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Best Famous Medium Poems

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

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Written by John Masefield | Create an image from this poem

A Ballad of John Silver

 We were schooner-rigged and rakish, 
with a long and lissome hull, 
And we flew the pretty colours of the crossbones and the skull; 
We'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore, 
And we sailed the Spanish Water in the happy days of yore.
We'd a long brass gun amidships, like a well-conducted ship, We had each a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip; It's a point which tells against us, and a fact to be deplored, But we chased the goodly merchant-men and laid their ships aboard.
Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains, And the paint-work all was spatter dashed with other peoples brains, She was boarded, she was looted, she was scuttled till she sank.
And the pale survivors left us by the medium of the plank.
O! then it was (while standing by the taffrail on the poop) We could hear the drowning folk lament the absent chicken coop; Then, having washed the blood away, we'd little else to do Than to dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught us to.
O! the fiddle on the fo'c'sle, and the slapping naked soles, And the genial "Down the middle, Jake, and curtsey when she rolls!" With the silver seas around us and the pale moon overhead, And the look-out not a-looking and his pipe-bowl glowing red.
Ah! the pig-tailed, quidding pirates and the pretty pranks we played, All have since been put a stop to by the naughty Board of Trade; The schooners and the merry crews are laid away to rest, A little south the sunset in the islands of the Blest.

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


 1) An individual spider web
identifies a species:

an order of instinct prevails
 through all accidents of circumstance,
  though possibility is
high along the peripheries of
   you can go all
  around the fringing attachments

  and find
disorder ripe,
entropy rich, high levels of random,
 numerous occasions of accident:

2) the possible settings
of a web are infinite:

 how does
the spider keep
 while creating the web
 in a particular place?

 how and to what extent
  and by what modes of chemistry
  and control?

it is
 how things work: I will tell you
   about it

it is interesting
and because whatever is
moves in weeds
 and stars and spider webs
and known
   is loved:
  in that love,
  each of us knowing it,
  I love you,

for it moves within and beyond us,
  sizzles in
to winter grasses, darts and hangs with bumblebees
by summer windowsills:

   I will show you
the underlying that takes no image to itself,
 cannot be shown or said,
but weaves in and out of moons and bladderweeds,
   is all and
 beyond destruction
 because created fully in no
particular form:

   if the web were perfectly pre-set,
   the spider could
  never find
  a perfect place to set it in: and

   if the web were
perfectly adaptable,
if freedom and possibility were without limit,
   the web would
lose its special identity:

 the row-strung garden web
keeps order at the center
where space is freest (intersecting that the freest
  "medium" should
  accept the firmest order)

and that
   diminishes toward the
 allowing at the points of contact
  entropy equal to entropy.
Written by Mark Doty | Create an image from this poem


 When I heard he had entered the harbor,
and circled the wharf for days,
I expected the worst: shallow water,

confusion, some accident to bring
the young humpback to grief.
Don't they depend on a compass lodged in the salt-flooded folds of the brain, some delicate musical mechanism to navigate their true course? How many ways, in our century's late iron hours, might we have led him to disaster? That, in those days, was how I'd come to see the world: dark upon dark, any sense of spirit an embattled flame sparked against wind-driven rain till pain snuffed it out.
I thought, This is what experience gives us , and I moved carefully through my life while I waited.
Enough, it wasn't that way at all.
The whale —exuberant, proud maybe, playful, like the early music of Beethoven— cruised the footings for smelts clustered near the pylons in mercury flocks.
He (do I have the gender right?) would negotiate the rusty hulls of the Portuguese fishing boats —Holy Infant, Little Marie— with what could only be read as pleasure, coming close then diving, trailing on the surface big spreading circles until he'd breach, thrilling us with the release of pressured breath, and the bulk of his sleek young head —a wet black leather sofa already barnacled with ghostly lice— and his elegant and unlikely mouth, and the marvelous afterthought of the flukes, and the way his broad flippers resembled a pair of clownish gloves or puppet hands, looming greenish white beneath the bay's clouded sheen.
When he had consumed his pleasure of the shimmering swarm, his pleasure, perhaps, in his own admired performance, he swam out the harbor mouth, into the Atlantic.
And though grief has seemed to me itself a dim, salt suspension in which I've moved, blind thing, day by day, through the wreckage, barely aware of what I stumbled toward, even I couldn't help but look at the way this immense figure graces the dark medium, and shines so: heaviness which is no burden to itself.
What did you think, that joy was some slight thing?
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Vanity Fair

 Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might 
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.
At eye's envious corner Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf; Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue Backtalks at the raven Claeving furred air Over her skull's midden; no knife Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit Waylays simple girls, church-going, And what heart's oven Craves most to cook batter Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf, Ready, for a trinket, To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding, Flesh unshriven.
Against virgin prayer This sorceress sets mirrors enough To distract beauty's thought; Lovesick at first fond song, Each vain girl's driven To believe beyond heart's flare No fire is, nor in any book proof Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut; So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven Vies with best queen over Right to blaze as satan's wife; Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long, Staked in pride's coven.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem


 There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself --
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind? Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world, There is only sourness.
This red wall winces continually: A red fist, opening and closing, Two grey, papery bags -- This is what i am made of, this, and a terror Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these! Cold blanks approach us: They move in a hurry.

Written by Charlotte Turner Smith | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XLVII: To Fancy

 Thee, Queen of Shadows! -- shall I still invoke,
Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew,
When on mine eyes the early radiance broke
Which shew'd the beauteous rather than the true!
Alas! long since those glowing tints are dead,
And now 'tis thine in darkest hues to dress
The spot where pale Experience hangs her head
O'er the sad grave of murder'd Happiness!
Thro' thy false medium, then, no longer view'd,
May fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly,
And I, as from me all thy dreams depart,
Be to my wayward destiny subdued:
Nor seek perfection with a poet's eye,
Nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart!
Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

Song of Fortune VI

 Man and I are sweethearts 
He craves me and I long for him, 
But alas! Between us has appeared 
A rival who brings us misery.
She is cruel and demanding, Possessing empty lure.
Her name is Substance.
She follows wherever we go And watches like a sentinel, bringing Restlessness to my lover.
I ask for my beloved in the forest, Under the trees, by the lakes.
I cannot find him, for Substance Has spirited him to the clamorous City and placed him on the throne Of quaking, metal riches.
I call for him with the voice of Knowledge and the song of Wisdom.
He does not hearken, for Substance Has enticed him into the dungeon Of selfishness, where avarice dwells.
I seek him in the field of Contentment, But I am alone, for my rival has Imprisoned him in the cave of gluttony And greed, and locked him there With painful chains of gold.
I call to him at dawn, when Nature smiles, But he does not hear, for excess has Laden his drugged eyes with sick slumber.
I beguile him at eventide, when Silence rules And the flowers sleep.
But he responds not, For his fear over what the morrow will Bring, shadows his thoughts.
He yearns to love me; He asks for me in this own acts.
But he Will find me not except in God's acts.
He seeks me in the edifices of his glory Which he has built upon the bones of others; He whispers to me from among His heaps of gold and silver; But he will find me only by coming to The house of Simplicity which God has built At the brink of the stream of affection.
He desires to kiss me before his coffers, But his lips will never touch mine except In the richness of the pure breeze.
He asks me to share with him his Fabulous wealth, but I will not forsake God's Fortune; I will not cast off my cloak of beauty.
He seeks deceit for medium; I seek only The medium of his heart.
He bruises his heart in his narrow cell; I would enrich his heart with all my love.
My beloved has learned how to shriek and Cry for my enemy, Substance; I would Teach him how to shed tears of affection And mercy from the eyes of his soul For all things, And utter sighs of contentment through Those tears.
Man is my sweetheart; I want to belong to him.
Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem

The Old And The New Masters

 About suffering, about adoration, the old masters 
When someone suffers, no one else eats Or walks or opens the window--no one breathes As the sufferers watch the sufferer.
In St.
Sebastian Mourned by St.
Irene The flame of one torch is the only light.
All the eyes except the maidservant's (she weeps And covers them with a cloth) are fixed on the shaft Set in his chest like a column; St.
Irene's Hands are spread in the gesture of the Madonna, Revealing, accepting, what she does not understand.
Her hands say: "Lo! Behold!" Beside her a monk's hooded head is bowed, his hands Are put together in the work of mourning.
It is as if they were still looking at the lance Piercing the side of Christ, nailed on his cross.
The same nails pierce all their hands and feet, the same Thin blood, mixed with water, trickles from their sides.
The taste of vinegar is on every tongue That gasps, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" They watch, they are, the one thing in the world.
So, earlier, everything is pointed In van der Goes' Nativity, toward the naked Shining baby, like the needle of a compass.
The different orders and sizes of the world: The angels like Little People, perched in the rafters Or hovering in mid-air like hummingbirds; The shepherds, so big and crude, so plainly adoring; The medium-sized donor, his little family, And their big patron saints; the Virgin who kneels Before her child in worship; the Magi out in the hills With their camels--they ask directions, and have pointed out By a man kneeling, the true way; the ox And the donkey, two heads in the manger So much greater than a human head, who also adore; Even the offerings, a sheaf of wheat, A jar and a glass of flowers, are absolutely still In natural concentration, as they take their part In the salvation of the natural world.
The time of the world concentrates On this one instant: far off in the rocks You can see Mary and Joseph and their donkey Coming to Bethlehem; on the grassy hillside Where their flocks are grazing, the shepherds gesticulate In wonder at the star; and so many hundreds Of years in the future, the donor, his wife, And their children are kneeling, looking: everything That was or will be in the world is fixed On its small, helpless, human center.
After a while the masters show the crucifixion In one corner of the canvas: the men come to see What is important, see that it is not important.
The new masters paint a subject as they please, And Veronese is prosecuted by the Inquisition For the dogs playing at the feet of Christ, The earth is a planet among galaxies.
Later Christ disappears, the dogs disappear: in abstract Understanding, without adoration, the last master puts Colors on canvas, a picture of the universe In which a bright spot somewhere in the corner Is the small radioactive planet men called Earth.
Written by Judy Grahn | Create an image from this poem

Helen In Hollywood

 When she goes to Hollywood
she is an angel.
She writes in red red lipstick on the window of her body, long for me, oh need me! Parts her lips like a lotus.
Opening night she stands, poised on her carpet, luminescent, young men humming all around her.
She is flying.
Her high heels are wands, her furs electric.
Her bracelets flashing.
How completely dazzling her complexion, how vibrant her hair and eyes, how brilliant the glow that spreads four full feet around her.
She is totally self conscious self contained self centered, caught in the blazing central eye of our attention.
We infuse her.
Fans, we wave at her like handmaids, unabashedly, we crowd on tiptoe pressed together just to feel the fission of the star that lives on earth, the bright, the angel sun the luminescent glow of someone other than we.
Look! Look! She is different.
Medium for all our energy as we pour it through her.
Vessel of light, Her flesh is like flax, a living fiber.
She is the symbol of our dreams and fears and bloody visions, all our metaphors for living in America.
Harlowe, Holiday, Monroe Helen When she goes to Hollywood she is the fire for all purposes.
Her flesh is like dark wax, a candle.
She is from any place or class.
"That's the one," we say in instant recognition, because our breath is taken by her beauty, or what we call her beauty.
She is glowing from every pore.
we adore her.
we imitate and rob her adulate envy admire neglect scorn.
leave alone invade, fill ourselves with her.
we love her, we say and if she isn't careful we may even kill her.
Opening night she lands on her carpet, long fingered hands like divining rods bobbing and drawing the strands of our attention, as limousine drivers in blue jackets stand on the hoods of their cars to see the angel, talking Davis, Dietrich, Wood Tyson, Taylor, Gabor Helen, when she goes to Hollywood to be a walking star, to be an actor She is far more that a product of Max Factor, Max Factor didn't make her though the make-up helps us see what we would like to take her for her flesh is like glass, a chandelier a mirror Harlowe, Holiday, Monroe Helen when she went to Hollywood to be an angel And it is she and not we who is different She who marries the crown prince who leads the processional dance, she who sweeps eternally down the steps in her long round gown.
A leaping, laughing leading lady, she is our flower.
It is she who lies strangled in the bell tower; she who is monumentally drunk and suicidal or locked waiting in the hightower, she who lies sweating with the vicious jungle fever, who leaps from her blue window when he will, if he will, leave her it is she and not we who is the lotus It is she with the lilies in her hair and a keyboard beside her, the dark flesh glowing She whose wet lips nearly swallow the microphone, whose whiskey voice is precise and sultry and overwhelming, she who is princess and harlequin, athlete and moll and whore and lady, goddess of the silver screen the only original American queen and Helen when she was an angel when she went to Hollywood
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Three Bares

 Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em clean
And so she thought she'd soak 'em in a bucket o' benzine.
It worked all right.
She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd do With all that bucket load of high explosive residue.
She knew that it was dangerous to scatter it around, For Grandpa liked to throw his lighted matches on the ground.
Somehow she didn't dare to pour it down the kitchen sink, And what the heck to do with it, poor Ma jest couldn't think.
Then Nature seemed to give the clue, as down the garden lot She spied the edifice that graced a solitary spot, Their Palace of Necessity, the family joy and pride, Enshrined in morning-glory vine, with graded seats inside; Jest like that cabin Goldylocks found occupied by three, But in this case B-E-A-R was spelt B-A-R-E---- A tiny seat for Baby Bare, a medium for Ma, A full-sized section sacred to the Bare of Grandpapa.
Well, Ma was mighty glad to get that worry off her mind, And hefting up the bucket so combustibly inclined, She hurried down the garden to that refuge so discreet, And dumped the liquid menace safely through the centre seat.
Next morning old Grandpa arose; he made a hearty meal, And sniffed the air and said: 'By Gosh! how full of beans I feel.
Darned if I ain't as fresh as paint; my joy will be complete With jest a quiet session on the usual morning seat; To smoke me pipe an' meditate, an' maybe write a pome, For that's the time when bits o' rhyme gits jiggin' in me dome.
' He sat down on that special seat slicked shiny by his age, And looking like Walt Whitman, jest a silver-whiskered sage, He filled his corn-cob to the brim and tapped it snugly down, And chuckled: 'Of a perfect day I reckon this the crown.
' He lit the weed, it soothed his need, it was so soft and sweet: And then he dropped the lighted match clean through the middle seat.
His little grand-child Rosyleen cried from the kichen door: 'Oh, Ma, come quick; there's sompin wrong; I heared a dreffel roar; Oh, Ma, I see a sheet of flame; it's rising high and higher.
Oh, Mummy dear, I sadly fear our comfort-cot's caught fire.
' Poor Ma was thrilled with horror at them words o' Rosyleen.
She thought of Grandpa's matches and that bucket of benzine; So down the garden geared on high, she ran with all her power, For regular was Grandpa, and she knew it was his hour.
Then graspin' gaspin' Rosyleen she peered into the fire, A roarin' soarin' furnace now, perchance old Grandpa's pyre.
But as them twain expressed their pain they heard a hearty cheer---- Behold the old rapscallion squattinn' in the duck pond near, His silver whiskers singed away, a gosh-almighty wreck, Wi' half a yard o' toilet seat entwined about his neck.
He cried: 'Say, folks, oh, did ye hear the big blow-out I made? It scared me stiff - I hope you-uns was not too much afraid? But now I best be crawlin' out o' this dog-gasted wet.
For what I aim to figger out is----WHAT THE HECK I ET?'

Book: Shattered Sighs