10 Best Famous Miscreant Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Miscreant poems. This is a select list of the best famous Miscreant poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Miscreant poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of miscreant poems.

• All Famous Miscreant Poems

Always, we searched in the stone river,
while the slaughterhouse was waiting for us,
long before we turned the saccharin of words
into inflammable brawls. Full of ancient gluttony,
we have fed our appetites, eating with hasty mouths
what was meant for our own Passover.
It is thus that we shall be remembered:
the curse on the bellwether, crumbled destinies,
although it was possible, once again,
like some extinct creatures, to wish for another life.
After the charnel house, what was this green pasture
we were promised, when impatient like thirsty cadavers,
we hurried that morning to crown the new emperor,
who was really unveiling his ancient lust?
Even so, someone was saying a new king deserves
vestal virgins, white roosters and the finest harvest—
a crest on his head woven by our hands,
using the most precious leaves; an aged wine
offered to a Messiah, only to be deceived by the false crown
in his teeth, soon after we had silenced the red barbarians.
The chosen was what we could have been,
but since we have only one story to tell:
whether it be of The Athens of West Africa
or the song of the Wretched of the earth—
in our font of secrets, where we change
the name of Christ with our miscreant voices,
—always this ridiculous viaticum—
let us now imagine the face of a different Messiah,
touching his gown with our bloody hands. 

 Lavender musk rose from the volume I was reading through,

The college crest impressed in gold, tooled gold lettering on the spine.

It was not mine but my son’s, jammed in the corner of a cardboard box

With dozens more; just one box of a score, stored in a heap

Across my ex-wife’s floor, our son gone far, as far as Samarkand and Ind

To where his strange imaginings had led, to heat and dust, some lust

To know Bengali, to translate Tagore, or just, for all we know,

Stroll round those sordid alleys and bazaars and ask for toddy

If it’s still the same and say it in a tongue they know.

The Classics books lay everywhere around the flat, so many that my mind

Grew numb. Heavy, dusty dictionaries of Mandarin and Greek,

Crumbling Victorian commentaries where every men and de was weighed

And weighed again, and then, through a scholar’s gloss on Aristotle,

That single sentence glowed, ‘And thus we see nobility of soul

Comes only with the conquering of loss’; meaning shimmered in that empty space

Where we believed there was no way to resurrect two sons we’d watched grow up,

One lost to oriental heat and dust, the other to a fate of wards.

It seemed that rainy April Sunday in the musty book-lined rooms

Of Brenda’s flat, mourning the death of Beethoven, her favourite cat,

Watching Mozart’s ginger fur, his plaintive tone of loss, whether

Some miscreant albatross was laid across our deck, or bound around

The ship, or tangled about whatever destiny we moved towards

Across that frozen sea of dark extremity; fatigued as if our barque

Had hardly stirred for all those years of strife, for all the times

We’d set the compass right, sorted through those heaped up charts

And with fingers weary and bleary-eyed retraced our course.

The books, a thousand books that lined the walls:

Plato’s chariot racing across the empty sky,

Sartre’s waiters dancing like angels on the heads of pins,

And Wittgenstein, nodding in his smoke-filled Cambridge den,

Dreaming of a school room in the Austrian hills and walks

In mountain air, wondering why he wasn’t there.

We wondered, too, at what, if anything we knew, trying to sift some

Single fact that might elicit hope from loss, enough to get us through

Another year with other griefs to come, we knew. Some, by a little,

Through God’s grace or chance or simple will, we might delay.

More likely we would have no say. By words or actions who can stay

The rolling balls across the table’s baize, the click of ball on ball,

The line of bottles in the hall?

We heard the ticking of the Roman -figured clock

My mother made us take when all was lost,

Together until the last breath had flown

Into the blue empyrean with her soul.

 SIC a reptile was Wat, sic a miscreant slave,
That the worms ev’n d—d him when laid in his grave;
“In his flesh there’s a famine,” a starved reptile cries,
“And his heart is rank poison!” another replies.