Best Famous Junior Poems

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

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• All Famous Junior Poems

Written by Edgar Bowers | Elegy: Walking the Line Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line, The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum Superb above the cabin, along the wall— Stones gathered from the level field nearby When first we cleared it. (Angry bumblebees Stung the two mules. They kicked. Thirteen, I ran.) And then the field: thread-leaf maple, deciduous Magnolia, hybrid broom, and, further down, In light shade, one Franklinia Alatamaha In solstice bloom, all white, most graciously. On the sunnier slope, the wild plums that my mother Later would make preserves of, to give to friends Or sell, in autumn, with the foxgrape, quince, Elderberry, and muscadine. Around The granite overhang, moist den of foxes; Gradually up a long hill, high in pine, Park-like, years of dry needles on the ground, And dogwood, slopes the settlers terraced; pine We cut at Christmas, berries, hollies, anise, And cones for sale in Mister Haymore’s yard In town, below the Courthouse Square. James Haymore, One of the two good teachers at Boys’ High, Ironic and demanding, chemistry; Mary Lou Culver taught us English: essays, Plot summaries, outlines, meters, kinds of clauses (Noun, adjective, and adverb, five at a time), Written each day and then revised, and she Up half the night to read them once again Through her pince-nez, under a single lamp. Across the road, on a steeper hill, the settlers Set a house, unpainted, the porch fallen in, The road a red clay strip without a bridge, A shallow stream that liked to overflow. Oliver Brand’s mules pulled our station wagon Out of the gluey mire, earth’s rust. Then, here And there, back from the road, the specimen Shrubs and small trees my father planted, some Taller than we were, some in bloom, some berried, And some we still brought water to. We always Paused at the weed-filled hole beside the beech That, one year, brought forth beech nuts by the thousands, A hole still reminiscent of the man Chewing tobacco in among his whiskers My father happened on, who, discovered, told Of dreaming he should dig there for the gold And promised to give half of what he found. During the wars with Germany and Japan, Descendents of the settlers, of Oliver Brand And of that man built Flying Fortresses For Lockheed, in Atlanta; now they build Brick mansions in the woods they left, with lawns To paved and lighted streets, azaleas, camellias Blooming among the pines and tulip trees— Mercedes Benz and Cadillac Republicans. There was another stream further along Divided through a marsh, lined by the fence We stretched to posts with Mister Garner’s help The time he needed cash for his son’s bail And offered all his place. A noble spring Under the oak root cooled his milk and butter. He called me “honey,” working with us there (My father bought three acres as a gift), His wife pale, hair a country orange, voice Uncanny, like a ghost’s, through the open door Behind her, chickens scratching on the floor. Barred Rocks, our chickens; one, a rooster, splendid Sliver and grey, red comb and long sharp spurs, Once chased Aunt Jennie as far as the daphne bed The two big king snakes were familiars of. My father’s dog would challenge him sometimes To laughter and applause. Once, in Stone Mountain, Travelers, stopped for gas, drove off with Smokey; Angrily, grievingly, leaving his work, my father Traced the car and found them way far south, Had them arrested and, bringing Smokey home, Was proud as Sherlock Holmes, and happier. Above the spring, my sister’s cats, black Amy, Grey Junior, down to meet us. The rose trees, Domestic, Asiatic, my father’s favorites. The bridge, marauding dragonflies, the bullfrog, Camellias cracked and blackened by the freeze, Bay tree, mimosa, mountain laurel, apple, Monkey pine twenty feet high, banana shrub, The owls’ tall pine curved like a flattened S. The pump house Mort and I built block by block, Smooth concrete floor, roof pale aluminum Half-covered by a clematis, the pump Thirty feet down the mountain’s granite foot. Mort was the hired man sent to us by Fortune, Childlike enough to lead us. He brought home, Although he could not even drive a tractor, Cheated, a worthless car, which we returned. When, at the trial to garnishee his wages, Frank Guess, the judge, Grandmother’s longtime neighbor, Whose children my mother taught in Cradle Roll, Heard Mort’s examination, he broke in As if in disbelief on the bank’s attorneys: “Gentlemen, must we continue this charade?” Finally, past the compost heap, the garden, Tomatoes and sweet corn for succotash, Okra for frying, Kentucky Wonders, limas, Cucumbers, squashes, leeks heaped round with soil, Lavender, dill, parsley, and rosemary, Tithonia and zinnias between the rows; The greenhouse by the rock wall, used for cuttings In late spring, frames to grow them strong for planting Through winter into summer. Early one morning Mort called out, lying helpless by the bridge. His ashes we let drift where the magnolia We planted as a stem divides the path The others lie, too young, at Silver Hill, Except my mother. Ninety-five, she lives Three thousand miles away, beside the bare Pacific, in rooms that overlook the Mission, The Riviera, and the silver range La Cumbre east. Magnolia grandiflora And one druidic live oak guard the view. Proudly around the walls, she shows her paintings Of twenty years ago: the great oak’s arm Extended, Zeuslike, straight and strong, wisteria Tangled among the branches, amaryllis Around the base; her cat, UC, at ease In marigolds; the weeping cherry, pink And white arms like a blessing to the blue Bird feeder Mort made; cabin, scarlet sweet gum Superb when tribes migrated north and south. Alert, still quick of speech, a little blind, Active, ready for laughter, open to fear, Pity, and wonder that such things may be, Some Sundays, I think, she must walk the line, Aunt Jennie, too, if she were still alive, And Eleanor, whose story is untold, Their presences like muses, prompting me In my small study, all listening to the sea, All of one mind, the true posterity.

Written by Philip Levine | Among Children I walk among the rows of bowed heads-- the children are sleeping through fourth grade so as to be ready for what is ahead, the monumental boredom of junior high and the rush forward tearing their wings loose and turning their eyes forever inward. These are the children of Flint, their fathers work at the spark plug factory or truck bottled water in 5 gallon sea-blue jugs to the widows of the suburbs. You can see already how their backs have thickened, how their small hands, soiled by pig iron, leap and stutter even in dreams. I would like to sit down among them and read slowly from The Book of Job until the windows pale and the teacher rises out of a milky sea of industrial scum, her gowns streaming with light, her foolish words transformed into song, I would like to arm each one with a quiver of arrows so that they might rush like wind there where no battle rages shouting among the trumpets, Hal Ha! How dear the gift of laughter in the face of the 8 hour day, the cold winter mornings without coffee and oranges, the long lines of mothers in old coats waiting silently where the gates have closed. Ten years ago I went among these same children, just born, in the bright ward of the Sacred Heart and leaned down to hear their breaths delivered that day, burning with joy. There was such wonder in their sleep, such purpose in their eyes dosed against autumn, in their damp heads blurred with the hair of ponds, and not one turned against me or the light, not one said, I am sick, I am tired, I will go home, not one complained or drifted alone, unloved, on the hardest day of their lives. Eleven years from now they will become the men and women of Flint or Paradise, the majors of a minor town, and I will be gone into smoke or memory, so I bow to them here and whisper all I know, all I will never know.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Mother-Lodge There was Rundle, Station Master, An' Beazeley of the Rail, An' 'Ackman, Commissariat, An' Donkin' o' the Jail; An' Blake, Conductor-Sargent, Our Master twice was 'e, With 'im that kept the Europe-shop, Old Framjee Eduljee. Outside -- "Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!" Inside -- "Brother", an' it doesn't do no 'arm. We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square, An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there! We'd Bola Nath, Accountant, An' Saul the Aden Jew, An' Din Mohammed, draughtsman Of the Survey Office too; There was Babu Chuckerbutty, An' Amir Singh the Sikh, An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds, The Roman Catholick! We 'adn't good regalia, An' our Lodge was old an' bare, But we knew the Ancient Landmarks, An' we kep' 'em to a hair; An' lookin' on it backwards It often strikes me thus, There ain't such things as infidels, Excep', per'aps, it's us. For monthly, after Labour, We'd all sit down and smoke (We dursn't give no banquits, Lest a Brother's caste were broke), An' man on man got talkin' Religion an' the rest, An' every man comparin' Of the God 'e knew the best. So man on man got talkin', An' not a Brother stirred Till mornin' waked the parrots An' that dam' brain-fever-bird; We'd say 'twas 'ighly curious, An' we'd all ride 'ome to bed, With Mo'ammed, God, an' Shiva Changin' pickets in our 'ead. Full oft on Guv'ment service This rovin' foot 'ath pressed, An' bore fraternal greetin's To the Lodges east an' west, Accordin' as commanded From Kohat to Singapore, But I wish that I might see them In my Mother-Lodge once more! I wish that I might see them, My Brethren black an' brown, With the trichies smellin' pleasant An' the hog-darn passin' down; [Cigar-lighter.] An' the old khansamah snorin' [Butler.] On the bottle-khana floor, [Pantry.] Like a Master in good standing With my Mother-Lodge once more! Outside -- "Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!" Inside -- "Brother", an' it doesn't do no 'arm. We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square, An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!

Written by Raymond Carver | Bobber On the Columbia River near Vantage, Washington, we fished for whitefish in the winter months; my dad, Swede- Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels, pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown flies baited with maggots. They wanted distance and went clear out there to the edge of the riffle. I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole. My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink. I liked him better than my dad for a time. He lets me steer his car, teased me about my name "Junior," and said one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember all this, and fish with my own son. But my dad was right. I mean he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.

Written by Eamon Grennan | Song At her Junior High School graduation, she sings alone in front of the lot of us-- her voice soprano, surprising, almost a woman's. It is the Our Father in French, the new language making her strange, out there, fully fledged and ready for anything. Sitting together -- her separated mother and father -- we can hear the racket of traffic shaking the main streets of Jersey City as she sings Deliver us from evil, and I wonder can she see me in the dark here, years from belief, on the edge of tears. It doesn't matter. She doesn't miss a beat, keeps in time, in tune, while into our common silence I whisper, Sing, love, sing your heart out!

Written by Craig Raine | The Onion Memory Divorced, but friends again at last, we walk old ground together in bright blue uncomplicated weather. We laugh and pause to hack to bits these tiny dinosaurs, prehistoric, crenelated, cast between the tractor ruts in mud. On the green, a junior Douglas Fairbanks, swinging on the chestnut's unlit chandelier, defies the corporation spears-- a single rank around the bole, rusty with blood. Green, tacky phalluses curve up, romance A gust--the old flag blazes on its pole. In the village bakery the pastry babies pass from milky slump to crusty cadaver, from crib to coffin--without palaver. All's over in a flash, too silently... Tonight the arum lilies fold back napkins monogrammed in gold, crisp and laundered fresh. Those crustaceous gladioli, on the sly, reveal the crimson flower-flesh inside their emerald armor plate. The uncooked herrings blink a tearful eye. The candles palpitate. The Oistrakhs bow and scrape in evening dress, on Emi-tape. Outside the trees are bending over backwards to please the wind : the shining sword grass flattens on its belly. The white-thorn's frillies offer no resistance. In the fridge, a heart-shaped jelly strives to keep a sense of balance. I slice up the onions. You sew up a dress. This is the quiet echo--flesh-- white muscle on white muscle, intimately folded skin, finished with a satin rustle. One button only to undo, sewn up with shabby thread. It is the onion, memory, that makes me cry. Because there's everything and nothing to be said, the clock with hands held up before its face, stammers softly on, trying to complete a phrase-- while we, together and apart, repeat unfinished festures got by heart. And afterwards, I blunder with the washing on the line-- headless torsos, faceless lovers, friends of mine.

Written by Thomas Moore | An Incantation Come with me, and we will blow Lots of bubbles, as we go; Bubbles bright as ever Hope Drew from fancy -- or from soap; Bright as e'er the South Sea sent from its frothy element! Come with me, and we will blow Lots of bubbles, as we go. Mix the lather, Johnny W--lks, Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks; Mix the lather - who can be Fitter for such task than thee, Great M.P. for Sudsbury! For the frothy charm is ripe, Puffing Peter bring thy pipe, -- Thou, whom ancient Coventry, Once so dearly lov'd, that she Knew not which to her was sweeter, Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter; -- Puff the bubbles high in air, Puff thy best to keep them there. Bravo, bravo, Peter M--re! Now the rainbow humbugs soar, Glitt'ring all with golden hues, Such as haunt the dreams of Jews; -- Some reflecting mines that lie Under Chili's glowing sky, Some, those virgin pearls that sleep Cloister'd in the southern deep; Others, as if lent a ray Form the streaming Milky Way, Glist'ning o'er with curds and whey From the cows of Alderney. Now's the moment -- who shall first Catch the buble, ere they burst? Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run, Br-gd-n, T-ynh-m, P-lm-t-n; -- John W--lks junior runs beside ye! Take the good the knaves provide ye! See, with upturn'd eyes and hands, Where the Shareman, Bri-gd-n, stands, Gaping for the froth to fall Down his gullet - lye and all. See!---But hark my time is out -- Now, like some great water-spout, Scaterr'd by the cannon's thunder, Burst, ye bubbles, burst asunder!

Written by Barry Tebb | Wyther Park School Leeds Five I stood there in front of forty-five faces The first day of term, not especially fancying "Exercises in Mechanical Arithmetic" and so instead I read a poem from Kirkup in Japan, about Nijinsky, Hand-written on a fan of rice-paper. Thirty years later, taking a Sri Lankan girl In search of her first job around London schools, A Head-of-English announced "You wouldn’t get away With that now!" as though I had committed A crime-against-society. I remember sending the boys out to change for P.T. While the girls changed in front of me, Was it some kind of incipient voyeurism? And Sheila, my genius-child-poet, about whom Redgrove said, "Of course you are in love!" Or was it the poetry, some kind of anarchy, "He’s quite mad about it and teaches nothing else", The barely literate student teacher said. Wittgenstein alternated between junior school teaching And philosophy Leavis ranted but read poetry inspirationally; Twenty years later a stranger on a bus tapped my shoulder, "What you taught me at nine got me two O'Levels, That was all I ever got."

Written by Philip Larkin | Dockery And Son 'Dockery was junior to you, Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.' Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do You keep in touch with-' Or remember how Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight We used to stand before that desk, to give 'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'? I try the door of where I used to live: Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide. A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored. Canal and clouds and colleges subside Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord, Anyone up today must have been born In '43, when I was twenty-one. If he was younger, did he get this son At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose I fell asleep, waking at the fumes And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed, And ate an awful pie, and walked along The platform to its end to see the ranged Joining and parting lines reflect a strong Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife, No house or land still seemed quite natural. Only a numbness registered the shock Of finding out how much had gone of life, How widely from the others. Dockery, now: Only nineteen, he must have taken stock Of what he wanted, and been capable Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how Convinced he was he should be added to! Why did he think adding meant increase? To me it was dilution. Where do these Innate assumptions come from? Not from what We think truest, or most want to do: Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style Our lives bring with them: habit for a while, Suddenly they harden into all we've got And how we got it; looked back on, they rear Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying For Dockery a son, for me nothing, Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage. Life is first boredom, then fear. Whether or not we use it, it goes, And leaves what something hidden from us chose, And age, and then the only end of age.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Not all die early dying young -- Not all die early, dying young -- Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night -- A Hoary Boy, I've known to drop Whole statured -- by the side Of Junior of Fourscore -- 'twas Act Not Period -- that died.