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Best Famous Jerking Poems

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

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Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Tortoise Shout

 I thought he was dumb, said he was dumb,
Yet I've heard him cry.
First faint scream,
Out of life's unfathomable dawn,
Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's dawning rim,
Far, far off, far scream.
Tortoise in extremis.
Why were we crucified into sex?
Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves,
As we began,
As he certainly began, so perfectly alone?

A far, was-it-audible scream,
Or did it sound on the plasm direct?

Worse than the cry of the new-born,
A scream,
A yell,
A shout,
A paean,
A death-agony,
A birth-cry,
A submission,
All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first dawn.

War-cry, triumph, acute-delight, death-scream reptilian,
Why was the veil torn?
The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane?
The male soul's membrane
Torn with a shriek half music, half horror.

Crucifixion.
Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of that dense female,
Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching out of the shell
In tortoise-nakedness,

Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, spreadeagle over her house-roof,
And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved beneath her walls,
Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching anguish in uttermost tension
Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping like a jerking leap, and oh!
Opening its clenched face from his outstretched neck
And giving that fragile yell, that scream,
Super-audible,
From his pink, cleft, old-man's mouth,
Giving up the ghost,
Or screaming in Pentecost, receiving the ghost.

His scream, and his moment's subsidence,
The moment of eternal silence,
Yet unreleased, and after the moment, the sudden, startling jerk of coition, and at once
The inexpressible faint yell --
And so on, till the last plasm of my body was melted back
To the primeval rudiments of life, and the secret.

So he tups, and screams
Time after time that frail, torn scream
After each jerk, the longish interval,
The tortoise eternity,
Age-long, reptilian persistence,
Heart-throb, slow heart-throb, persistent for the next spasm.

I remember, when I was a boy,
I heard the scream of a frog, which was caught with his foot in the mouth of an up-starting snake;
I remember when I first heard bull-frogs break into sound in the spring;
I remember hearing a wild goose out of the throat of night
Cry loudly, beyond the lake of waters;
I remember the first time, out of a bush in the darkness, a nightingale's piercing cries and gurgles startled the depths of my soul;
I remember the scream of a rabbit as I went through a wood at midnight;
I remember the heifer in her heat, blorting and blorting through the hours, persistent and irrepressible,
I remember my first terror hearing the howl of weird, amorous cats;
I remember the scream of a terrified, injured horse, the sheet-lightning,
And running away from the sound of a woman in labour, something like an owl whooing,
And listening inwardly to the first bleat of a lamb,
The first wail of an infant,
And my mother singing to herself,
And the first tenor singing of the passionate throat of a young collier, who has long since drunk himself to death,
The first elements of foreign speech
On wild dark lips.

And more than all these,
And less than all these,
This last,
Strange, faint coition yell
Of the male tortoise at extremity,
Tiny from under the very edge of the farthest far-off horizon of life.

The cross,
The wheel on which our silence first is broken,
Sex, which breaks up our integrity, our single inviolability, our deep silence,
Tearing a cry from us.

Sex, which breaks us into voice, sets us calling across the deeps, calling, calling for the complement,
Singing, and calling, and singing again, being answered, having found.

Torn, to become whole again, after long seeking for what is lost,
The same cry from the tortoise as from Christ, the Osiris-cry of abandonment,
That which is whole, torn asunder,
That which is in part, finding its whole again throughout the universe.


Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Hughes' Voice In My Head

 As soon as we crossed into Yorkshire

Hughes’ voice assailed me, unmistakable

Gravel and honey, a raw celebration of rain

Like a tattered lacework window;

Black glisten on roof slates,

Tarmac turned to shining ice,

Blusters of naked wind whipping

The wavelets of shifting water

To imaginary floating islets

On the turbulent river

Glumly he asked, "Where are the mills?"

Knowing their goneness in his lonely heart.

"Where are the mines with their turning spokes,

Lurking slag heaps, bolts of coal split with

Shimmering fools’ gold tumbling into waiting wagons?

Mostly what I came for was a last glimpse

Of the rock hanging over my cot, that towering

Sheerness fifty fathoms high screed with ferns

And failing tree roots, crumbling footholds

And dour smile. A monument needs to be known

For what it is, not a tourist slot or geological stratum

But the dark mentor loosing wolf’s bane

At my sleeping head."

When the coach lurches over the county boundary,

If not Hughes’ voice then Heaney’s or Hill’s

Ringing like miners’ boots flinging sparks

From the flagstones, piercing the lens of winter,

Jutting like tongues of crooked rock

Lapping a mossed slab, an altar outgrown,

Dumped when the trumpeting hosannas

Had finally riven the air of the valley.

And I, myself, what did I make of it?

The voices coming into my head

Welcoming kin, alive or dead, my eyes

Jerking to the roadside magpie,

Its white tail-bar doing a hop, skip and jump.
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

The Dog

 What I was doing with my white teeth exposed
like that on the side of the road I don't know,
and I don't know why I lay beside the sewer
so that the lover of dead things could come back
with is pencil sharpened and his piece of white paper.
I was there for a good two hours whistling
dirges, shrieking a little, terrifying
hearts with my whimpering cries before I died
by pulling the one leg up and stiffening.
There is a look we have with the hair of the chin
curled in mid-air, there is a look with the belly
stopped in the midst of its greed. The lover of dead things
stoops to feel me, his hand is shaking. I know
his mouth is open and his glasses are slipping.
I think his pencil must be jerking and the terror
of smell—and sight—is overtaking him;
I know he has that terrified faraway look
that death brings—he is contemplating. I want him
to touch my forehead once again and rub my muzzle
before he lifts me up and throws me into 
that little valley. I hope he doesn't use
his shoe for fear of touching me; I know,
or used to know, the grasses down there; I think
I knew a hundred smells. I hope the dog's way
doesn't overtake him, one quick push,
barely that, and the mind freed, something else,
some other, thing to take its place. Great heart,
great human heart, keep loving me as you lift me,
give me your tears, great loving stranger, remember,
the death of dogs, forgive the yapping, forgive
the shitting, let there be pity, give me your pity.
How could there be enough? I have given
my life for this, emotion has ruined me, oh lover,
I have exchanged my wildness—little tricks
with the mouth and feet, with the tail, my tongue is a parrots's,
I am a rampant horse, I am a lion,
I wait for the cookie, I snap my teeth—
as you have taught me, oh distant and brilliant and lonely.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Hank The Finn

 Now Fireman Flynn met Hank the Finn where lights of Lust-land glow;
"Let's leave," says he, "the lousy sea, and give the land a show.
I'm fed up to the molar mark with wallopin' the brine;
I feel the bloody barnacles a-carkin' on me spine.
Let's hit the hard-boiled North a crack, where creeks are paved with gold."
"You count me in," says Hank the Finn. "Ay do as Ay ban told."

And so they sought the Lonely Land and drifted down its stream,
Where sunny silence round them spanned, as dopey as a dream.
But to the spell of flood and fell their gold-grimed eyes were blind;
By pine and peak they paused to seek, but nothing did they find;
No yellow glint of dust to mint, just mud and mocking sand,
And a hateful hush that seemed to crush them down on every hand.
Till Fireman Flynn grew mean as sin, and cursed his comrade cold,
But Hank the Finn would only grin, and . . . do as he was told.

Now Fireman Flynn had pieces ten of yellow Yankee gold,
Which every night he would invite his partner to behold.
"Look hard," says he; "It's all you'll see in this god-blasted land;
But you fret, I'm gonna let you hold them i your hand.
Yeah! Watch 'em gleam, then go and dream they're yours to have and hold."
Then Hank the Finn would scratch his chin and . . . do as he was told.

But every night by camp-fire light, he'd incubate his woes,
And fan the hate of mate for mate, the evil Artic knows.
In dreams the Lapland withes gloomed like gargoyles overhead,
While the devils three of Helsinkee came cowering by his bed.
"Go take," said they, "the yellow loot he's clinking in his belt,
And leave the sneaking wolverines to snout around his pelt.
Last night he called you Swedish scum, from out the glory-hole;
To-day he said you were a bum, and damned your mother's soul.
Go, plug with lead his scurvy head, and grab his greasy gold . . ."
Then Hank the Finn saw red within, and . . . did as he was told.

So in due course the famous Force of Men Who Get Their Man,
Swooped down on sleeping Hank the Finn, and popped him in the can.
And in due time his grievous crime was judged without a plea,
And he was dated up to swing upon the gallows tree.
Then Sheriff gave a party in the Law's almighty name,
He gave a neck-tie party, and he asked me to the same.
There was no hooch a-flowin' and his party wasn't gay,
For O our hearts were heavy at the dawning of the day.
There was no band a-playin' and the only dancin' there
Was Hank the Fin interpretin' his solo in the air.

We climbed the scaffold steps and stood beside the knotted rope.
We watched the hooded hangman and his eyes were dazed with dope.
The Sheriff was in evening dress; a bell began to toll,
A beastly bell that struck a knell of horror to the soul.
As if the doomed one was myself, I shuddered, waiting there.
I spoke no word, then . . . then I heard his step upon the stair;
His halting foot, moccasin clad . . . and then I saw him stand
Between a weeping warder and a priest with Cross in hand.
And at the sight a murmur rose of terror and of awe,
And all them hardened gallows fans were sick at what they saw:
For as he towered above the mob, his limbs with leather triced,
By all that's wonderful, I swear, his face was that of Christ.

Now I ain't no blaspheming cuss, so don't you start to shout.
You see, his beard had grown so long it framed his face about.
His rippling hair was long and fair, his cheeks were spirit-pale,
His face was bright with holy light that made us wince and quail.
He looked at us with eyes a-shine, and sore were we confused,
As if he were the Judge divine, and we were the accused.
Aye, as serene he stood between the hangman and the cord,
You would have sworn, with anguish torn, he was the Blessed Lord.

The priest was wet with icy sweat, the Sheriff's lips were dry,
And we were staring starkly at the man who had to die.
"Lo! I am raised above you all," his pale lips seemed to say,
"For in a moment I shall leap to God's Eternal Day.
Am I not happy! I forgive you each for what you do;
Redeemed and penitent I go, with heart of love for you."
So there he stood in mystic mood, with scorn sublime of death.
I saw him gently kiss the Cross, and then I held by breath.
That blessed smile was blotted out; they dropped the hood of black;
They fixed the noose around his neck, the rope was hanging slack.
I heard him pray, I saw him sway, then . . . then he was not there;
A rope, a ghastly yellow rope was jerking in the air;
A jigging rope that soon was still; a hush as of the tomb,
And Hank the Finn, that man of sin, had met his rightful doom.

His rightful doom! Now that's the point. I'm wondering, because
I hold a man is what he is, and never what he was.
You see, the priest had filled that guy so full of holy dope,
That at the last he came to die as pious as the Pope.
A gentle ray of sunshine made a halo round his head.
I thought to see a sinner - lo! I saw a Saint instead.
Aye, as he stood as martyrs stand, clean-cleansed of mortal dross,
I think he might have gloried had . . . WE NAILED HIM TO A CROSS.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Resurrection

 I thought of my ‘faculty of poetry’

As of the eye

The bream or white-bait showed

In its hysterical dance of death

When the receding tide

Left it asleep

In a shallow pool on the shore.



Why did I fail to take it?

Was I strangely compassionate

Or merely afraid to touch

The jerking spasm of flesh

With the still eye?



Or was it I on the shore

In the shallow pool, left by the tide,

Engaged in that mystic dance of death,

Twenty years before?


Written by Gerald Stern | Create an image from this poem

I Remember Galileo

 I remember Galileo describing the mind
as a piece of paper blown around by the wind,
and I loved the sight of it sticking to a tree,
or jumping into the backseat of a car, 
and for years I watched paper leap through my cities;
but yesterday I saw the mind was a squirrel caught crossing
Route 80 between the wheels of a giant truck,
dancing back and forth like a thin leaf,
or a frightened string, for only two seconds living
on the white concrete before he got away,
his life shortened by all that terror, his head
jerking, his yellow teeth ground down to dust.

It was the speed of the squirrel and his lowness to the ground,
his great purpose and the alertness of his dancing,
that showed me the difference between him and paper.
Paper will do in theory, when there is time
to sit back in a metal chair and study shadows;
but for this life I need a squirrel,
his clawed feet spread, his whole soul quivering,
the loud noise shaking him from head to tail.
 O philosophical mind, O mind of paper, I need a squirrel
finishing his wild dash across the highway,
rushing up his green ungoverned hillside.
Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem

The Elementary Scene

 Looking back in my mind I can see 
The white sun like a tin plate 
Over the wooden turning of the weeds; 
The street jerking --a wet swing-- 
To end by the wall the children sang. 

The thin grass by the girls' door, 
Trodden on, straggling, yellow and rotten, 
And the gaunt field with its one tied cow-- 
The dead land waking sadly to my life-- 
Stir, and curl deeper in the eyes of time. 

The rotting pumpkin under the stairs 
Bundled with switches and the cold ashes 
Still holds for me, in its unwavering eyes, 
The stinking shapes of cranes and witches, 
Their path slanting down the pumpkin's sky. 

Its stars beckon through the frost like cottages 
(Homes of the Bear, the Hunter--of that absent star, 
The dark where the flushed child struggles into sleep) 
Till, leaning a lifetime to the comforter, 
I float above the small limbs like their dream: 

I, I, the future that mends everything.
Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Create an image from this poem

The Fiddling Wood

 Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron, 
Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked 
Over the rough crest of the hairy wood 
In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked, 
Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ 
The trees with magic. All the wood was still -- 

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples 
Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose, 
Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth -- 
Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose 
That crouching log there, where the white light stipples 
Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH? 

It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" -- 
I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled, 
Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred 
The brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawled 
Along my spine, as forth there stepped -- a Stranger! 
And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird! 

His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened. 
His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings. 
And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly -- 
He swept his beaver in a rush of wings! 
Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened, 
Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly. 

Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted, 
Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny, 
He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardon 
Signor! -- Maestro Nicolo Paganini 
They used to call me! Tchk! -- The cold grips hard on 
A poor musician's fingers!" -- His lips parted. 

A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud, 
From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster, 
Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming, 
The music wailed unutterable disaster; 
Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud, 
Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming. 

Till all resolved in anguish -- died away 
Upon one minor chord, and was resumed 
In anguish; fell again to a low cry, 
Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed, 
Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay, 
Hurling mad, broken legions down to die 

Through everlasting hells -- The tears were salt 
Upon my fingers -- Then, I saw, behind 
The fury of the player, all the trees 
Crouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind, 
Sweeping mad bows to music without fault, 
Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees. 

Gasping, I fled! -- but still that devilish tune 
Stunned ears and brain alike -- till clouds of dust 
Blotted the picture, and the noise grew dim -- 
Shaking, I reached the town -- and turned -- in trust -- 
Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim, 
Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

girl (three) and the black horse

 i want to hold the horse's string
cried the girl (three) stamping her foot
told by adults she was much too young
the black horse stood staring at the wall

it worries us you may get hurt
the adults whispered - meaning to offer
comfort to the little madam (not convinced)
the black horse stood staring at the wall

i'm stronger than any old black horse
the child shouted parading round the ring
thinking she was the star turn at the circus
the black horse stood staring at the wall

well i suppose.....take care ....ok 
the adults muttered full of apprehension
the girl (three) poised - flexing her muscles
the black horse stood staring at the wall

now take the lead and grip it tight
they sighed fluttering hands like pigeons
she scoffed at the soft instructions
the black horse stood staring at the wall

it's easy-peasy lemon-cheesy
she triumphed (but doing as they asked)
the adults tried to swallow their fear
the black horse stood staring at the wall

so off to the man in the moon
the girl (three) laughed jerking the lead
swelling to the size of a goddess
the black horse reared like pegasus's colt

don't wait for me - i could be ages
the girl (three) sang to the shrinking adults
as the black horse leapt above the wall
the flowering cherries and the church spire

when i'm a grown-up - then i'll come
was the last the adults heard as the horse
and the girl (three) changed into pinpoints
and the world collapsed to its dull old self
Written by Arthur Symons | Create an image from this poem

The Old Women

 They pass upon their old, tremulous feet, 
Creeping with little satchels down the street, 
And they remember, many years ago, 
Passing that way in silks. They wander, slow 
And solitary, through the city ways, 
And they alone remember those old days 
Men have forgotten. In their shaking heads 
A dancer of old carnivals yet treads 
The measure of past waltzes, and they see 
The candles lit again, the patchouli 
Sweeten the air, and the warm cloud of musk 
Enchant the passing of the passionate dusk. 
Then you will see a light begin to creep 
Under the earthen eyelids, dimmed with sleep, 
And a new tremor, happy and uncouth, 
Jerking about the corners of the mouth. 
Then the old head drops down again, and shakes, 
Muttering.

Sometimes, when the swift gaslight wakes 
The dreams and fever of the sleepless town, 
A shaking huddled thing in a black gown 
Will steal at midnight, carrying with her 
Violet bags of lavender, 
Into the taproom full of noisy light; 
Or, at the crowded earlier hour of night, 
Sidle, with matches, up to some who stand 
About a stage-door, and, with furtive hand, 
Appealing: "I too was a dancer, when 
Your fathers would have been young gentlemen!" 
And sometimes, out of some lean ancient throat, 
A broken voice, with here and there a note 
Of unspoiled crystal, suddenly will arise 
Into the night, while a cracked fiddle cries 
Pantingly after; and you know she sings 
The passing of light, famous, passing things. 
And sometimes, in the hours past midnight, reels 
Out of an alley upon staggering heels, 
Or into the dark keeping of the stones 
About a doorway, a vague thing of bones 
And draggled hair. 

And all these have been loved. 
And not one ruinous body has not moved 
The heart of man's desire, nor has not seemed 
Immortal in the eyes of one who dreamed 
The dream that men call love. This is the end 
Of much fair flesh; it is for this you tend 
Your delicate bodies many careful years, 
To be this thing of laughter and of tears, 
To be this living judgment of the dead, 
An old gray woman with a shaking head.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things