Best Famous Last Supper Poems

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

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• All Famous Last Supper Poems

Written by Sylvia Plath | A Birthday Present What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful? It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges? I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want. When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking 'Is this the one I am too appear for, Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar? Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus, Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules. Is this the one for the annunciation? My god, what a laugh!' But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me. I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button. I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year. After all I am alive only by accident. I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way. Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains, The diaphanous satins of a January window White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory! It must be a tusk there, a ghost column. Can you not see I do not mind what it is. Can you not give it to me? Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small. Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity. Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam, The glaze, the mirrory variety of it. Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate. I know why you will not give it to me, You are terrified The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it, Bossed, brazen, an antique shield, A marvel to your great-grandchildren. Do not be afraid, it is not so. I will only take it and go aside quietly. You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle, No falling ribbons, no scream at the end. I do not think you credit me with this discretion. If you only knew how the veils were killing my days. To you they are only transparencies, clear air. But my god, the clouds are like cotton. Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide. Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in, Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million Probable motes that tick the years off my life. You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine----- Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole? Must you stamp each piece purple, Must you kill what you can? There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me. It stands at my window, big as the sky. It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history. Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger. Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it. Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil. If it were death I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes. I would know you were serious. There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday. And the knife not carve, but enter Pure and clean as the cry of a baby, And the universe slide from my side.

Written by Bob Hicok | By Their Works Who cleaned up the Last Supper? These would be my people. Maybe hung over, wanting desperately a better job, standing with rags in hand as the window beckons with hills of yellow grass. In Da Vinci, the blue robed apostle gesturing at Christ is saying, give Him the check. What a mess they've made of their faith. My God would put a busboy on earth to roam among the waiters and remind them to share their tips. The woman who finished one half eaten olive and scooped the rest into her pockets, walked her tiny pride home to children who looked at her smile and saw the salvation of a meal. All that week at work she ignored customers who talked of Rome and silk and crucifixions, though she couldn't stop thinking of this man who said thank you each time she filled His glass.

Written by Rg Gregory | a reader's de profundis in my reading of the moment i have learned the figure next to christ in da vinci’s last supper (a painting i have actually seen in a milan church fragilely restored) is a woman – an honour earned by mary magdalene who (according to research) turns out to be christ’s wife – hang on what a whopper cry those who can’t contemplate centuries of teaching down the drain – who suck up to the precious thought of divine purity (eternity’s abstention from all the dirty business of the body) pasteurising preaching let christ stay a product of the time before the fall (da vinci had a darkness different from what’s taught) mona lisa (amon-isis) – enigmatic smile and code for male and female balance – offensive to the powers that ran the bible their way (hoodwinked future ages) turned the bright sun black to mask the path they strode wrapped their ascetic bloodstreams in the holy pages before which (even today) the congregation cowers da vinci was an artist scientist (probably a necromancer) had his own black sun – dabbled in the anti-matter that official truth hates (creates) – that nurtures riddles through passageways that breed the ill-reputed answer (soiled honour’s defence against sly caesar’s fiddles) hissing its way lightwards through conspiracy chatter christ had a woman at his right hand – locked together (so da vinci had the painting say) like the letter m the rumoured whore redeemed – the partner siamesed into the one flesh – sharing the equal tragic tether the whole edifice of the holy roman church teased into collapse – virginal rose snapped at the stem not that it seemed to make a difference – the vatican still had its glory years ahead (its gory inquisitions) da vinci stayed honoured in the breeches the word advanced though its priests wore skirts – the brutality of man multiplied its converts (scientifically enhanced) not one power in the world changed its dirty dispositions yesterday was aeons ago – tomorrow’s loath to come no one really cares if magdalene was wife or whore da vinci is someone to gawp at – all’s mutable (unreal) what’s truth - we still know bugger-all (live by rule of thumb) so educatedly dumb can’t trust what we think know feel a thriller brought this on – half opened a not-there door

Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | The Last Supper They are assembled, astonished and disturbed round him, who like a sage resolved his fate, and now leaves those to whom he most belonged, leaving and passing by them like a stranger. The loneliness of old comes over him which helped mature him for his deepest acts; now will he once again walk through the olive grove, and those who love him still will flee before his sight. To this last supper he has summoned them, and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees) their hands draw back from reaching for the loaves upon his word: they fly across to him; they flutter, frightened, round the supper table searching for an escape. But he is present everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour. [On seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper", Milan 1904.]

Written by Robert William Service | The Last Supper Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, And the mouth so mocking gay, A wanton you to the finger-tips, Who break men's hearts in play; A thing of dust I have striven for, Honour and manhood given for, Headlong to ruin driven for, And this is the last, you say. . . . Drinking your wine with dainty sips, Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips. Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, ong have you held your sway; I have laughed at your merry quips - Now is my time to pay. What we sow we must reap again; When we laugh we must weep again; So to-night we will sleep again, Nor wake until Judgement Day. . . . 'Tis a poisoned wine that your palate lips, Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips. Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, Down on your knees and pray; Pray your last ere the moment slips, Pray ere the dark and the terror grips, And the bright world fades away. Pray for the peace and the rest of us: Here comes the Shape in quest of us, Now we must go away. . . . You and I in the grave's eclipse, Marie Vaux of the painted Lips.