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Best Famous Matter Of Fact Poems

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

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Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Birches

 When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that.
Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain.
They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm, I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows-- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer.
He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground.
He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return.
Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~ And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.


Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Photography Extraordinary

 The Milk-and-Water School 
Alas! she would not hear my prayer!
Yet it were rash to tear my hair;
Disfigured, I should be less fair.
She was unwise, I may say blind; Once she was lovingly inclined; Some circumstance has changed her mind.
The Strong-Minded or Matter-of-Fact School Well! so my offer was no go! She might do worse, I told her so; She was a fool to answer "No".
However, things are as they stood; Nor would I have her if I could, For there are plenty more as good.
The Spasmodic or German School Firebrands and Daggers! hope hath fled! To atoms dash the doubly dead! My brain is fire--my heart is lead! Her soul is flint, and what am I? Scorch'd by her fierce, relentless eye, Nothingness is my destiny!
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Called Into Play

 Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads

and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St.
Nick: where am I going to find something to write about I haven't already written away: I will have to stop short, look down, look up, look close, think, think, think: but in what range should I think: should I figure colors and outlines, given forms, say mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is behind what and what behind that, deep down where the surface has lost its semblance: or should I think personally, such as, this week seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is something going on: something besides this diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I could draw up an ancient memory which would wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill out my dreams with high syntheses turned into concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite perfected yet: the gods could get down on each other; the big gods could fly in from nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4 interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess I can jostle those.
.
.
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Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Cripples And Other Stories

 My doctor, the comedian
I called you every time
and made you laugh yourself
when I wrote this silly rhyme.
.
.
Each time I give lectures or gather in the grants you send me off to boarding school in training pants.
God damn it, father-doctor, I'm really thirty-six.
I see dead rats in the toilet.
I'm one of the lunatics.
Disgusted, mother put me on the potty.
She was good at this.
My father was fat on scotch.
It leaked from every orifice.
Oh the enemas of childhood, reeking of outhouses and shame! Yet you rock me in your arms and whisper my nickname.
Or else you hold my hand and teach me love too late.
And that's the hand of the arm they tried to amputate.
Though I was almost seven I was an awful brat.
I put it in the Easy Wringer.
It came out nice and flat.
I was an instant cripple from my finger to my shoulder.
The laundress wept and swooned.
My mother had to hold her.
I know I was a cripple.
Of course, I'd known it from the start.
My father took the crowbar and broke the wringer's heart.
The surgeons shook their heads.
They really didn't know-- Would the cripple inside of me be a cripple that would show? My father was a perfect man, clean and rich and fat.
My mother was a brilliant thing.
She was good at that.
You hold me in your arms.
How strange that you're so tender! Child-woman that I am, you think that you can mend her.
As for the arm, unfortunately it grew.
Though mother said a withered arm would put me in Who's Who.
For years she has described it.
She sang it like a hymn.
By then she loved the shrunken thing, my little withered limb.
My father's cells clicked each night, intent on making money.
And as for my cells, they brooded, little queens, on honey.
Oh boys too, as a matter of fact, and cigarettes and cars.
Mother frowned at my wasted life.
My father smoked cigars.
My cheeks blossomed with maggots.
I picked at them like pearls.
I covered them with pancake.
I wound my hair in curls.
My father didn't know me but you kiss me in my fever.
My mother knew me twice and then I had to leave her.
But those are just two stories and I have more to tell from the outhouse, the greenhouse where you draw me out of hell.
Father, I am thirty-six, yet I lie here in your crib.
I'm getting born again, Adam, as you prod me with your rib.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten

 To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Here lies a kitten good, who kept A kitten's proper place.
He stole no pantry eatables, Nor scratched the baby's face.
He let the alley-cats alone.
He had no yowling vice.
His shirt was always laundried well, He freed the house of mice.
Until his death he had not caused His little mistress tears, He wore his ribbon prettily, He washed behind his ears.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Route Marchin

 We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
 With its best foot first
 And the road a-sliding past,
 An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
 While the Big Drum says,
 With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!" --
 "Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?"*

* Why don't you get on?

Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,
An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,
An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.
While it's best foot first, .
.
.
At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come, Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.
But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts, While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.
An' it's best foot first, .
.
.
Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings, An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things, An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at, An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.
* An' it's best foot first, .
.
.
* Language.
Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani.
As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language.
It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease, To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees, For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards, So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.
Till it's best foot first, .
.
.
So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore, There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore; An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell, You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.
For it's best foot first, .
.
.
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand, Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band; Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed, There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road; With its best foot first And the road a-sliding past, An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last; While the Big Drum says, With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!" -- "Kiko kissywarsti don't you amsher argy jow?"
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Solid Ironical Rolling Orb

 SOLID, ironical, rolling orb! 
Master of all, and matter of fact!—at last I accept your terms; 
Bringing to practical, vulgar tests, of all my ideal dreams, 
And of me, as lover and hero.