Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Kitten Poems

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

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

See Also:
12
Written by Connie Wanek | Create an image from this poem

Coloring Book

 Each picture is heartbreakingly banal,
a kitten and a ball of yarn,
a dog and bone.
The paper is cheap, easily torn.
A coloring book's authority is derived from its heavy black lines as unalterable as the ten commandments within which minor decisions are possible: the dog black and white, the kitten gray.
Under the picture we find a few words, a title, perhaps a narrative, a psalm or sermon.
But nowhere do we come upon a blank page where we might justify the careless way we scribbled when we were tired and sad and could bear no more.


Written by Gwendolyn Brooks | Create an image from this poem

The Lovers of the Poor

 arrive.
The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting Here, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair, The pink paint on the innocence of fear; Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall.
Cutting with knives served by their softest care, Served by their love, so barbarously fair.
Whose mothers taught: You'd better not be cruel! You had better not throw stones upon the wrens! Herein they kiss and coddle and assault Anew and dearly in the innocence With which they baffle nature.
Who are full, Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit, Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise.
To resurrect.
To moisten with milky chill.
To be a random hitching post or plush.
To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.
Their guild is giving money to the poor.
The worthy poor.
The very very worthy And beautiful poor.
Perhaps just not too swarthy? Perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim Nor--passionate.
In truth, what they could wish Is--something less than derelict or dull.
Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze! God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold! The noxious needy ones whose battle's bald Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down.
But it's all so bad! and entirely too much for them.
The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans, Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains, The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they're told, Something called chitterlings.
The darkness.
Drawn Darkness, or dirty light.
The soil that stirs.
The soil that looks the soil of centuries.
And for that matter the general oldness.
Old Wood.
Old marble.
Old tile.
Old old old.
Note homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe.
Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic, There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, no Unkillable infirmity of such A tasteful turn as lately they have left, Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their cars Must presently restore them.
When they're done With dullards and distortions of this fistic Patience of the poor and put-upon.
They've never seen such a make-do-ness as Newspaper rugs before! In this, this "flat," Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich Rugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered .
.
.
), Readies to spread clean rugs for afternoon.
Here is a scene for you.
The Ladies look, In horror, behind a substantial citizeness Whose trains clank out across her swollen heart.
Who, arms akimbo, almost fills a door.
All tumbling children, quilts dragged to the floor And tortured thereover, potato peelings, soft- Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt.
Their League is allotting largesse to the Lost.
But to put their clean, their pretty money, to put Their money collected from delicate rose-fingers Tipped with their hundred flawless rose-nails seems .
.
.
They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra, Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks, Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin "hangings," Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie.
They Winter In Palm Beach; cross the Water in June; attend, When suitable, the nice Art Institute; Buy the right books in the best bindings; saunter On Michigan, Easter mornings, in sun or wind.
Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibre With fissures everywhere! Why, what are bringings Of loathe-love largesse? What shall peril hungers So old old, what shall flatter the desolate? Tin can, blocked fire escape and chitterling And swaggering seeking youth and the puzzled wreckage Of the middle passage, and urine and stale shames And, again, the porridges of the underslung And children children children.
Heavens! That Was a rat, surely, off there, in the shadows? Long And long-tailed? Gray? The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League agree it will be better To achieve the outer air that rights and steadies, To hie to a house that does not holler, to ring Bells elsetime, better presently to cater To no more Possibilities, to get Away.
Perhaps the money can be posted.
Perhaps they two may choose another Slum! Some serious sooty half-unhappy home!-- Where loathe-lover likelier may be invested.
Keeping their scented bodies in the center Of the hall as they walk down the hysterical hall, They allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall, Are off at what they manage of a canter, And, resuming all the clues of what they were, Try to avoid inhaling the laden air.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Some Foreign Letters

 I knew you forever and you were always old,
soft white lady of my heart.
Surely you would scold me for sitting up late, reading your letters, as if these foreign postmarks were meant for me.
You posted them first in London, wearing furs and a new dress in the winter of eighteen-ninety.
I read how London is dull on Lord Mayor's Day, where you guided past groups of robbers, the sad holes of Whitechapel, clutching your pocketbook, on the way to Jack the Ripper dissecting his famous bones.
This Wednesday in Berlin, you say, you will go to a bazaar at Bismarck's house.
And I see you as a young girl in a good world still, writing three generations before mine.
I try to reach into your page and breathe it back.
.
.
but life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
This is the sack of time your death vacates.
How distant your are on your nickel-plated skates in the skating park in Berlin, gliding past me with your Count, while a military band plays a Strauss waltz.
I loved you last, a pleated old lady with a crooked hand.
Once you read Lohengrin and every goose hung high while you practiced castle life in Hanover.
Tonight your letters reduce history to a guess.
The count had a wife.
You were the old maid aunt who lived with us.
Tonight I read how the winter howled around the towers of Schloss Schwobber, how the tedious language grew in your jaw, how you loved the sound of the music of the rats tapping on the stone floors.
When you were mine you wore an earphone.
This is Wednesday, May 9th, near Lucerne, Switzerland, sixty-nine years ago.
I learn your first climb up Mount San Salvatore; this is the rocky path, the hole in your shoes, the yankee girl, the iron interior of her sweet body.
You let the Count choose your next climb.
You went together, armed with alpine stocks, with ham sandwiches and seltzer wasser.
You were not alarmed by the thick woods of briars and bushes, nor the rugged cliff, nor the first vertigo up over Lake Lucerne.
The Count sweated with his coat off as you waded through top snow.
He held your hand and kissed you.
You rattled down on the train to catch a steam boat for home; or other postmarks: Paris, verona, Rome.
This is Italy.
You learn its mother tongue.
I read how you walked on the Palatine among the ruins of the palace of the Caesars; alone in the Roman autumn, alone since July.
When you were mine they wrapped you out of here with your best hat over your face.
I cried because I was seventeen.
I am older now.
I read how your student ticket admitted you into the private chapel of the Vatican and how you cheered with the others, as we used to do on the fourth of July.
One Wednesday in November you watched a balloon, painted like a silver abll, float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors, to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional breeze.
You worked your New England conscience out beside artisans, chestnut vendors and the devout.
Tonight I will learn to love you twice; learn your first days, your mid-Victorian face.
Tonight I will speak up and interrupt your letters, warning you that wars are coming, that the Count will die, that you will accept your America back to live like a prim thing on the farm in Maine.
I tell you, you will come here, to the suburbs of Boston, to see the blue-nose world go drunk each night, to see the handsome children jitterbug, to feel your left ear close one Friday at Symphony.
And I tell you, you will tip your boot feet out of that hall, rocking from its sour sound, out onto the crowded street, letting your spectacles fall and your hair net tangle as you stop passers-by to mumble your guilty love while your ears die.
Written by Peter Orlovsky | Create an image from this poem

Snail Poem

 Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired
 & handsome felt,
Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at
 blown up clowd.
Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound of rain dribble thru this layer down to the roots that will tickle my ear.
Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away in sound curve or Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon trickle in my ear - no choise but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey turned.
Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor between weel & track.
So kitten string & ball, jumpe over this mound so gently & cutely So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely on its way.
1958 NYC
Written by Elinor Wylie | Create an image from this poem

The Puritans Ballad

 My love came up from Barnegat, 
The sea was in his eyes; 
He trod as softly as a cat 
And told me terrible lies.
His hair was yellow as new-cut pine In shavings curled and feathered; I thought how silver it would shine By cruel winters weathered.
But he was in his twentieth year, Ths time I'm speaking of; We were head over heels in love with fear And half a-feared of love.
My hair was piled in a copper crown -- A devilish living thing -- And the tortise-shell pins fell down, fell down, When that snake uncoiled to spring.
His feet were used to treading a gale And balancing thereon; His face was as brown as a foreign sail Threadbare against the sun.
His arms were thick as hickory logs Whittled to little wrists; Strong as the teeth of a terrier dog Were the fingers of his fists.
Within his arms I feared to sink Where lions shook their manes, And dragons drawn in azure ink Lept quickened by his veins.
Dreadful his strength and length of limb As the sea to foundering ships; I dipped my hands in love for him No deeper than the tips.
But our palms were welded by a flame The moment we came to part, And on his knuckles I read my name Enscrolled with a heart.
And something made our wills to bend, As wild as trees blown over; We were no longer friend and friend, But only lover and lover.
"In seven weeks or seventy years -- God grant it may be sooner! -- I'll make a hankerchief for you From the sails of my captain's schooner.
We'll wear our loves like wedding rings Long polished to our touch; We shall be busy with other things And they cannot bother us much.
When you are skimming the wrinkled cream And your ring clinks on the pan, You'll say to yourself in a pensive dream, 'How wonderful a man!' When I am slitting a fish's head And my ring clanks on the knife, I'll say with thanks as a prayer is said, 'How beautiful a wife!' And I shall fold my decorous paws In velvet smooth and deep, Like a kitten that covers up its claws To sleep and sleep and sleep.
Like a little blue pigeon you shall bow Your bright alarming crest; In the crook of my arm you'll lay your brow To rest and rest and rest.
Will he never come back from Barnegat With thunder in his eyes, Treading as soft as a tiger cat, To tell me terrible lies?
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Lullaby For The Cat

 Minnow, go to sleep and dream,
 Close your great big eyes;
Round your bed Events prepare
 The pleasantest surprise.
Darling Minnow, drop that frown, Just cooperate, Not a kitten shall be drowned In the Marxist State.
Joy and Love will both be yours, Minnow, don't be glum.
Happy days are coming soon-- Sleep, and let them come.
.
.
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Verse For a Certain Dog

 Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!) You look about, and all you see is fair; This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!) A skeptic world you face with steady gaze; High in young pride you hold your noble head, Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?) Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong, Yours the white rapture of a winged soul, Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!) "Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!) You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt, You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)


Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

If He Were Alive Today Mayhap Mr. Morgan Would Sit on the Midgets Lap

 "Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust" Advertisement in N.
Y.
Times When comes my second childhood, As to all men it must, I want to be a banker Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president Or even assistant veep, I'd only ask for a kiddie car And permission to go beep-beep.
The banker at Chase Manhattan, He bids a polite Good-day; The banker at Immigrant Savings Cries Scusi! and Olé! But I'd be a sleek Ferrari Or perhaps a joggly jeep, And scooting around at Bankers Trust, Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.
The trolley car used to say clang-clang And the choo-choo said toot-toot, But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten, Baa, says the woolly sheep, Oink, says the piggy-wiggy, And the banker says beep-beep.
So I want to play at Bankers Trust Like a hippety-hoppety bunny, And best of all, oh best of all, With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night Until my dream comes true, And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop And a big beep-beep adieu.
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

The Tale of Custard the Dragon

 Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called hum Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Written by Hart Crane | Create an image from this poem

Chaplinesque

 We will make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.
For we can still love the world, who find A famished kitten on the step, and know Recesses for it from the fury of the street, Or warm torn elbow coverts.
We will sidestep, and to the final smirk Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us, Facing the dull squint with what innocence And what surprise! And yet these fine collapses are not lies More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane; Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart: What blame to us if the heart live on.
The game enforces smirks; but we have seen The moon in lonely alleys make A grail of laughter of an empty ash can, And through all sound of gaiety and quest Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.
12