Best Famous Jeering Poems

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

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• All Famous Jeering Poems

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | To All and Everything No. It can’t be. No! You too, beloved? Why? What for? Darling, look - I came, I brought flowers, but, but... I never took silver spoons from your drawer! Ashen-faced, I staggered down five flights of stairs. The street eddied round me. Blasts. Blares. Tires screeched. It was gusty. The wind stung my cheeks. Horn mounted horn lustfully. Above the capital’s madness I raised my face, stern as the faces of ancient icons. Sorrow-rent, on your body as on a death-bed, its days my heart ended. You did not sully your hands with brute murder. Instead, you let drop calmly: “He’s in bed. There’s fruit and wine On the bedstand’s palm.” Love! You only existed in my inflamed brain. Enough! Stop this foolish comedy and take notice: I’m ripping off my toy armour, I, the greatest of all Don Quixotes! Remember? Weighed down by the cross, Christ stopped for a moment, weary. Watching him, the mob yelled, jeering: “Get movin’, you clod!” That’s right! Be spiteful. Spit upon him who begs for a rest on his day of days, harry and curse him. To the army of zealots, doomed to do good, man shows no mercy! That does it! I swear by my pagan strength - gimme a girl, young, eye-filling, and I won’t waste my feelings on her. I'll rape her and spear her heart with a gibe willingly. An eye for an eye! A thousand times over reap of revenge the crops' Never stop! Petrify, stun, howl into every ear: “The earth is a convict, hear, his head half shaved by the sun!” An eye for an eye! Kill me, bury me - I’ll dig myself out, the knives of my teeth by stone — no wonder!- made sharper, A snarling dog, under the plank-beds of barracks I’ll crawl, sneaking out to bite feet that smell of sweat and of market stalls! You'll leap from bed in the night’s early hours. “Moo!” I’ll roar. Over my neck, a yoke-savaged sore, tornados of flies will rise. I'm a white bull over the earth towering! Into an elk I’ll turn, my horns-branches entangled in wires, my eyes red with blood. Above the world, a beast brought to bay, I'll stand tirelessly. Man can’t escape! Filthy and humble, a prayer mumbling, on cold stone he lies. What I’ll do is paint on the royal gates, over God’s own the face of Razin. Dry up, rivers, stop him from quenching his thirst! Scorn him! Don’t waste your rays, sun! Glare! Let thousands of my disciples be born to trumpet anathemas on the squares! And when at last there comes, stepping onto the peaks of the ages, chillingly, the last of their days, in the black souls of anarchists and killers I, a gory vision, will blaze! It’s dawning, The sky’s mouth stretches out more and more, it drinks up the night sip by sip, thirstily. The windows send off a glow. Through the panes heat pours. The sun, viscous, streams down onto the sleeping city. O sacred vengeance! Lead me again above the dust without and up the steps of my poetic lines. This heart of mine, full to the brim, in a confession I will pour out. Men of the future! Who are you? I must know. Please! Here am I, all bruises and aches, pain-scorched... To you of my great soul I bequeath the orchard.

Written by Alan Seeger | A Message to America You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with your own back-yard; Each man intent on his private goal, You have no feeling for the whole; What singly none would tolerate You let unpunished hit the state, Unmindful that each man must share The stain he lets his country wear, And (what no traveller ignores) That her good name is often yours. You are proud in the pride that feels its might; From your imaginary height Men of another race or hue Are men of a lesser breed to you: The neighbor at your southern gate You treat with the scorn that has bred his hate. To lend a spice to your disrespect You call him the "greaser". But reflect! The greaser has spat on you more than once; He has handed you multiple affronts; He has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed; He has gone untrounced for the blood he spilled; He has jeering used for his bootblack's rag The stars and stripes of the gringo's flag; And you, in the depths of your easy-chair -- What did you do, what did you care? Did you find the season too cold and damp To change the counter for the camp? Were you frightened by fevers in Mexico? I can't imagine, but this I know -- You are impassioned vastly more By the news of the daily baseball score Than to hear that a dozen countrymen Have perished somewhere in Darien, That greasers have taken their innocent lives And robbed their holdings and raped their wives. Not by rough tongues and ready fists Can you hope to jilt in the modern lists. The armies of a littler folk Shall pass you under the victor's yoke, Sobeit a nation that trains her sons To ride their horses and point their guns -- Sobeit a people that comprehends The limit where private pleasure ends And where their public dues begin, A people made strong by discipline Who are willing to give -- what you've no mind to -- And understand -- what you are blind to -- The things that the individual Must sacrifice for the good of all. You have a leader who knows -- the man Most fit to be called American, A prophet that once in generations Is given to point to erring nations Brighter ideals toward which to press And lead them out of the wilderness. Will you turn your back on him once again? Will you give the tiller once more to men Who have made your country the laughing-stock For the older peoples to scorn and mock, Who would make you servile, despised, and weak, A country that turns the other cheek, Who care not how bravely your flag may float, Who answer an insult with a note, Whose way is the easy way in all, And, seeing that polished arms appal Their marrow of milk-fed pacifist, Would tell you menace does not exist? Are these, in the world's great parliament, The men you would choose to represent Your honor, your manhood, and your pride, And the virtues your fathers dignified? Oh, bury them deeper than the sea In universal obloquy; Forget the ground where they lie, or write For epitaph: "Too proud to fight." I have been too long from my country's shores To reckon what state of mind is yours, But as for myself I know right well I would go through fire and shot and shell And face new perils and make my bed In new privations, if ROOSEVELT led; But I have given my heart and hand To serve, in serving another land, Ideals kept bright that with you are dim; Here men can thrill to their country's hymn, For the passion that wells in the Marseillaise Is the same that fires the French these days, And, when the flag that they love goes by, With swelling bosom and moistened eye They can look, for they know that it floats there still By the might of their hands and the strength of their will, And through perils countless and trials unknown Its honor each man has made his own. They wanted the war no more than you, But they saw how the certain menace grew, And they gave two years of their youth or three The more to insure their liberty When the wrath of rifles and pennoned spears Should roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers. They wanted the war no more than you, But when the dreadful summons blew And the time to settle the quarrel came They sprang to their guns, each man was game; And mark if they fight not to the last For their hearths, their altars, and their past: Yea, fight till their veins have been bled dry For love of the country that WILL not die. O friends, in your fortunate present ease (Yet faced by the self-same facts as these), If you would see how a race can soar That has no love, but no fear, of war, How each can turn from his private role That all may act as a perfect whole, How men can live up to the place they claim And a nation, jealous of its good name, Be true to its proud inheritance, Oh, look over here and learn from FRANCE!

Written by Thomas Hood | Faithless Nelly Gray A Pathetic Ballad Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms. Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, 'Let others shoot; For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot.' The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, 'They're only pegs; But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs.' Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, -- Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay. But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off. 'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!' Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be a little more uniform. Said she, ' I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave 'Before you had those timber toes Your love I did allow; But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now.' 'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches.' 'Why, then,' said she, 'you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!' 'O false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse: Though I've no feet, some other man Is standing in my shoes. 'I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But, now, a long farewell! For you will be my death' -- alas! You will not be my Nell!' Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot. So round his melancholy neck A rope he did intwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line. One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs; And, as his legs were off -- of course He soon was off his legs. And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town; For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down. A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died, -- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads With a stake in his inside.

Written by Amy Lowell | Convalescence From out the dragging vastness of the sea, Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands, He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands One moment, white and dripping, silently, Cut like a cameo in lazuli, Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands Prone in the jeering water, and his hands Clutch for support where no support can be. So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow And sandflies dance their little lives away. The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, And in the sky there blooms the sun of May.

Written by Robert William Service | A Rusty Nail I ran a nail into my hand, The wound was hard to heal; So bitter was the pain to stand I thought how it would feel, To have spikes thrust through hands and feet, Impaled by hammer beat. Then hoisted on a cross of oak Against the sullen sky, With all about the jeering follk Who joyed to see me die; Die hardly in insensate heat, With bleeding hands and feet. Yet was it not that day of Fate, Of cruelty insane, Climaxing centuries of hate That woke our souls to pain! And are we not the living seed Of those who did the deed! Of course, with thankful heart I know We are not fiends as then; And in a thousand years or so We may be gentle men. But it has cost a poisoned hand, And pain beyond a cry, To make me strangely understand A Cross against the sky.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Gargoyle I SAW a mouth jeering. A smile of melted red iron ran over it. Its laugh was full of nails rattling. It was a child’s dream of a mouth. A fist hit the mouth: knuckles of gun-metal driven by an electric wrist and shoulder. It was a child’s dream of an arm. The fist hit the mouth over and over, again and again. The mouth bled melted iron, and laughed its laughter of nails rattling. And I saw the more the fist pounded the more the mouth laughed. The fist is pounding and pounding, and the mouth answering.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The White Mans Foot In his lodge beside a river, Close beside a frozen river, Sat an old man, sad and lonely. White his hair was as a snow-drift; Dull and low his fire was burning, And the old man shook and trembled, Folded in his Waubewyon, In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, Hearing nothing but the tempest As it roared along the forest, Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, As it whirled and hissed and drifted. All the coals were white with ashes, And the fire was slowly dying, As a young man, walking lightly, At the open doorway entered. Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, Soft his eyes, as stars In Spring-time, Bound his forehead was with grasses; Bound and plumed with scented grasses, On his lips a smile of beauty, Filling all the lodge with sunshine, In his hand a bunch of blossoms Filling all the lodge with sweetness. "Ah, my son!" exclaimed the old man, "Happy are my eyes to see you. Sit here on the mat beside me, Sit here by the dying embers, Let us pass the night together, Tell me of your strange adventures, Of the lands where you have travelled; I will tell you of my prowess, Of my many deeds of wonder." From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, Very old and strangely fashioned; Made of red stone was the pipe-head, And the stem a reed with feathers; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, Placed a burning coal upon it, Gave it to his guest, the stranger, And began to speak in this wise: "When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Motionless are all the rivers, Hard as stone becomes the water!" And the young man answered, smiling: "When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, Singing, onward rush the rivers!" "When I shake my hoary tresses," Said the old man darkly frowning, "All the land with snow is covered; All the leaves from all the branches Fall and fade and die and wither, For I breathe, and lo! they are not. From the waters and the marshes, Rise the wild goose and the heron, Fly away to distant regions, For I speak, and lo! they are not. And where'er my footsteps wander, All the wild beasts of the forest Hide themselves in holes and caverns, And the earth becomes as flintstone!" "When I shake my flowing ringlets," Said the young man, softly laughing, "Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, Back Into their lakes and marshes Come the wild goose and the heron, Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, Sing the bluebird and the robin, And where'er my footsteps wander, All the meadows wave with blossoms, All the woodlands ring with music, All the trees are dark with foliage!" While they spake, the night departed: From the distant realms of Wabun, From his shining lodge of silver, Like a warrior robed and painted, Came the sun, and said, "Behold me Gheezis, the great sun, behold me!" Then the old man's tongue was speechless And the air grew warm and pleasant, And upon the wigwam sweetly Sang the bluebird and the robin, And the stream began to murmur, And a scent of growing grasses Through the lodge was gently wafted. And Segwun, the youthful stranger, More distinctly in the daylight Saw the icy face before him; It was Peboan, the Winter! From his eyes the tears were flowing, As from melting lakes the streamlets, And his body shrunk and dwindled As the shouting sun ascended, Till into the air it faded, Till into the ground it vanished, And the young man saw before him, On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. Thus it was that in the North-land After that unheard-of coldness, That intolerable Winter, Came the Spring with all its splendor, All its birds and all its blossoms, All its flowers and leaves and grasses. Sailing on the wind to northward, Flying in great flocks, like arrows, Like huge arrows shot through heaven, Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, Speaking almost as a man speaks; And in long lines waving, bending Like a bow-string snapped asunder, Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa; And in pairs, or singly flying, Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. In the thickets and the meadows Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, On the summit of the lodges Sang the robin, the Opechee, In the covert of the pine-trees Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee; And the sorrowing Hiawatha, Speechless in his infinite sorrow, Heard their voices calling to him, Went forth from his gloomy doorway, Stood and gazed into the heaven, Gazed upon the earth and waters. From his wanderings far to eastward, From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun, Homeward now returned Iagoo, The great traveller, the great boaster, Full of new and strange adventures, Marvels many and many wonders. And the people of the village Listened to him as he told them Of his marvellous adventures, Laughing answered him in this wise: "Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo! No one else beholds such wonders!" He had seen, he said, a water Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, Broader than the Gitche Gumee, Bitter so that none could drink it! At each other looked the warriors, Looked the women at each other, Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so!" Kaw!" they said, it cannot be so!" O'er it, said he, o'er this water Came a great canoe with pinions, A canoe with wings came flying, Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, Taller than the tallest tree-tops! And the old men and the women Looked and tittered at each other; "Kaw!" they said, "we don't believe it!" From its mouth, he said, to greet him, Came Waywassimo, the lightning, Came the thunder, Annemeekee! And the warriors and the women Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo; "Kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!" In it, said he, came a people, In the great canoe with pinions Came, he said, a hundred warriors; Painted white were all their faces And with hair their chins were covered! And the warriors and the women Laughed and shouted in derision, Like the ravens on the tree-tops, Like the crows upon the hemlocks. "Kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us! Do not think that we believe them!" Only Hiawatha laughed not, But he gravely spake and answered To their jeering and their jesting: "True is all Iagoo tells us; I have seen it in a vision, Seen the great canoe with pinions, Seen the people with white faces, Seen the coming of this bearded People of the wooden vessel From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun. "Gitche Manito, the Mighty, The Great Spirit, the Creator, Sends them hither on his errand. Sends them to us with his message. Wheresoe'er they move, before them Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them Springs a flower unknown among us, Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom. "Let us welcome, then, the strangers, Hail them as our friends and brothers, And the heart's right hand of friendship Give them when they come to see us. Gitche Manito, the Mighty, Said this to me in my vision. "I beheld, too, in that vision All the secrets of the future, Of the distant days that shall be. I beheld the westward marches Of the unknown, crowded nations. All the land was full of people, Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, Speaking many tongues, yet feeling But one heart-beat in their bosoms. In the woodlands rang their axes, Smoked their towns in all the valleys, Over all the lakes and rivers Rushed their great canoes of thunder. "Then a darker, drearier vision Passed before me, vague and cloud-like; I beheld our nation scattered, All forgetful of my counsels, Weakened, warring with each other: Saw the remnants of our people Sweeping westward, wild and woful, Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, Like the withered leaves of Autumn!"

Written by Kenneth Patchen | The Orange Bears The Orange bears with soft friendly eyes Who played with me when I was ten, Christ, before I'd left home they'd had Their paws smashed in the rolls, their backs Seared by hot slag, their soft trusting Bellies kicked in, their tongues ripped Out, and I went down through the woods To the smelly crick with Whitman In the Haldeman-Julius edition, And I just sat there worrying my thumbnail Into the cover---What did he know about Orange bears with their coats all stunk up with soft coal And the National Guard coming over From Wheeling to stand in front of the millgates With drawn bayonets jeering at the strikers? I remember you would put daisies On the windowsill at night and in The morning they'd be so covered with soot You couldn't tell what they were anymore. A hell of a fat chance my orange bears had!

Written by Carl Sandburg | Silver Nails A MAN was crucified. He came to the city a stranger, was accused, and nailed to a cross. He lingered hanging. Laughed at the crowd. "The nails are iron," he said, "You are cheap. In my country when we crucify we use silver nails. . ." So he went jeering. They did not understand him at first. Later they talked about him in changed voices in the saloons, bowling alleys, and churches. It came over them every man is crucified only once in his life and the law of humanity dictates silver nails be used for the job. A statue was erected to him in a public square. Not having gathered his name when he was among them, they wrote him as John Silvernail on the statue.

Written by Amy Lowell | The Last Quarter of the Moon How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life, A spatter of rust on its polished steel! The seasons reel Like a goaded wheel. Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife. The night is sliding towards the dawn, And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees. A torn moon flees Through the hemlock trees, The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn. Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing A rabble of clouds flares out of the east. Like dogs unleashed After a beast, They stream on the sky, an outflung string. A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, And the fierce unrests I keep as guests Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark. Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt My labouring mind, I have fought and failed. I have not quailed, I was all unmailed And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt. The moon drops into the silver day As waking out of her swoon she comes. I hear the drums Of millenniums Beating the mornings I still must stay. The years I must watch go in and out, While I build with water, and dig in air, And the trumpets blare Hollow despair, The shuddering trumpets of utter rout. An atom tossed in a chaos made Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. Whence have I come? What would be home? I hear no answer. I am afraid! I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame. Pushed into nothingness by a breath, And quench in a wreath Of engulfing death This fight for a God, or this devil's game.