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Best Famous Inadvertently Poems

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

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Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Late Summer

 (ALCAICS)


Confused, he found her lavishing feminine 
Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; 
And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors 
Be as they were, without end, her playthings? 

And why were dead years hungrily telling her 
Lies of the dead, who told them again to her? 
If now she knew, there might be kindness 
Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled. 

A little faith in him, and the ruinous 
Past would be for time to annihilate,
And wash out, like a tide that washes 
Out of the sand what a child has drawn there. 

God, what a shining handful of happiness, 
Made out of days and out of eternities, 
Were now the pulsing end of patience—
Could he but have what a ghost had stolen! 

What was a man before him, or ten of them, 
While he was here alive who could answer them, 
And in their teeth fling confirmations 
Harder than agates against an egg-shell?

But now the man was dead, and would come again 
Never, though she might honor ineffably 
The flimsy wraith of him she conjured 
Out of a dream with his wand of absence. 

And if the truth were now but a mummery,
Meriting pride’s implacable irony, 
So much the worse for pride. Moreover, 
Save her or fail, there was conscience always. 

Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence, 
Imploring to be sheltered and credited,
Were not amiss when she revealed them. 
Whether she struggled or not, he saw them. 

Also, he saw that while she was hearing him 
Her eyes had more and more of the past in them; 
And while he told what cautious honor
Told him was all he had best be sure of, 

He wondered once or twice, inadvertently, 
Where shifting winds were driving his argosies, 
Long anchored and as long unladen, 
Over the foam for the golden chances.

“If men were not for killing so carelessly, 
And women were for wiser endurances,” 
He said, “we might have yet a world here 
Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in; 

“If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness,
And we were less forbidden to look at it, 
We might not have to look.” He stared then 
Down at the sand where the tide threw forward 

Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly 
Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough,
Although he knew he might be silenced 
Out of all calm; and the night was coming. 

“I climb for you the peak of his infamy 
That you may choose your fall if you cling to it. 
No more for me unless you say more.
All you have left of a dream defends you: 

“The truth may be as evil an augury 
As it was needful now for the two of us. 
We cannot have the dead between us. 
Tell me to go, and I go.”—She pondered:

“What you believe is right for the two of us 
Makes it as right that you are not one of us. 
If this be needful truth you tell me, 
Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter.” 

She gazed away where shadows were covering
The whole cold ocean’s healing indifference. 
No ship was coming. When the darkness 
Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing.


Written by Federico García Lorca | Create an image from this poem

Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude

 The fat lady came out first,
tearing out roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summoning the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
the dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.

There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, vomit! There's no other way.
It's not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores,
nor the vomit of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.

The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks.
Vomit was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go,
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.

The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

For James Simmons

 Sitting in outpatients

With my own minor ills

Dawn’s depression lifts

To the lilt of amitryptilene,

A double dose for a day’s journey

To a distant ward.



The word was out that Simmons

Had died eighteen months after

An aneurism at sixty seven.



The meeting he proposed in his second letter

Could never happen: a few days later

A Christmas card in Gaelic - Nollaig Shona -

Then silence, an unbearable chasm

Of wondering if I’d inadvertently offended.



A year later a second card explained the silence:

I joined the queue of mourners:

It was August when I saw the Guardian obituary

Behind glass in the Poetry Library.



How astonishing the colour photo,

The mane of white hair,

The proud mien, the wry smile,

Perfect for a bust by Epstein

Or Gaudier Brjeska a century earlier.



I stood by the shelves

Leafing through your books

With their worn covers,

Remarking the paucity

Of recent borrowings

And the ommisions

From the anthologies.

“I’m a bit out of fashion

But still bringing out books

Armitage didn’t put me in at all

The egregarious Silkin

Tried to get off with my wife -

May he rest in peace.





I can’t remember what angered me

About Geoffrey Hill, quite funny

In a nervous, melancholic way,

A mask you wouldn’t get behind.



Harrison and I were close for years

But it sort of faded when he wrote

He wanted to hear no more

Of my personal life.

I went to his reading in Galway

Where he walked in his cosy regalia

Crossed the length of the bar

To embrace me, manic about the necessity

Of doing big shows in the Balkans.

I taught him all he knows, says aging poet!

And he’s forgotten the best bits,

He knows my work, how quickly

vanity will undo a man.



Tom Blackburn was Gregory Fellow

In my day, a bit mad

But a good and kind poet.”



I read your last book

The Company of Children,

You sent me to review -

Your best by so far

It seemed an angel

Had stolen your pen -

The solitary aging singer

Whispering his last song.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things