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Best Famous Lobster Poems

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

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Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem


 RESPONDEZ! Respondez! 
(The war is completed—the price is paid—the title is settled beyond recall;) 
Let every one answer! let those who sleep be waked! let none evade! 
Must we still go on with our affectations and sneaking? 
Let me bring this to a close—I pronounce openly for a new distribution of roles;
Let that which stood in front go behind! and let that which was behind advance to the
 front and
Let murderers, bigots, fools, unclean persons, offer new propositions! 
Let the old propositions be postponed! 
Let faces and theories be turn’d inside out! let meanings be freely criminal, as well
Let there be no suggestion above the suggestion of drudgery!
Let none be pointed toward his destination! (Say! do you know your destination?) 
Let men and women be mock’d with bodies and mock’d with Souls! 
Let the love that waits in them, wait! let it die, or pass stillborn to other spheres! 
Let the sympathy that waits in every man, wait! or let it also pass, a dwarf, to other

Let contradictions prevail! let one thing contradict another! and let one line of my poems
 contradict another!
Let the people sprawl with yearning, aimless hands! let their tongues be broken! let their
 be discouraged! let none descend into their hearts with the fresh lusciousness of love! 
(Stifled, O days! O lands! in every public and private corruption! 
Smother’d in thievery, impotence, shamelessness, mountain-high; 
Brazen effrontery, scheming, rolling like ocean’s waves around and upon you, O my
 days! my
For not even those thunderstorms, nor fiercest lightnings of the war, have purified the
—Let the theory of America still be management, caste, comparison! (Say! what other
 would you?) 
Let them that distrust birth and death still lead the rest! (Say! why shall they not lead

Let the crust of hell be neared and trod on! let the days be darker than the nights! let
 slumber bring less slumber than waking time brings! 
Let the world never appear to him or her for whom it was all made! 
Let the heart of the young man still exile itself from the heart of the old man! and let
 heart of the old man be exiled from that of the young man!
Let the sun and moon go! let scenery take the applause of the audience! let there be
 under the stars! 
Let freedom prove no man’s inalienable right! every one who can tyrannize, let him
 tyrannize to his satisfaction! 
Let none but infidels be countenanced! 
Let the eminence of meanness, treachery, sarcasm, hate, greed, indecency, impotence, lust,
 taken for granted above all! let writers, judges, governments, households, religions,
 philosophies, take such for granted above all! 
Let the worst men beget children out of the worst women!
Let the priest still play at immortality! 
Let death be inaugurated! 
Let nothing remain but the ashes of teachers, artists, moralists, lawyers, and
 learn’d and
 polite persons! 
Let him who is without my poems be assassinated! 
Let the cow, the horse, the camel, the garden-bee—let the mudfish, the lobster, the
 mussel, eel, the sting-ray, and the grunting pig-fish—let these, and the like of
 these, be
 put on a perfect equality with man and woman!
Let churches accommodate serpents, vermin, and the corpses of those who have died of the
 filthy of diseases! 
Let marriage slip down among fools, and be for none but fools! 
Let men among themselves talk and think forever obscenely of women! and let women among
 themselves talk and think obscenely of men! 
Let us all, without missing one, be exposed in public, naked, monthly, at the peril of our
 lives! let our bodies be freely handled and examined by whoever chooses! 
Let nothing but copies at second hand be permitted to exist upon the earth!
Let the earth desert God, nor let there ever henceforth be mention’d the name of God!

Let there be no God! 
Let there be money, business, imports, exports, custom, authority, precedents, pallor,
 dyspepsia, smut, ignorance, unbelief! 
Let judges and criminals be transposed! let the prison-keepers be put in prison! let those
 were prisoners take the keys! Say! why might they not just as well be transposed?) 
Let the slaves be masters! let the masters become slaves!
Let the reformers descend from the stands where they are forever bawling! let an idiot or
 insane person appear on each of the stands! 
Let the Asiatic, the African, the European, the American, and the Australian, go armed
 the murderous stealthiness of each other! let them sleep armed! let none believe in good
Let there be no unfashionable wisdom! let such be scorn’d and derided off from the
Let a floating cloud in the sky—let a wave of the sea—let growing mint, spinach,
 onions, tomatoes—let these be exhibited as shows, at a great price for admission! 
Let all the men of These States stand aside for a few smouchers! let the few seize on what
 choose! let the rest gawk, giggle, starve, obey!
Let shadows be furnish’d with genitals! let substances be deprived of their genitals!

Let there be wealthy and immense cities—but still through any of them, not a single
 savior, knower, lover! 
Let the infidels of These States laugh all faith away! 
If one man be found who has faith, let the rest set upon him! 
Let them affright faith! let them destroy the power of breeding faith!
Let the she-harlots and the he-harlots be prudent! let them dance on, while seeming lasts!
 seeming! seeming! seeming!) 
Let the preachers recite creeds! let them still teach only what they have been taught! 
Let insanity still have charge of sanity! 
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds! 
Let the daub’d portraits of heroes supersede heroes!
Let the manhood of man never take steps after itself! 
Let it take steps after eunuchs, and after consumptive and genteel persons! 
Let the white person again tread the black person under his heel! (Say! which is trodden
 heel, after all?) 
Let the reflections of the things of the world be studied in mirrors! let the things
 still continue unstudied! 
Let a man seek pleasure everywhere except in himself!
Let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself! 
(What real happiness have you had one single hour through your whole life?) 
Let the limited years of life do nothing for the limitless years of death! (What do you
 death will do, then?)

Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem


 You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with 
 his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.
You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now? You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines? The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread in the water? I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.
I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange.
I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
Written by Jack Prelutsky | Create an image from this poem

Bleezers Ice Cream

 I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
there are flavors in my freezer
you have never seen before,
twenty-eight divine creations
too delicious to resist,
why not do yourself a favor,
try the flavors on my list:


I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
taste a flavor from my freezer,
you will surely ask for more.
Written by Robert Lowell | Create an image from this poem


 It was a Maine lobster town—
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,

and left dozens of bleak 
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a hill of rock,

and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick 
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.
Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.
>From this distance in time it seems the color of iris, rotting and turning purpler, but it was only the usual gray rock turning the usual green when drenched by the sea.
The sea drenched the rock at our feet all day, and kept tearing away flake after flake.
One night you dreamed you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile, and trying to pull off the barnacles with your hands.
We wished our two souls might return like gulls to the rock.
In the end, the water was too cold for us.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

At the Fishhouses

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered with creamy iridescent coats of mail, with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses, set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, is an ancient wooden capstan, cracked, with two long bleached handles and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population and of codfish and herring while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
Down at the water's edge, at the place where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp descending into the water, thin silver tree trunks are laid horizontally across the gray stones, down and down at intervals of four or five feet.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, element bearable to no mortal, to fish and to seals .
One seal particularly I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me.
He was interested in music; like me a believer in total immersion, so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.
" He stood up in the water and regarded me steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, the clear gray icy water .
Back, behind us, the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows, a million Christmas trees stand waiting for Christmas.
The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in, your wrist would ache immediately, your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn as if the water were a transmutation of fire that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, derived from the rocky breasts forever, flowing and drawn, and since our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

The Clean Plater

 Some singers sing of ladies' eyes,
And some of ladies lips,
Refined ones praise their ladylike ways,
And course ones hymn their hips.
The Oxford Book of English Verse Is lush with lyrics tender; A poet, I guess, is more or less Preoccupied with gender.
Yet I, though custom call me crude, Prefer to sing in praise of food.
Food, Yes, food, Just any old kind of food.
Pheasant is pleasant, of course, And terrapin, too, is tasty, Lobster I freely endorse, In pate or patty or pasty.
But there's nothing the matter with butter, And nothing the matter with jam, And the warmest greetings I utter To the ham and the yam and the clam.
For they're food, All food, And I think very fondly of food.
Through I'm broody at times When bothered by rhymes, I brood On food.
Some painters paint the sapphire sea, And some the gathering storm.
Others portray young lambs at play, But most, the female form.
“Twas trite in that primeval dawn When painting got its start, That a lady with her garments on Is Life, but is she Art? By undraped nymphs I am not wooed; I'd rather painters painted food.
Food, Just food, Just any old kind of food.
Go purloin a sirloin, my pet, If you'd win a devotion incredible; And asparagus tips vinaigrette, Or anything else that is edible.
Bring salad or sausage or scrapple, A berry or even a beet.
Bring an oyster, an egg, or an apple, As long as it's something to eat.
If it's food, It's food; Never mind what kind of food.
When I ponder my mind I consistently find It is glued On food.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Death Baby

DREAMS I was an ice baby.
I turned to sky blue.
My tears became two glass beads.
My mouth stiffened into a dumb howl.
They say it was a dream but I remember that hardening.
My sister at six dreamt nightly of my death: "The baby turned to ice.
Someone put her in the refrigerator and she turned as hard as a Popsicle.
" I remember the stink of the liverwurst.
How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon.
The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
The milk bottle hissed like a snake.
The tomatoes vomited up their stomachs.
The caviar turned to lave.
The pimentos kissed like cupids.
I moved like a lobster, slower and slower.
The air was tiny.
The air would not do.
* I was at the dogs' party.
I was their bone.
I had been laid out in their kennel like a fresh turkey.
This was my sister's dream but I remember that quartering; I remember the sickbed smell of the sawdust floor, the pink eyes, the pink tongues and the teeth, those nails.
I had been carried out like Moses and hidden by the paws of ten Boston bull terriers, ten angry bulls jumping like enormous roaches.
At first I was lapped, rough as sandpaper.
I became very clean.
Then my arm was missing.
I was coming apart.
They loved me until I was gone.
THE DY-DEE DOLL My Dy-dee doll died twice.
Once when I snapped her head off and let if float in the toilet and once under the sun lamp trying to get warm she melted.
She was a gloom, her face embracing her little bent arms.
She died in all her rubber wisdom.
SEVEN TIMES I died seven times in seven ways letting death give me a sign, letting death place his mark on my forehead, crossed over, crossed over And death took root in that sleep.
In that sleep I held an ice baby and I rocked it and was rocked by it.
Oh Madonna, hold me.
I am a small handful.
MADONNA My mother died unrocked, unrocked.
Weeks at her deathbed seeing her thrust herself against the metal bars, thrashing like a fish on the hook and me low at her high stage, letting the priestess dance alone, wanting to place my head in her lap or even take her in my arms somehow and fondle her twisted gray hair.
But her rocking horse was pain with vomit steaming from her mouth.
Her belly was big with another child, cancer's baby, big as a football.
I could not soothe.
With every hump and crack there was less Madonna until that strange labor took her.
Then the room was bankrupt.
That was the end of her paying.
MAX Max and I two immoderate sisters, two immoderate writers, two burdeners, made a pact.
To beat death down with a stick.
To take over.
To build our death like carpenters.
When she had a broken back, each night we built her sleep.
Talking on the hot line until her eyes pulled down like shades.
And we agreed in those long hushed phone calls that when the moment comes we'll talk turkey, we'll shoot words straight from the hip, we'll play it as it lays.
Yes, when death comes with its hood we won't be polite.
BABY Death, you lie in my arms like a cherub, as heavy as bread dough.
Your milky wings are as still as plastic.
Hair soft as music.
Hair the color of a harp.
And eyes made of glass, as brittle as crystal.
Each time I rock you I think you will break.
I rock.
I rock.
Glass eye, ice eye, primordial eye, lava eye, pin eye, break eye, how you stare back! Like the gaze if small children you know all about me.
You have worn my underwear.
You have read my newspaper.
You have seen my father whip me.
You have seen my stroke my father's whip.
I rock.
I rock.
We plunge back and forth comforting each other.
We are stone.
We are carved, a pietà that swings.
Outside, the world is a chilly army.
Outside, the sea is brought to its knees.
Outside, Pakistan is swallowed in a mouthful.
I rock.
I rock.
You are my stone child with still eyes like marbles.
There is a death baby for each of us.
We own him.
His smell is our smell.
There is a tenderness.
There is a love for this dumb traveler waiting in his pink covers.
Someday, heavy with cancer or disaster I will look up at Max and say: It is time.
Hand me the death baby and there will be that final rocking.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

The Lobster Quadrille

 "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won' t you, won' t you join the dance? "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? Will you, won' t you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance ?"
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Phantasmagoria CANTO V ( Byckerment )

 "DON'T they consult the 'Victims,' though?"
I said.
"They should, by rights, Give them a chance - because, you know, The tastes of people differ so, Especially in Sprites.
" The Phantom shook his head and smiled.
"Consult them? Not a bit! 'Twould be a job to drive one wild, To satisfy one single child - There'd be no end to it!" "Of course you can't leave CHILDREN free," Said I, "to pick and choose: But, in the case of men like me, I think 'Mine Host' might fairly be Allowed to state his views.
" He said "It really wouldn't pay - Folk are so full of fancies.
We visit for a single day, And whether then we go, or stay, Depends on circumstances.
"And, though we don't consult 'Mine Host' Before the thing's arranged, Still, if he often quits his post, Or is not a well-mannered Ghost, Then you can have him changed.
"But if the host's a man like you - I mean a man of sense; And if the house is not too new - " "Why, what has THAT," said I, "to do With Ghost's convenience?" "A new house does not suit, you know - It's such a job to trim it: But, after twenty years or so, The wainscotings begin to go, So twenty is the limit.
" "To trim" was not a phrase I could Remember having heard: "Perhaps," I said, "you'll be so good As tell me what is understood Exactly by that word?" "It means the loosening all the doors," The Ghost replied, and laughed: "It means the drilling holes by scores In all the skirting-boards and floors, To make a thorough draught.
"You'll sometimes find that one or two Are all you really need To let the wind come whistling through - But HERE there'll be a lot to do!" I faintly gasped "Indeed! "If I 'd been rather later, I'll Be bound," I added, trying (Most unsuccessfully) to smile, "You'd have been busy all this while, Trimming and beautifying?" "Why, no," said he; "perhaps I should Have stayed another minute - But still no Ghost, that's any good, Without an introduction would Have ventured to begin it.
"The proper thing, as you were late, Was certainly to go: But, with the roads in such a state, I got the Knight-Mayor's leave to wait For half an hour or so.
" "Who's the Knight-Mayor?" I cried.
Instead Of answering my question, "Well, if you don't know THAT," he said, "Either you never go to bed, Or you've a grand digestion! "He goes about and sits on folk That eat too much at night: His duties are to pinch, and poke, And squeeze them till they nearly choke.
" (I said "It serves them right!") "And folk who sup on things like these - " He muttered, "eggs and bacon - Lobster - and duck - and toasted cheese - If they don't get an awful squeeze, I'm very much mistaken! "He is immensely fat, and so Well suits the occupation: In point of fact, if you must know, We used to call him years ago, THE MAYOR AND CORPORATION! "The day he was elected Mayor I KNOW that every Sprite meant To vote for ME, but did not dare - He was so frantic with despair And furious with excitement.
"When it was over, for a whim, He ran to tell the King; And being the reverse of slim, A two-mile trot was not for him A very easy thing.
"So, to reward him for his run (As it was baking hot, And he was over twenty stone), The King proceeded, half in fun, To knight him on the spot.
" "'Twas a great liberty to take!" (I fired up like a rocket).
"He did it just for punning's sake: 'The man,' says Johnson, 'that would make A pun, would pick a pocket!'" "A man," said he, "is not a King.
" I argued for a while, And did my best to prove the thing - The Phantom merely listening With a contemptuous smile.
At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking - "Your AIM," he said, "is excellent: But - when you call it ARGUMENT - Of course you're only joking?" Stung by his cold and snaky eye, I roused myself at length To say "At least I do defy The veriest sceptic to deny That union is strength!" "That's true enough," said he, "yet stay - " I listened in all meekness - "UNION is strength, I'm bound to say; In fact, the thing's as clear as day; But ONIONS are a weakness.
Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

The Steeple-Jack

 Dürer would have seen a reason for living
 in a town like this, with eight stranded whales
to look at; with the sweet sea air coming into your house
on a fine day, from water etched
 with waves as formal as the scales
on a fish.
One by one in two's and three's, the seagulls keep flying back and forth over the town clock, or sailing around the lighthouse without moving their wings -- rising steadily with a slight quiver of the body -- or flock mewing where a sea the purple of the peacock's neck is paled to greenish azure as Dürer changed the pine green of the Tyrol to peacock blue and guinea gray.
You can see a twenty-five- pound lobster; and fish nets arranged to dry.
The whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.
Disguised by what might seem the opposite, the sea- side flowers and trees are favored by the fog so that you have the tropics first hand: the trumpet-vine, fox-glove, giant snap-dragon, a salpiglossis that has spots and stripes; morning-glories, gourds, or moon-vines trained on fishing-twine at the back door; cat-tails, flags, blueberries and spiderwort, striped grass, lichens, sunflowers, asters, daisies -- yellow and crab-claw ragged sailors with green bracts -- toad-plant, petunias, ferns; pink lilies, blue ones, tigers; poppies; black sweet-peas.
The climate is not right for the banyan, frangipani, or jack-fruit trees; or for exotic serpent life.
Ring lizard and snake-skin for the foot, if you see fit; but here they've cats, not cobras, to keep down the rats.
The diffident little newt with white pin-dots on black horizontal spaced- out bands lives here; yet there is nothing that ambition can buy or take away.
The college student named Ambrose sits on the hillside with his not-native books and hat and sees boats at sea progress white and rigid as if in a groove.
Liking an elegance of which the sourch is not bravado, he knows by heart the antique sugar-bowl shaped summer-house of interlacing slats, and the pitch of the church spire, not true, from which a man in scarlet lets down a rope as a spider spins a thread; he might be part of a novel, but on the sidewalk a sign says C.
Poole, Steeple Jack, in black and white; and one in red and white says Danger.
The church portico has four fluted columns, each a single piece of stone, made modester by white-wash.
Theis would be a fit haven for waifs, children, animals, prisoners, and presidents who have repaid sin-driven senators by not thinking about them.
The place has a school-house, a post-office in a store, fish-houses, hen-houses, a three-masted schooner on the stocks.
The hero, the student, the steeple-jack, each in his way, is at home.
It could not be dangerous to be living in a town like this, of simple people, who have a steeple-jack placing danger signs by the church while he is gilding the solid- pointed star, which on a steeple stands for hope.