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Best Famous Incoming Poems

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

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Written by John Betjeman | Create an image from this poem

A Bay In Anglesey

 The sleepy sound of a tea-time tide
Slaps at the rocks the sun has dried,

Too lazy, almost, to sink and lift
Round low peninsulas pink with thrift.

The water, enlarging shells and sand,
Grows greener emerald out from land

And brown over shadowy shelves below
The waving forests of seaweed show.

Here at my feet in the short cliff grass
Are shells, dried bladderwrack, broken glass,

Pale blue squills and yellow rock roses.
The next low ridge that we climb discloses

One more field for the sheep to graze
While, scarcely seen on this hottest of days,

Far to the eastward, over there,
Snowdon rises in pearl-grey air.

Multiple lark-song, whispering bents,
The thymy, turfy and salty scents

And filling in, brimming in, sparkling and free
The sweet susurration of incoming sea.


Written by Robert Penn Warren | Create an image from this poem

A Way to Love God

 Here is the shadow of truth, for only the shadow is true.
And the line where the incoming swell from the sunset Pacific
First leans and staggers to break will tell all you need to know
About submarine geography, and your father's death rattle
Provides all biographical data required for the Who's Who of the dead.

I cannot recall what I started to tell you, but at least
I can say how night-long I have lain under the stars and 
Heard mountains moan in their sleep.By daylight,
They remember nothing, and go about their lawful occasions
Of not going anywhere except in slow disintegration.At night
They remember, however, that there is something they cannot remember.
So moan.Theirs is the perfected pain of conscience that
Of forgetting the crime, and I hope you have not suffered it.I have.

I do not recall what had burdened my tongue, but urge you
To think on the slug's white belly, how sick-slick and soft,
On the hairiness of stars, silver, silver, while the silence
Blows like wind by, and on the sea's virgin bosom unveiled
To give suck to the wavering serpent of the moon; and, 
In the distance, in plaza, piazza, place, platz, and square,
Boot heels, like history being born, on cobbles bang.

Everything seems an echo of something else.

And when, by the hair, the headsman held up the head
Of Mary of Scots, the lips kept on moving,
But without sound.The lips,
They were trying to say something very important.

But I had forgotten to mention an upland
Of wind-tortured stone white in darkness, and tall, but when
No wind, mist gathers, and once on the Sarré at midnight,
I watched the sheep huddling.Their eyes
Stared into nothingness.In that mist-diffused light their eyes
Were stupid and round like the eyes of fat fish in muddy water,
Or of a scholar who has lost faith in his calling.

Their jaws did not move.Shreds
Of dry grass, gray in the gray mist-light, hung
From the side of a jaw, unmoving.

You would think that nothing would ever again happen.

That may be a way to love God.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

My Fathers The Baltic

 Along the strand stones, 
busted shells, wood scraps, 
bottle tops, dimpled 
and stainless beer cans. 
Something began here 
a century ago, 
a nameless disaster, 
perhaps a voyage 
to the lost continent 
where I was born. 
Now the cold winds 
of March dimple 
the gray, incoming 
waves. I kneel 
on the wet earth 
looking for a sign, 
maybe an old coin, 
an amulet 
against storms, 
and find my face 
blackened in a pool 
of oil and water. 
My grandfather crossed 
this sea in '04
and never returned, 
so I've come alone 
to thank creation 
as he would never 
for bringing him home 
to work, defeat, 
and death, those three 
blood brothers 
faithful to the end. 
Yusel Prishkulnick, 
I bless your laughter 
thrown in the wind's face, 
your gall, your rages, 
your abiding love 
for women and money 
and all that money 
never bought, 
for what the sea taught 
you and you taught me: 
that the waves go out 
and nothing comes back.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things