Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Just A Minute Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Rogue Elephant

 The reason to be autonomous is to stand there,
a cleared instrument, ready to act, to search

the moral realm and actual conditions for what
needs to be done and to do it: fine, the

best, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it
comes in handy to the wrong choice, why then

you see the danger in the effective: better
then an autonomy that stands and looks about,

negotiating nothing, the supreme indifferences:
is anything to be gained where as much is lost:

and if for every action there is an equal and
opposite reaction has the loss been researched

equally with the gain: you can see how the
milling actions of millions could come to a

buzzard-like glide as from a coincidental,
warm bottom of water stuck between chilled

peaks: it is not so easy to say, OK, go on
out and act: who, doing what, to what or

whom: just a minute: should the bunker be
bombed (if it stores gas): should all the

rattlers die just because they rattle: if I
hear the young gentleman vomiter roaring down

the hall in the men's room, should I go and
inquire of him, reducing him to my care: no

wonder the great sayers (who say nothing) sit
about in inaccessible states of mind: no

wonder still wisdom and catatonia appear to
exchange places occasionally: but if anything

were easy, our easy choices soon would carry
away our ignorance with the world-better

let the mixed-up mix and let the surface shine
with all the possibilities, each in itself.

Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

The End Of March

 For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day 
to take a walk on that long beach 
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, 
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, 
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist.
The sky was darker than the water --it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints).
Then we came on lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over.
Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost.
A kite string?--But no kite.
I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.
) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly --at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up.
On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun, except that now he was behind them --a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | Create an image from this poem

Looking-Glass River

 Smooth it glides upon its travel, 
Here a wimple, there a gleam-- 
O the clean gravel! 
O the smooth stream! 

Sailing blossoms, silver fishes, 
Pave pools as clear as air-- 
How a child wishes 
To live down there! 

We can see our colored faces 
Floating on the shaken pool 
Down in cool places, 
Dim and very cool; 

Till a wind or water wrinkle, 
Dipping marten, plumping trout, 
Spreads in a twinkle 
And blots all out.
See the rings pursue each other; All below grows black as night, Just as if mother Had blown out the light! Patience, children, just a minute-- See the spreading circles die; The stream and all in it Will clear by-and-by.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

What would I give to see his face?

 What would I give to see his face?
I'd give -- I'd give my life -- of course --
But that is not enough!
Stop just a minute -- let me think!
I'd give my biggest Bobolink!
That makes two -- Him -- and Life!
You know who "June" is --
I'd give her --
Roses a day from Zanzibar --
And Lily tubes -- like Wells --
Bees -- by the furlong --
Straits of Blue
Navies of Butterflies -- sailed thro' --
And dappled Cowslip Dells --

Then I have "shares" in Primrose "Banks" --
Daffodil Dowries -- spicy "Stocks" --
Dominions -- broad as Dew --
Bags of Doublons -- adventurous Bees
Brought me -- from firmamental seas --
And Purple -- from Peru --

Now -- have I bought it --
"Shylock"? Say!
Sign me the Bond!
"I vow to pay
To Her -- who pledges this --
One hour -- of her Sovereign's face"!
Ecstatic Contract!
Niggard Grace!
My Kingdom's worth of Bliss!
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Buying Stock

The use of condoms offers substantial protection, but does not guarantee total protection and that while there is no evidence that deep kissing has resulted in transfer of the virus, no one can say that such transmission would be absolutely impossible.
" --The Surgeon General, 1987 I know you won't mind if I ask you to put this on.
It's for your protection as well as mine--Wait.
Here, before we rush into anything I've bought a condom for each one of your fingers.
And here-- just a minute--Open up.
I'll help you put this one on, over your tongue.
I was thinking: If we leave these two rolled, you can wear them as patches over your eyes.
Partners have been known to cry, shed tears, bodily fluids, at all this trust, at even the thought of this closeness.