Best Famous Mouthpiece Poems

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

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• All Famous Mouthpiece Poems

Written by Billy Collins | Nightclub You are so beautiful and I am a fool to be in love with you is a theme that keeps coming up in songs and poems. There seems to be no room for variation. I have never heard anyone sing I am so beautiful and you are a fool to be in love with me, even though this notion has surely crossed the minds of women and men alike. You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool is another one you don't hear. Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful. That one you will never hear, guaranteed. For no particular reason this afternoon I am listening to Johnny Hartman whose dark voice can curl around the concepts on love, beauty, and foolishness like no one else's can. It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette someone left burning on a baby grand piano around three o'clock in the morning; smoke that billows up into the bright lights while out there in the darkness some of the beautiful fools have gathered around little tables to listen, some with their eyes closed, others leaning forward into the music as if it were holding them up, or twirling the loose ice in a glass, slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream. Yes, there is all this foolish beauty, borne beyond midnight, that has no desire to go home, especially now when everyone in the room is watching the large man with the tenor sax that hangs from his neck like a golden fish. He moves forward to the edge of the stage and hands the instrument down to me and nods that I should play. So I put the mouthpiece to my lips and blow into it with all my living breath. We are all so foolish, my long bebop solo begins by saying, so damn foolish we have become beautiful without even knowing it.

Written by Sylvia Plath | The Colossus I shall never get you put together entirely, Pieced, glued, and properly jointed. Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles Proceed from your great lips. It's worse than a barnyard. Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser. Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol I crawl like an ant in mourning Over the weedy acres of your brow To mend the immense skull-plates and clear The bald, white tumuli of your eyes. A blue sky out of the Oresteia Arches above us. O father, all by yourself You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum. I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress. Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered In their old anarchy to the horizon-line. It would take more than a lightning-stroke To create such a ruin. Nights, I squat in the cornucopia Of your left ear, out of the wind, Counting the red stars and those of plum-color. The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue. My hours are married to shadow. No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel On the blank stones of the landing.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Cassandra Mirth the halls of Troy was filling, Ere its lofty ramparts fell; From the golden lute so thrilling Hymns of joy were heard to swell. From the sad and tearful slaughter All had laid their arms aside, For Pelides Priam's daughter Claimed then as his own fair bride. Laurel branches with them bearing, Troop on troop in bright array To the temples were repairing, Owning Thymbrius' sovereign sway. Through the streets, with frantic measure, Danced the bacchanal mad round, And, amid the radiant pleasure, Only one sad breast was found. Joyless in the midst of gladness, None to heed her, none to love, Roamed Cassandra, plunged in sadness, To Apollo's laurel grove. To its dark and deep recesses Swift the sorrowing priestess hied, And from off her flowing tresses Tore the sacred band, and cried: "All around with joy is beaming, Ev'ry heart is happy now, And my sire is fondly dreaming, Wreathed with flowers my sister's brow I alone am doomed to wailing, That sweet vision flies from me; In my mind, these walls assailing, Fierce destruction I can see." "Though a torch I see all-glowing, Yet 'tis not in Hymen's hand; Smoke across the skies is blowing, Yet 'tis from no votive brand. Yonder see I feasts entrancing, But in my prophetic soul, Hear I now the God advancing, Who will steep in tears the bowl!" "And they blame my lamentation, And they laugh my grief to scorn; To the haunts of desolation I must bear my woes forlorn. All who happy are, now shun me, And my tears with laughter see; Heavy lies thy hand upon me, Cruel Pythian deity!" "Thy divine decrees foretelling, Wherefore hast thou thrown me here, Where the ever-blind are dwelling, With a mind, alas, too clear? Wherefore hast thou power thus given, What must needs occur to know? Wrought must be the will of Heaven-- Onward come the hour of woe!" "When impending fate strikes terror, Why remove the covering? Life we have alone in error, Knowledge with it death must bring. Take away this prescience tearful, Take this sight of woe from me; Of thy truths, alas! how fearful 'Tis the mouthpiece frail to be!" "Veil my mind once more in slumbers Let me heedlessly rejoice; Never have I sung glad numbers Since I've been thy chosen voice. Knowledge of the future giving, Thou hast stolen the present day, Stolen the moment's joyous living,-- Take thy false gift, then, away!" "Ne'er with bridal train around me, Have I wreathed my radiant brow, Since to serve thy fane I bound me-- Bound me with a solemn vow. Evermore in grief I languish-- All my youth in tears was spent; And with thoughts of bitter anguish My too-feeling heart is rent." "Joyously my friends are playing, All around are blest and glad, In the paths of pleasure straying,-- My poor heart alone is sad. Spring in vain unfolds each treasure, Filling all the earth with bliss; Who in life can e'er take pleasure, When is seen its dark abyss?" "With her heart in vision burning, Truly blest is Polyxene, As a bride to clasp him yearning. Him, the noblest, best Hellene! And her breast with rapture swelling, All its bliss can scarcely know; E'en the Gods in heavenly dwelling Envying not, when dreaming so." "He to whom my heart is plighted Stood before my ravished eye, And his look, by passion lighted, Toward me turned imploringly. With the loved one, oh, how gladly Homeward would I take my flight But a Stygian shadow sadly Steps between us every night." "Cruel Proserpine is sending All her spectres pale to me; Ever on my steps attending Those dread shadowy forms I see. Though I seek, in mirth and laughter Refuge from that ghastly train, Still I see them hastening after,-- Ne'er shall I know joy again." "And I see the death-steel glancing, And the eye of murder glare; On, with hasty strides advancing, Terror haunts me everywhere. Vain I seek alleviation;-- Knowing, seeing, suffering all, I must wait the consummation, In a foreign land must fall." While her solemn words are ringing, Hark! a dull and wailing tone From the temple's gate upspringing,-- Dead lies Thetis' mighty son! Eris shakes her snake-locks hated, Swiftly flies each deity, And o'er Ilion's walls ill-fated Thunder-clouds loom heavily!

Written by Adrian Green | The Tenor Man Pottering around the stage, a hyperactive ancient in his own backyard - independent of the band it seems. Disrhythmic shuffling of ashtray, beer, a pack of cigarettes, adjusting microphones, then in the middle eight he draws, exhales, and catches breath, stoops forward to the mouthpiece and blows, a tumbling counterpoint, scales soaring from his horn. The melody flows until the break, and then he shoulders arms, a truce between the music and his ailing lungs. Between choruses he sits apart to light another cigarette, a sideman counting out the bars until he rises for the coda - this Lazarus of swing.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Cahoots PLAY it across the table. What if we steal this city blind? If they want any thing let ’em nail it down. Harness bulls, dicks, front office men, And the high goats up on the bench, Ain’t they all in cahoots? Ain’t it fifty-fifty all down the line, Petemen, dips, boosters, stick-ups and guns—what’s to hinder? Go fifty-fifty. If they nail you call in a mouthpiece. Fix it, you gazump, you slant-head, fix it. Feed ’em … Nothin’ ever sticks to my fingers, nah, nah, nothin’ like that, But there ain’t no law we got to wear mittens—huh—is there? Mittens, that’s a good one—mittens! There oughta be a law everybody wear mittens.