children's room, Where all night long the old trees stand To watch the streams asleep: Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds: Good shepherds guarding sheep.
Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Create an image from this poem

The Driver

 "What knight or what vassal will be so bold
As to plunge in the gulf below?
See! I hurl in its depths a goblet of gold,
Already the waters over it flow.
The man who can bring back the goblet to me, May keep it henceforward,--his own it shall be.
" Thus speaks the king, and he hurls from the height Of the cliffs that, rugged and steep, Hang over the boundless sea, with strong might, The goblet afar, in the bellowing deep.
"And who'll be so daring,--I ask it once more,-- As to plunge in these billows that wildly roar?" And the vassals and knights of high degree Hear his words, but silent remain.
They cast their eyes on the raging sea, And none will attempt the goblet to gain.
And a third time the question is asked by the king: "Is there none that will dare in the gulf now to spring?" Yet all as before in silence stand, When a page, with a modest pride, Steps out of the timorous squirely band, And his girdle and mantle soon throws aside, And all the knights, and the ladies too, The noble stripling with wonderment view.
And when he draws nigh to the rocky brow, And looks in the gulf so black, The waters that she had swallowed but now, The howling Charybdis is giving back; And, with the distant thunder's dull sound.
From her gloomy womb they all-foaming rebound.
And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes, As when water and fire first blend; To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths, And wave presses hard upon wave without end.
And the ocean will never exhausted be, As if striving to bring forth another sea.
But at length the wild tumult seems pacified, And blackly amid the white swell A gaping chasm its jaws opens wide, As if leading down to the depths of hell: And the howling billows are seen by each eye Down the whirling funnel all madly to fly.
Then quickly, before the breakers rebound, The stripling commends him to Heaven, And--a scream of horror is heard around,-- And now by the whirlpool away he is driven, And secretly over the swimmer brave Close the jaws, and he vanishes 'neath the dark wave.
O'er the watery gulf dread silence now lies, But the deep sends up a dull yell, And from mouth to mouth thus trembling it flies: "Courageous stripling, oh, fare thee well!" And duller and duller the howls recommence, While they pause in anxious and fearful suspense.
"If even thy crown in the gulf thou shouldst fling, And shouldst say, 'He who brings it to me Shall wear it henceforward, and be the king,' Thou couldst tempt me not e'en with that precious foe; What under the howling deep is concealed To no happy living soul is revealed!" Full many a ship, by the whirlpool held fast, Shoots straightway beneath the mad wave, And, dashed to pieces, the hull and the mast Emerge from the all-devouring grave,-- And the roaring approaches still nearer and nearer, Like the howl of the tempest, still clearer and clearer.
And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes, As when water and fire first blend; To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths, And wave passes hard upon wave without end.
And, with the distant thunder's dull sound, From the ocean-womb they all-bellowing bound.
And lo! from the darkly flowing tide Comes a vision white as a swan, And an arm and a glistening neck are descried, With might and with active zeal steering on; And 'tis he, and behold! his left hand on high Waves the goblet, while beaming with joy is his eye.
Then breathes he deeply, then breathes he long, And blesses the light of the day; While gladly exclaim to each other the throng: "He lives! he is here! he is not the sea's prey! From the tomb, from the eddying waters' control, The brave one has rescued his living soul!" And he comes, and they joyously round him stand; At the feet of the monarch he falls,-- The goblet he, kneeling, puts in his hand, And the king to his beauteous daughter calls, Who fills it with sparkling wine to the brim; The youth turns to the monarch, and speaks thus to him: "Long life to the king! Let all those be glad Who breathe in the light of the sky! For below all is fearful, of moment sad; Let not man to tempt the immortals e'er try, Let him never desire the thing to see That with terror and night they veil graciously.
" "I was torn below with the speed of light, When out of a cavern of rock Rushed towards me a spring with furious might; I was seized by the twofold torrent's wild shock, And like a top, with a whirl and a bound, Despite all resistance, was whirled around.
" "Then God pointed out,--for to Him I cried In that terrible moment of need,-- A craggy reef in the gulf's dark side; I seized it in haste, and from death was then freed.
And there, on sharp corals, was hanging the cup,-- The fathomless pit had else swallowed it up.
" "For under me lay it, still mountain-deep, In a darkness of purple-tinged dye, And though to the ear all might seem then asleep With shuddering awe 'twas seen by the eye How the salamanders' and dragons' dread forms Filled those terrible jaws of hell with their swarms.
" "There crowded, in union fearful and black, In a horrible mass entwined, The rock-fish, the ray with the thorny back, And the hammer-fish's misshapen kind, And the shark, the hyena dread of the sea, With his angry teeth, grinned fiercely on me.
" "There hung I, by fulness of terror possessed, Where all human aid was unknown, Amongst phantoms, the only sensitive breast, In that fearful solitude all alone, Where the voice of mankind could not reach to mine ear, 'Mid the monsters foul of that wilderness drear.
" "Thus shuddering methought--when a something crawled near, And a hundred limbs it out-flung, And at me it snapped;--in my mortal fear, I left hold of the coral to which I had clung; Then the whirlpool seized on me with maddened roar, Yet 'twas well, for it brought me to light once more.
" The story in wonderment hears the king, And he says, "The cup is thine own, And I purpose also to give thee this ring, Adorned with a costly, a priceless stone, If thou'lt try once again, and bring word to me What thou saw'st in the nethermost depths of the sea.
" His daughter hears this with emotions soft, And with flattering accent prays she: "That fearful sport, father, attempt not too oft! What none other would dare, he hath ventured for thee; If thy heart's wild longings thou canst not tame, Let the knights, if they can, put the squire to shame.
" The king then seizes the goblet in haste, In the gulf he hurls it with might: "When the goblet once more in my hands thou hast placed, Thou shalt rank at my court as the noblest knight, And her as a bride thou shalt clasp e'en to-day, Who for thee with tender compassion doth pray.
" Then a force, as from Heaven, descends on him there, And lightning gleams in his eye, And blushes he sees on her features so fair, And he sees her turn pale, and swooning lie; Then eager the precious guerdon to win, For life or for death, lo! he plunges him in! The breakers they hear, and the breakers return, Proclaimed by a thundering sound; They bend o'er the gulf with glances that yearn, And the waters are pouring in fast around; Though upwards and downwards they rush and they rave, The youth is brought back by no kindly wave.
Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

Apollo Musagete Poetry And The Leader Of The Muses

 Nothing is given which is not taken.
Little or nothing is taken which is not freely desired, freely, truly and fully.
"You would not seek me if you had not found me": this is true of all that is supremely desired and admired.
.
.
"An enigma is an animal," said the hurried, harried schoolboy: And a horse divided against itself cannot stand; And a moron is a man who believes in having too many wives: what harm is there in that? O the endless fecundity of poetry is equaled By its endless inexhaustible freshness, as in the discovery of America and of poetry.
Hence it is clear that the truth is not strait and narrow but infinite: All roads lead to Rome and to poetry and to poem, sweet poem and from, away and towards are the same typography.
Hence the poet must be, in a way, stupid and naive and a little child; Unless ye be as a little child ye cannot enter the kingdom of poetry.
Hence the poet must be able to become a tiger like Blake; a carousel like Rilke.
Hence he must be all things to be free, for all impersonations a doormat and a monument to all situations possible or actual The cuckold, the cuckoo, the conqueror, and the coxcomb.
It is to him in the zoo that the zoo cries out and the hyena: "Hello, take off your hat, king of the beasts, and be seated, Mr.
Bones.
" And hence the poet must seek to be essentially anonymous.
He must die a little death each morning.
He must swallow his toad and study his vomit as Baudelaire studied la charogne of Jeanne Duval.
The poet must be or become both Keats and Renoir and Keats as Renoir.
Mozart as Figaro and Edgar Allan Poe as Ophelia, stoned out of her mind drowning in the river called forever river and ever.
.
.
Keats as Mimi, Camille, and an aging gourmet.
He must also refuse the favors of the unattainable lady (As Baudelaire refused Madame Sabatier when the fair blonde summoned him, For Jeanne Duval was enough and more than enough, although she cuckolded him With errand boys, servants, waiters; reality was Jeanne Duval.
Had he permitted Madame Sabatier to teach the poet a greater whiteness, His devotion and conception of the divinity of Beauty would have suffered an absolute diminution.
) The poet must be both Casanova and St.
Anthony, He must be Adonis, Nero, Hippolytus, Heathcliff, and Phaedre, Genghis Kahn, Genghis Cohen, and Gordon Martini Dandy Ghandi and St.
Francis, Professor Tenure, and Dizzy the dean and Disraeli of Death.
He would have worn the horns of existence upon his head, He would have perceived them regarding the looking-glass, He would have needed them the way a moose needs a hatrack; Above his heavy head and in his loaded eyes, black and scorched, He would have seen the meaning of the hat-rack, above the glass Looking in the dark foyer.
For the poet must become nothing but poetry, He must be nothing but a poem when he is writing Until he is absent-minded as the dead are Forgetful as the nymphs of Lethe and a lobotomy.
.
.
("the fat weed that rots on Lethe wharf").
Written by Robert Southey | Create an image from this poem

To The Genius Of Africa

 O thou who from the mountain's height
Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight
Of waters to old Niles majestic tide;
Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain
Recallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride,
Amid whose desolated domes
Secure the savage chacal roams,
Where from the fragments of the hallow'd fane
The Arabs rear their miserable homes!

Hear Genius hear thy children's cry!
Not always should'st thou love to brood
Stern o'er the desert solitude
Where seas of sand toss their hot surges high;
Nor Genius should the midnight song
Detain thee in some milder mood
The palmy plains among
Where Gambia to the torches light
Flows radiant thro' the awaken'd night.
Ah, linger not to hear the song! Genius avenge thy children's wrong! The Daemon COMMERCE on your shore Pours all the horrors of his train, And hark! where from the field of gore Howls the hyena o'er the slain! Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies! Avenging Power awake--arise! Arise thy children's wrong redress! Ah heed the mother's wretchedness When in the hot infectious air O'er her sick babe she bows opprest-- Ah hear her when the Christians tear The drooping infant from her breast! Whelm'd in the waters he shall rest! Hear thou the wretched mother's cries, Avenging Power awake! arise! By the rank infected air That taints those dungeons of despair, By those who there imprison'd die Where the black herd promiscuous lie, By the scourges blacken'd o'er And stiff and hard with human gore, By every groan of deep distress By every curse of wretchedness, By all the train of Crimes that flow From the hopelessness of Woe, By every drop of blood bespilt, By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt, Awake! arise! avenge! And thou hast heard! and o'er their blood-fed plains Swept thine avenging hurricanes; And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar Dash their proud navies on the shore; And where their armies claim'd the fight Wither'd the warrior's might; And o'er the unholy host with baneful breath There Genius thou hast breath'd the gales of Death.
So perish still the robbers of mankind! What tho' from Justice bound and blind Inhuman Power has snatch'd the sword! What tho' thro' many an ignominious age That Fiend with desolating rage The tide of carnage pour'd! Justice shall yet unclose her eyes, Terrific yet in wrath arise, And trample on the tyrant's breast, And make Oppresion groan opprest.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

THE SLAVES DREAM

 Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!-- A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank.
Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away!
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

TO YE KINGS

 When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old 
 By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold 
 An idolatrous cause, 
 Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout 
 Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout 
 Of "the People's" applause. 
 
 On the eve of that day of their evenings the last! 
 At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast, 
 Rich, unstinted, unpriced, 
 That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled, 
 With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread 
 For the martyrs of Christ. 
 
 Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline 
 On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine 
 Fill'd his cup to the brim! 
 Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose, 
 Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose, 
 All united for him! 
 
 Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse, 
 In profusion procured was put forth to enhance 
 The repast that they gave; 
 And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, 
 Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night 
 The elect of the grave. 
 
 And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, 
 Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain 
 The bloodthirsty arena; 
 Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds 
 And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs 
 Shame the restless hyena. 
 
 They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve, 
 In their turn on the morrow were destined to give 
 To the lions their food; 
 For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board, 
 Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford, 
 Death administering stood. 
 
 Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power, 
 But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour— 
 'Tis your knell that it rings! 
 To the popular tiger a prey is decreed, 
 And the maw of Republican hunger will feed 
 On a banquet of Kings! 
 
 "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY)