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Best Famous Jellyfish Poems

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

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Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)

a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
She is stuck in the time machine, suddenly two years old sucking her thumb, as inward as a snail, learning to talk again.
She's on a voyage.
She is swimming further and further back, up like a salmon, struggling into her mother's pocketbook.
Little doll child, come here to Papa.
Sit on my knee.
I have kisses for the back of your neck.
A penny for your thoughts, Princess.
I will hunt them like an emerald.
Come be my snooky and I will give you a root.
That kind of voyage, rank as a honeysuckle.
Once a king had a christening for his daughter Briar Rose and because he had only twelve gold plates he asked only twelve fairies to the grand event.
The thirteenth fairy, her fingers as long and thing as straws, her eyes burnt by cigarettes, her uterus an empty teacup, arrived with an evil gift.
She made this prophecy: The princess shall prick herself on a spinning wheel in her fifteenth year and then fall down dead.
Kaputt! The court fell silent.
The king looked like Munch's Scream Fairies' prophecies, in times like those, held water.
However the twelfth fairy had a certain kind of eraser and thus she mitigated the curse changing that death into a hundred-year sleep.
The king ordered every spinning wheel exterminated and exorcised.
Briar Rose grew to be a goddess and each night the king bit the hem of her gown to keep her safe.
He fastened the moon up with a safety pin to give her perpetual light He forced every male in the court to scour his tongue with Bab-o lest they poison the air she dwelt in.
Thus she dwelt in his odor.
Rank as honeysuckle.
On her fifteenth birthday she pricked her finger on a charred spinning wheel and the clocks stopped.
Yes indeed.
She went to sleep.
The king and queen went to sleep, the courtiers, the flies on the wall.
The fire in the hearth grew still and the roast meat stopped crackling.
The trees turned into metal and the dog became china.
They all lay in a trance, each a catatonic stuck in a time machine.
Even the frogs were zombies.
Only a bunch of briar roses grew forming a great wall of tacks around the castle.
Many princes tried to get through the brambles for they had heard much of Briar Rose but they had not scoured their tongues so they were held by the thorns and thus were crucified.
In due time a hundred years passed and a prince got through.
The briars parted as if for Moses and the prince found the tableau intact.
He kissed Briar Rose and she woke up crying: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison! She married the prince and all went well except for the fear -- the fear of sleep.
Briar Rose was an insomniac.
She could not nap or lie in sleep without the court chemist mixing her some knock-out drops and never in the prince's presence.
If if is to come, she said, sleep must take me unawares while I am laughing or dancing so that I do not know that brutal place where I lie down with cattle prods, the hole in my cheek open.
Further, I must not dream for when I do I see the table set and a faltering crone at my place, her eyes burnt by cigarettes as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.
I must not sleep for while I'm asleep I'm ninety and think I'm dying.
Death rattles in my throat like a marble.
I wear tubes like earrings.
I lie as still as a bar of iron.
You can stick a needle through my kneecap and I won't flinch.
I'm all shot up with Novocain.
This trance girl is yours to do with.
You could lay her in a grave, an awful package, and shovel dirt on her face and she'd never call back: Hello there! But if you kissed her on the mouth her eyes would spring open and she'd call out: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison.
There was a theft.
That much I am told.
I was abandoned.
That much I know.
I was forced backward.
I was forced forward.
I was passed hand to hand like a bowl of fruit.
Each night I am nailed into place and forget who I am.
Daddy? That's another kind of prison.
It's not the prince at all, but my father drunkeningly bends over my bed, circling the abyss like a shark, my father thick upon me like some sleeping jellyfish.
What voyage is this, little girl? This coming out of prison? God help -- this life after death?

Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem


 You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with 
 his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.
You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now? You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines? The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread in the water? I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.
I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange.
I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem


 Pocket watch, I tick well.
The streets are lizardly crevices Sheer-sided, with holes where to hide.
It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors.
There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
Bright fish hooks, the smiles of women Gulp at my bulk And I, in my snazzy blacks, Mill a litter of breasts like jellyfish.
To nourish The cellos of moans I eat eggs -- Eggs and fish, the essentials, The aphrodisiac squid.
My mouth sags, The mouth of Christ When my engine reaches the end of it.
The tattle of my Gold joints, my way of turning Bitches to ripples of silver Rolls out a carpet, a hush.
And there is no end, no end of it.
I shall never grow old.
New oysters Shriek in the sea and I Glitter like Fontainebleu Gratified, All the fall of water an eye Over whose pool I tenderly Lean and see me.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem


 Half squatter, half tenant (no rent)—
a sort of inheritance; white,
in your thirties now, and supposed
to supply me with vegetables,
but you don't; or you won't; or you can't
get the idea through your brain—
the world's worst gardener since Cain.
Titled above me, your gardens ravish my eyes.
You edge the beds of silver cabbages with red carnations, and lettuces mix with alyssum.
And then umbrella ants arrive, or it rains for a solid week and the whole thing's ruined again and I buy you more pounds of seeds, imported, guaranteed, and eventually you bring me a mystic thee-legged carrot, or a pumpkin "bigger than the baby.
" I watch you through the rain, trotting, light, on bare feet, up the steep paths you have made— or your father and grandfather made— all over my property, with your head and back inside a sodden burlap bag, and feel I can't endure it another minute; then, indoors, beside the stove, keep on reading a book.
You steal my telephone wires, or someone does.
You starve your horse and yourself and your dogs and family.
among endless variety, you eat boiled cabbage stalks.
And once I yelled at you so loud to hurry up and fetch me those potatoes your holey hat flew off, you jumped out of your clogs, leaving three objects arranged in a triangle at my feet, as if you'd been a gardener in a fairy tale all this time and at the word "potatoes" had vanished to take up your work of fairy prince somewhere.
The strangest things happen to you.
Your cows eats a "poison grass" and drops dead on the spot.
Nobody else's does.
And then your father dies, a superior old man with a black plush hat, and a moustache like a white spread-eagled sea gull.
The family gathers, but you, no, you "don't think he's dead! I look at him.
He's cold.
They're burying him today.
But you know, I don't think he's dead.
" I give you money for the funeral and you go and hire a bus for the delighted mourners, so I have to hand over some more and then have to hear you tell me you pray for me every night! And then you come again, sniffing and shivering, hat in hand, with that wistful face, like a child's fistful of bluets or white violets, improvident as the dawn, and once more I provide for a shot of penicillin down at the pharmacy, or one more bottle of Electrical Baby Syrup.
Or, briskly, you come to settle what we call our "accounts," with two old copybooks, one with flowers on the cover, the other with a camel.
immediate confusion.
You've left out decimal points.
Your columns stagger, honeycombed with zeros.
You whisper conspiratorially; the numbers mount to millions.
Account books? They are Dream Books.
in the kitchen we dream together how the meek shall inherit the earth— or several acres of mine.
With blue sugar bags on their heads, carrying your lunch, your children scuttle by me like little moles aboveground, or even crouch behind bushes as if I were out to shoot them! —Impossible to make friends, though each will grab at once for an orange or a piece of candy.
Twined in wisps of fog, I see you all up there along with Formoso, the donkey, who brays like a pump gone dry, then suddenly stops.
—All just standing, staring off into fog and space.
Or coming down at night, in silence, except for hoofs, in dim moonlight, the horse or Formoso stumbling after.
Between us float a few big, soft, pale-blue, sluggish fireflies, the jellyfish of the air.
Patch upon patch upon patch, your wife keeps all of you covered.
She has gone over and over (forearmed is forewarned) your pair of bright-blue pants with white thread, and these days your limbs are draped in blueprints.
You paint—heaven knows why— the outside of the crown and brim of your straw hat.
Perhaps to reflect the sun? Or perhaps when you were small, your mother said, "Manuelzinho, one thing; be sure you always paint your straw hat.
" One was gold for a while, but the gold wore off, like plate.
One was bright green.
Unkindly, I called you Klorophyll Kid.
My visitors thought it was funny.
I apologize here and now.
You helpless, foolish man, I love you all I can, I think.
Or I do? I take off my hat, unpainted and figurative, to you.
Again I promise to try.
Written by Les Murray | Create an image from this poem

A Retrospect Of Humidity

 All the air conditioners now slacken
their hummed carrier wave.
Once again we've served our three months with remissions in the steam and dry iron of this seaboard.
In jellied glare, through the nettle-rash season we've watched the sky's fermenting laundry portend downpours.
Some came, and steamed away, and we were clutched back into the rancid saline midnights of orifice weather, to damp grittiness and wiping off the air.
Metaphors slump irritably together in the muggy weeks.
Shark and jellyfish shallows become suburbs where you breathe a fat towel; babies burst like tomatoes with discomfort in the cotton-wrapped pointing street markets; the Lycra-bulging surf drips from non-swimmers miles from shore, and somehow includes soil.
Skins, touching, soak each other.
Skin touching any surface wets that and itself in a kind of mutual digestion.
Throbbing heads grow lianas of nonsense.
It's our annual visit to the latitudes of rice, kerosene and resignation, an averted, temporary visit unrelated, for most, to the attitudes of festive northbound jets gaining height - closer, for some few, to the memory of ulcers scraped with a tin spoon or sweated faces bowing before dry where the flesh is worn inside out, all the hunger-organs clutched in rank nylon, by those for whom exhaustion is spirit: an intrusive, heart-narrowing season at this far southern foot of the monsoon.
As the kleenex flower, the hibiscus drops its browning wads, we forget annually, as one forgets a sickness.
The stifling days will never come again, not now that we've seen the first sweater tugged down on the beauties of division and inside the rain's millions, a risen loaf of cat on a cool night verandah.

Written by Eleanor Wilner | Create an image from this poem

Eleanor Wilner

 It was a pure white cloud that hung there
in the blue, or a jellyfish on a waveless
sea, suspended high above us; we were
the creatures in the weeds below.
It seemed so effortless in its suspense, perfectly out of time and out of place like the ghost of moon in the sky of a brilliant afternoon.
After a while it seemed to grow, and we inferred that it was moving, drifting down— though it seemed weightless, motionless, one of those things that defy the ususal forces—gravity, and wind and the almost imperceptible pressure of the years.
But it was coming down.
The blur of its outline slowly cleared: it was scalloped at the lower edge, like a shell or a child's drawing of a flower, detached and floating, beauty simplified.
That's when we saw it had a man attached, suspended from the center of the flower, a kind of human stamen or a stem.
We thought it was a god, or heavenly seed, sent to germinate the earth with a gentler, nobler breed.
It might be someone with sunlit eyes and mind of dawn.
We thought of falling to our knees.
So you can guess the way we might have felt when it landed in our field with the hard thud of solid flesh and the terrible flutter of the collapsing lung of silk.
He smelled of old sweat, his uniform was torn, and he was tangled in the ropes, hopelessly harnessed to the white mirage that brought him down.
He had a wound in his chest, a red flower that took its color from his heart.
We buried him that very day, just as he came to us, in a uniform of soft brown with an eagle embroidered on the sleeve, its body made of careful gray stitches, its eye a knot of gold.
The motto underneath had almost worn away.
For days, watching from our caves, we saw the huge white shape of silk shifting in the weeds, like a pale moon when the wind filled it, stranded, searching in the aimless way of unmoored things for whatever human ballast gave direction to their endless drift.