Best Famous Mummified Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Mummified poems, articles about Mummified poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Mummified poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

• All Famous Mummified Poems

Written by Federico García Lorca | City That Does Not Sleep In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins. The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars. Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. In a graveyard far off there is a corpse who has moaned for three years because of a dry countryside on his knee; and that boy they buried this morning cried so much it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet. Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful! We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias. But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist; flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths in a thicket of new veins, and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders. One day the horses will live in the saloons and the enraged ants will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows. Another day we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue. Careful! Be careful! Be careful! The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm, and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge, or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe, we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting, where the bear's teeth are waiting, where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting, and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder. Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is sleeping. If someone does close his eyes, a whip, boys, a whip! Let there be a landscape of open eyes and bitter wounds on fire. No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one. I have said it before. No one is sleeping. But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night, open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Written by Spike Milligan | Feelings There must be a wound! No one can be this hurt and not bleed. How could she injure me so? No marks No bruise Worse! People say 'My, you're looking well' . . . . . God help me! She's mummified me - ALIVE!

Written by Jackie Kay | That Distance Apart I am only nineteen My whole life is changing Tonight I see her Shuttered eyes in my dreams I cannot pretend she's never been My stitches pull and threaten to snap My own body a witness Leaking blood to sheets milk to shirts My stretch marks Record that birth Though I feel like somebody is dying I stand up in my bed And wail like a banshee II On the second night I shall suffocate her with a feather pillow Bury her under a weeping willow Or take her far out to sea And watch her tiny six pound body Sink to shells and re shape herself So much better than her body Encased in glass like a museum piece Or I shall stab myself Cut my wrists steal some sleeping pills Better than this-mummified Preserved as a warning III On the third night I toss I did not go through those months For you to die on me now On the third night I lie Willing life into her Breathing air all the way down through the corridor To the glass cot I push my nipples through Feel the ferocity of her lips IV Here Landed in a place I recognize My eyes in the mirror Hard marbles glinting Murderous light My breasts sag my stomach Still soft as a baby's My voice deep and old as ammonite I am a stranger visiting Myself occasionally An empty ruinous house Cobwebs dust and broken stairs Inside woodworm Outside the weeds grow tall As she must be now V She, my little foreigner No longer familiar with my womb Kicking her language of living Somewhere past stalking her first words She is six years old today I am twenty-five; we are only That distance apart yet Time has fossilised Prehistoric time is easier I can imagine dinosaurs More vivid than my daughter Dinosaurs do not hurt my eyes Nor make me old so terribly old We are land sliced and torn.

Written by Robert William Service | Death In The Arctic I I took the clock down from the shelf; "At eight," said I, "I shoot myself. " It lacked a minute of the hour, And as I waited all a-cower, A skinful of black, boding pain, Bits of my life came back again. . . . "Mother, there's nothing more to eat -- Why don't you go out on the street? Always you sit and cry and cry; Here at my play I wonder why. Mother, when you dress up at night, Red are your cheeks, your eyes are bright; Twining a ribband in your hair, Kissing good-bye you go down-stair. Then I'm as lonely as can be. Oh, how I wish you were with me! Yet when you go out on the street, Mother, there's always lots to eat. . . . " II For days the igloo has been dark; But now the rag wick sends a spark That glitters in the icy air, And wakes frost sapphires everywhere; Bright, bitter flames, that adder-like Dart here and there, yet fear to strike The gruesome gloom wherein they lie, My comrades, oh, so keen to die! And I, the last -- well, here I wait The clock to strike the hour of eight. . . . "Boy, it is bitter to be hurled Nameless and naked on the world; Frozen by night and starved by day, Curses and kicks and clouts your pay. But you must fight! Boy, look on me! Anarch of all earth-misery; Beggar and tramp and shameless sot; Emblem of ill, in rags that rot. Would you be foul and base as I? Oh, it is better far to die! Swear to me now you'll fight and fight, Boy, or I'll kill you here to-night. . . . " III Curse this silence soft and black! Sting, little light, the shadows back! Dance, little flame, with freakish glee! Twinkle with brilliant mockery! Glitter on ice-robed roof and floor! Jewel the bear-skin of the door! Gleam in my beard, illume my breath, Blanch the clock face that times my death! But do not pierce that murk so deep, Where in their sleeping-bags they sleep! But do not linger where they lie, They who had all the luck to die! . . . "There is nothing more to say; Let us part and go our way. Since it seems we can't agree, I will go across the sea. Proud of heart and strong am I; Not for woman will I sigh; Hold my head up gay and glad: You can find another lad. . . . " IV Above the igloo piteous flies Our frayed flag to the frozen skies. Oh, would you know how earth can be A hell -- go north of Eighty-three! Go, scan the snows day after day, And hope for help, and pray and pray; Have seal-hide and sea-lice to eat; Melt water with your body's heat; Sleep all the fell, black winter through Beside the dear, dead men you knew. (The walrus blubber flares and gleams -- O God! how long a minute seems!) . . . "Mary, many a day has passed, Since that morn of hot-head youth. Come I back at last, at last, Crushed with knowing of the truth; How through bitter, barren years You loved me, and me alone; Waited, wearied, wept your tears -- Oh, could I atone, atone, I would pay a million-fold! Pay you for the love you gave. Mary, look down as of old -- I am kneeling by your grave. " . . . V Olaf, the Blonde, was first to go; Bitten his eyes were by the snow; Sightless and sealed his eyes of blue, So that he died before I knew. Here in those poor weak arms he died: "Wolves will not get you, lad," I lied; "For I will watch till Spring come round; Slumber you shall beneath the ground. " Oh, how I lied! I scarce can wait: Strike, little clock, the hour of eight! . . . "Comrade, can you blame me quite? The horror of the long, long night Is on me, and I've borne with pain So long, and hoped for help in vain. So frail am I, and blind and dazed; With scurvy sick, with silence crazed. Beneath the Arctic's heel of hate, Avid for Death I wait, I wait. Oh if I falter, fail to fight, Can you, dear comrade, blame me quite?" . . . VI Big Eric gave up months ago. But seldom do men suffer so. His feet sloughed off, his fingers died, His hands shrunk up and mummified. I had to feed him like a child; Yet he was valiant, joked and smiled, Talked of his wife and little one (Thanks be to God that I have none), Passed in the night without a moan, Passed, and I'm here, alone, alone. . . . "I've got to kill you, Dick. Your life for mine, you know. Better to do it quick, A swift and sudden blow. See! here's my hand to lick; A hug before you go -- God! but it makes me sick: Old dog, I love you so. Forgive, forgive me, Dick -- A swift and sudden blow. . . . " VII Often I start up in the dark, Thinking the sound of bells to hear. Often I wake from sleep: "Oh, hark! Help . . . it is coming . . . near and near. " Blindly I reel toward the door; There the snow billows bleak and bare; Blindly I seek my den once more, Silence and darkness and despair. Oh, it is all a dreadful dream! Scurvy and cold and death and dearth; I will awake to warmth and gleam, Silvery seas and greening earth. Life is a dream, its wakening, Death, gentle shadow of God's wing. . . . "Tick, little clock, my life away! Even a second seems a day. Even a minute seems a year, Peopled with ghosts, that press and peer Into my face so charnel white, Lit by the devilish, dancing light. Tick, little clock! mete out my fate: Tortured and tense I wait, I wait. . . . " VIII Oh, I have sworn! the hour is nigh: When it strikes eight, I die, I die. Raise up the gun -- it stings my brow -- When it strikes eight . . . all ready . . . now -- * * * * * Down from my hand the weapon dropped; Wildly I stared. . . . THE CLOCK HAD STOPPED. IX Phantoms and fears and ghosts have gone. Peace seems to nestle in my brain. Lo! the clock stopped, I'm living on; Heart-sick I was, and less than sane. Yet do I scorn the thing I planned, Hearing a voice: "O coward, fight!" Then the clock stopped . . . whose was the hand? Maybe 'twas God's -- ah well, all's right. Heap on me darkness, fold on fold! Pain! wrench and rack me! What care I? Leap on me, hunger, thirst and cold! I will await my time to die; Looking to Heaven that shines above; Looking to God, and love . . . and love. X Hark! what is that? Bells, dogs again! Is it a dream? I sob and cry. See! the door opens, fur-clad men Rush to my rescue; frail am I; Feeble and dying, dazed and glad. There is the pistol where it dropped. "Boys, it was hard -- but I'm not mad. . . . Look at the clock -- it stopped, it stopped. Carry me out. The heavens smile. See! there's an arch of gold above. Now, let me rest a little while -- Looking to God and Love . . . and Love . . . "

Written by Robert William Service | Reverence I saw the Greatest Man on Earth, Aye, saw him with my proper eyes. A loin-cloth spanned his proper girth, But he was naked otherwise, Excepting for his grey sombrero; And when his domelike head he bared, With reverence I stared and stared, As mummified as any Pharaoh. He leaned upon a little cane, A big cigar was in his mouth; Through spectacles of yellow stain He gazed and gazed toward the South; And then he dived into the sea, As if to Corsica to swim; His side stroke was so strong and free I could not help but envy him. A fitter man than I, I said, Although his age is more than mine; And I was strangely comforted To see him battle in the brine. Thought I: We have no cause for sorrow; For one so dynamic to-day Will gird him for the future fray And lead us lion-like to-morrow. The Greatest Man in all the world Lay lazing like you or me, Within a flimsy bathrobe curled Upon a mattress by the sea: He reached to pat a tou-tou's nose, And scratched his torso now and then, And scribbled with a fountain pen What I assumed was jewelled prose. And then methought he looked at me, And hailed me with a gesture grand; His fingers made the letter "V," So I, too, went to raise my hand; - When nigh to me the barman glided With liquid gold, and then I knew He merely called for cock-tails two, And so abjectly I subsided. Yet I have had my moment's glory, A-squatting nigh that Mighty Tory, Proud Hero of our Island Story.