Best Famous Jarred Poems

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

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

• All Famous Jarred Poems

Written by Robert Frost | The Door in the Dark In going from room to room in the dark, I reached out blindly to save my face, But neglected, however lightly, to lace My fingers and close my arms in an arc. A slim door got in past my guard, And hit me a blow in the head so hard I had my native simile jarred. So people and things don't pair any more With what they used to pair with before.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | To A Child Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face. The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the grave bashaw With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin. With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! Those silver bells Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the stormy cape; For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath a burning, tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the miser, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at the sound, Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free, The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, That won thy little, beating heart before; Thou strugglest for the open door. Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread; Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out! into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. Thou comest back to parley with repose; This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its o'erhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. I see its valves expand, As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear; As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire, And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire. By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope! Like the new moon thy life appears; A little strip of silver light, And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years; And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies Behind all human destinies. Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil,-- To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain, Weary with labor, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power,-- Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labor there shall come forth rest. And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await Still let it ever be thy pride To linger by the laborer's side; With words of sympathy or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor, O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility; As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire. And formed the seven-chorded lyre. Enough! I will not play the Seer; I will no longer strive to ope The mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold; For, like Acestes' shaft of old, The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies.

Written by Robert Lowell | Memories of West Street and Lepke Only teaching on Tuesdays, book-worming in pajamas fresh from the washer each morning, I hog a whole house on Boston's "hardly passionate Marlborough Street," where even the man scavenging filth in the back alley trash cans, has two children, a beach wagon, a helpmate, and is "a young Republican." I have a nine months' daughter, young enough to be my granddaughter. Like the sun she rises in her flame-flamingo infants' wear. These are the tranquilized Fifties, and I am forty. Ought I to regret my seedtime? I was a fire-breathing Catholic C.O., and made my manic statement, telling off the state and president, and then sat waiting sentence in the bull pen beside a ***** boy with curlicues of marijuana in his hair. Given a year, I walked on the roof of the West Street Jail, a short enclosure like my school soccer court, and saw the Hudson River once a day through sooty clothesline entanglements and bleaching khaki tenements. Strolling, I yammered metaphysics with Abramowitz, a jaundice-yellow ("it's really tan") and fly-weight pacifist, so vegetarian, he wore rope shoes and preferred fallen fruit. He tried to convert Bioff and Brown, the Hollywood pimps, to his diet. Hairy, muscular, suburban, wearing chocolate double-breasted suits, they blew their tops and beat him black and blue. I was so out of things, I'd never heard of the Jehovah's Witnesses. "Are you a C.O.?" I asked a fellow jailbird. "No," he answered, "I'm a J.W." He taught me the "hospital tuck," and pointed out the T-shirted back of Murder Incorporated's Czar Lepke, there piling towels on a rack, or dawdling off to his little segregated cell full of things forbidden to the common man: a portable radio, a dresser, two toy American flags tied together with a ribbon of Easter palm. Flabby, bald, lobotomized, he drifted in a sheepish calm, where no agonizing reappraisal jarred his concentration on the electric chair hanging like an oasis in his air of lost connections. . . .

Written by Robert William Service | Accordion Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time; Of viol or of lute some make a song. My battered old accordion, you're worthy of a rhyme, You've been my friend and comforter so long. Round half the world I've trotted you, a dozen years or more; You've given heaps of people lots of fun; You've set a host of happy feet a-tapping on the floor . . . Alas! your dancing days are nearly done. I've played you from the palm-belt to the suburbs of the Pole; From the silver-tipped sierras to the sea. The gay and gilded cabin and the grimy glory-hole Have echoed to your impish melody. I've hushed you in the dug-out when the trench was stiff with dead; I've lulled you by the coral-laced lagoon; I've packed you on a camel from the dung-fire on the bled, To the hell-for-breakfast Mountains of the Moon. I've ground you to the shanty men, a-whooping heel and toe, And the hula-hula graces in the glade. I've swung you in the igloo to the lousy Esquimau, And the Haussa at a hundred in the shade. The ****** on the levee, and the Dinka by the Nile have shuffled to your insolent appeal. I've rocked with glee the chimpanzee, and mocked the crocodile, And shocked the pompous penquin and the seal. I've set the yokels singing in a little Surrey pub, Apaches swinging in a Belville bar. I've played an obligato to the tom-tom's rub-a-dub, And the throb of Andalusian guitar. From the Horn to Honolulu, from the Cape to Kalamazoo, From Wick to Wicklow, Samarkand to Spain, You've roughed it with my kilt-bag like a comrade tried and true. . . . Old pal! We'll never hit the trail again. Oh I know you're cheap and vulgar, you're an instrumental crime. In drawing-rooms you haven't got a show. You're a musical abortion, you're the voice of grit and grime, You're the spokesman of the lowly and the low. You're a democratic devil, you're the darling of the mob; You're a wheezy, breezy blasted bit of glee. You're the headache of the high-bow, you're the horror of the snob, but you're worth your weight in ruddy gold to me. For you've chided me in weakness and you've cheered me in defeat; You've been an anodyne in hours of pain; And when the slugging jolts of life have jarred me off my feet, You've ragged me back into the ring again. I'll never go to Heaven, for I know I am not fit, The golden harps of harmony to swell; But with asbestos bellows, if the devil will permit, I'll swing you to the fork-tailed imps of Hell. Yes, I'll hank you, and I'll spank you, And I'll everlasting yank you To the cinder-swinging satellites of Hell.

Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Going Back to School The boat ploughed on. Now Alcatraz was past And all the grey waves flamed to red again At the dead sun's last glimmer. Far and vast The Sausalito lights burned suddenly In little dots and clumps, as if a pen Had scrawled vague lines of gold across the hills; The sky was like a cup some rare wine fills, And stars came as he watched -- and he was free One splendid instant -- back in the great room, Curled in a chair with all of them beside And the whole world a rush of happy voices, With laughter beating in a clamorous tide. . . . Saw once again the heat of harvest fume Up to the empty sky in threads like glass, And ran, and was a part of what rejoices In thunderous nights of rain; lay in the grass Sun-baked and tired, looking through a maze Of tiny stems into a new green world; Once more knew eves of perfume, days ablaze With clear, dry heat on the brown, rolling fields; Shuddered with fearful ecstasy in bed Over a book of knights and bloody shields . . . The ship slowed, jarred and stopped. There, straight ahead, Were dock and fellows. Stumbling, he was whirled Out and away to meet them -- and his back Slumped to the old half-cringe, his hands fell slack; A big boy's arm went round him -- and a twist Sent shattering pain along his tortured wrist, As a voice cried, a bloated voice and fat, "Why it's Miss Nancy! Come along, you rat!"

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Hillcrest (To Mrs. Edward MacDowell) No sound of any storm that shakes Old island walls with older seas Comes here where now September makes An island in a sea of trees. Between the sunlight and the shade A man may learn till he forgets The roaring of a world remade, And all his ruins and regrets; And if he still remembers here Poor fights he may have won or lost,— If he be ridden with the fear Of what some other fight may cost,— If, eager to confuse too soon, What he has known with what may be, He reads a planet out of tune For cause of his jarred harmony,— If here he venture to unroll His index of adagios, And he be given to console Humanity with what he knows,— He may by contemplation learn A little more than what he knew, And even see great oaks return To acorns out of which they grew. He may, if he but listen well, Through twilight and the silence here, Be told what there are none may tell To vanity’s impatient ear; And he may never dare again Say what awaits him, or be sure What sunlit labyrinth of pain He may not enter and endure. Who knows to-day from yesterday May learn to count no thing too strange: Love builds of what Time takes away, Till Death itself is less than Change. Who sees enough in his duress May go as far as dreams have gone; Who sees a little may do less Than many who are blind have done; Who sees unchastened here the soul Triumphant has no other sight Than has a child who sees the whole World radiant with his own delight. Far journeys and hard wandering Await him in whose crude surmise Peace, like a mask, hides everything That is and has been from his eyes; And all his wisdom is unfound, Or like a web that error weaves On airy looms that have a sound No louder now than falling leaves.

Written by John Clare | The Flood On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely mood I've seen the winter floods their gambols play Through each old arch that trembled while I stood Bent o'er its wall to watch the dashing spray As their old stations would be washed away Crash came the ice against the jambs and then A shudder jarred the arches—yet once more It breasted raving waves and stood agen To wait the shock as stubborn as before - White foam brown crested with the russet soil As washed from new plough lands would dart beneath Then round and round a thousand eddies boil On tother side—then pause as if for breath One minute—and engulphed—like life in death Whose wrecky stains dart on the floods away More swift than shadows in a stormy day Straws trail and turn and steady—all in vain The engulfing arches shoot them quickly through The feather dances flutters and again Darts through the deepest dangers still afloat Seeming as faireys whisked it from the view And danced it o'er the waves as pleasures boat Light hearted as a thought in May - Trays—uptorn bushes—fence demolished rails Loaded with weeds in sluggish motions stray Like water monsters lost each winds and trails Till near the arches—then as in affright It plunges—reels—and shudders out of sight Waves trough—rebound—and fury boil again Like plunging monsters rising underneath Who at the top curl up a shaggy main A moment catching at a surer breath Then plunging headlong down and down—and on Each following boil the shadow of the last And other monsters rise when those are gone Crest their fringed waves—plunge onward and are past - The chill air comes around me ocean blea From bank to bank the waterstrife is spread Strange birds like snow spots o'er the huzzing sea Hang where the wild duck hurried past and fled On roars the flood—all restless to be free Like trouble wandering to eternity

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Derelict And reports the derelict Mary Pollock still at sea. SHIPPING NEWS. I was the staunchest of our fleet Till the sea rose beneath our feet Unheralded, in hatred past all measure. Into his pits he stamped my crew, Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw, Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure. Man made me, and my will Is to my maker still, Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer -- Lifting forlorn to spy Trailed smoke along the sky, Falling afraid lest any keel come near! Wrenched as the lips of thirst, Wried, dried, and split and burst, Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining; And jarred at every roll The gear that was my soul Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining. For life that crammed me full, Gangs of the prying gull That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches! For roar that dumbed the gale, My hawse-pipes guttering wail, Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches! Blind in the hot blue ring Through all my points I swing -- Swing and return to shift the sun anew. Blind in my well-known sky I hear the stars go by, Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true! White on my wasted path Wave after wave in wrath Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me. Flung forward, heaved aside, Witless and dazed I bide The mercy of the comber that shall end me. North where the bergs careen, The spray of seas unseen Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling; South where the corals breed, The footless, floating weed Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling. I that was clean to run My race against the sun -- Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster -- Whipped forth by night to meet My sister's careless feet, And with a kiss betray her to my master! Man made me, and my will Is to my maker still -- To him and his, our peoples at their pier: Lifting in hope to spy Trailed smoke along the sky, Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

Written by Emily Dickinson | I felt my life with both my hands I felt my life with both my hands To see if it was there -- I held my spirit to the Glass, To prove it possibler -- I turned my Being round and round And paused at every pound To ask the Owner's name -- For doubt, that I should know the Sound -- I judged my features -- jarred my hair -- I pushed my dimples by, and waited -- If they -- twinkled back -- Conviction might, of me -- I told myself, "Take Courage, Friend -- That -- was a former time -- But we might learn to like the Heaven, As well as our Old Home!"

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 39: Goodbye sir and fare well. Youre in the clear Goodbye, sir, & fare well. You're in the clear. 'Nobody' (Mark says you said) 'is ever found out.' I figure you were right, having as Henry got away with murder for long. Some jarred clock tell me it's late, not for you who went straight but for the lorn. Our roof is lefted off lately: the shooter, and the bourbon man, and then you got tired. I'm afraid that's it. I figure you with love, lifey, deathy, but I have a little sense the rest of us are fired or fired: be with us: we will blow our best, our sad wil riffs come easy in that case, thinking you over, knowing you resting, who was reborn to rest, your gorgeous sentence is done. Nothing's the same, sir,—taking cover.