Best Famous If You Ask Me Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous If You Ask Me poems. This is a select list of the best famous If You Ask Me poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous If You Ask Me poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of if you ask me poems.

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• All Famous If You Ask Me Poems

Written by Rg Gregory | from Proverbs of Hell (a) radical ban all fires and places where people congregate to create comfort put an end to sleep good cooking and the delectation of wine tear lovers apart piss on the sun and moon degut all heavenly harmony strike out across the bitter ice and the poisonous marshes make (if you dare) a better world (b) expect poison from standing water (iii) lake erie why not as a joke one night pick up your bed and walk to washington – sleep your damned sleep in its streets so that one bright metallic morning it can wake up to the stench and fermentation of flesh the gutrot of nerves – the blood’s green effervescence so active your skin has a job to keep it all in isn’t that what things with the palsy are supposed to do – lovely lake give the world the miracle it waits for what a laugh that would be especially if washington lost its temper and screamed christ lake erie i don’t even know what to do with my own garbage pollution is just one of those things go on lake erie do it tonight (c) drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead (i) isn't the next one easter egg i don't want to live any more in an old way yes it is to be a socialist wearing capitalism's cap a teacher in the shadow of a dead headmaster a tree using somebody else's old sap i want to build my future out of new emotions to seek more than my own in a spring surround to move amongst people keen to move outwards putting love and ideas into fresh ground who will come with me across this border not anywhere but in the bonds we make taking the old apart to find new order living ourselves boldly for each other's sake then love is if you ask me today what love is i should have to name the people i love and perhaps because it's spring and i cannot control the knife that's in me their names would surprise me as much as you for years i have assumed that love is bloody a thing locked up in house and a family tree but suddenly its ache goes out beyond me and the first love is greater for the new this year more than any other the winter has savaged my deepest roots and the easter sun is banging hard against the window the arms of my loves are flowering widely and over the fields a new definition is running even though the streets we walk cannot be altered and faces there are that will not understand we have a sun born of our mutual longings whose shine is a hard fact - love is a new land new spartans i haven't felt this young for twenty years yesterday i felt twenty years older then i had the curtains drawn over recluse fears today the sun comes in and instantly it's colder must shave and get dressed - i'm being nagged to shove my suspicions in a corner and get out what use the sun if being plagued with new life i can't throw off this centrally-heated doubt accept people with ice in their brows are the new spartans - they wait shall i go with them indoor delights that slowly breed into lies need to be dumped out of doors - and paralysis with them no leave it there's still one more the need now the need now is to chronicle new times by their own statutes not as ***-ends of the old ideas stand out bravely against the surrounding grey seeking their own order in what themselves proclaim fortresses no longer belong by right to an older day i want to gather in my hands things i believe in not to be told that other rules prevail - there is a treading forward to be done of great excitement and people to be found who by the old laws should be little more than dead this enlightment is cutting like spring into a bitter winter and there is this smashing of many concrete shells a dream with the cheek to be aggressive has assumed its own flesh and bone and will not put up with sleep as its prime condition - life out of death is exhumed it's the other side is so disappointing no thanks leave it for now (ii) there follows a brief interlude in honour of mr vasko popa (the yugoslav poet who in a short visit to this country has stayed a long time) and it will not now take place this game is called x no one else can play when the game is over we have all joined in those who have not been playing have to give in an ear if you don't have an ear use one of those lying about left over from the last time the game wasn't played this game is not to do with ears shooting must be done from the heart x sits in the middle of the ring - he has gone for a stroll up his left nostril how can he seize a left-over ear and drag it under the ground hands up if you have been shot from the heart x comes up in the middle of himself in this way the game is over before it began and everyone willy-nilly has had to go home before he could put a foot outside (d) enough! – or too much reading popa i let fly too many words i bang away at the seed but can’t break it hurt i turn to constructing castles with cards if you can’t split the atom man stop writing

Written by D. H. Lawrence | Worm Either Way If you live along with all the other people and are just like them, and conform, and are nice you're just a worm -- and if you live with all the other people and you don't like them and won't be like them and won't conform then you're just the worm that has turned, in either case, a worm. The conforming worm stays just inside the skin respectably unseen, and cheerfully gnaws away at the heart of life, making it all rotten inside. The unconforming worm -- that is, the worm that has turned -- gnaws just the same, gnawing the substance out of life, but he insists on gnawing a little hole in the social epidermis and poking his head out and waving himself and saying: Look at me, I am not respectable, I do all the things the bourgeois daren't do, I booze and fornicate and use foul language and despise your honest man. -- But why should the worm that has turned protest so much? The bonnie bonnie bourgeois goes a-whoring up back streets just the same. The busy busy bourgeois imbibes his little share just the same if not more. The pretty pretty bourgeois pinks his language just as pink if not pinker, and in private boasts his exploits even louder, if you ask me, than the other. While as to honesty, Oh look where the money lies! So I can't see where the worm that has turned puts anything over the worm that is too cunning to turn. On the contrary, he merely gives himself away. The turned worm shouts. I bravely booze! the other says. Have one with me! The turned worm boasts: I copulate! the unturned says: You look it. You're a d----- b----- b----- p----- bb-----, says the worm that's turned. Quite! says the other. Cuckoo!

Written by Lewis Carroll | My Fancy I painted her a gushing thing, With years about a score; I little thought to find they were A least a dozen more; My fancy gave her eyes of blue, A curly auburn head: I came to find the blue a green, The auburn turned to red. She boxed my ears this morning, They tingled very much; I own that I could wish her A somewhat lighter touch; And if you ask me how Her charms might be improved, I would not have them added to, But just a few removed! She has the bear's ethereal grace, The bland hyaena's laugh, The footstep of the elephant, The neck of a giraffe; I love her still, believe me, Though my heart its passion hides; "She's all my fancy painted her," But oh! how much besides!

Written by Carl Sandburg | Fire Pages I WILL read ashes for you, if you ask me. I will look in the fire and tell you from the gray lashes And out of the red and black tongues and stripes, I will tell how fire comes And how fire runs far as the sea.