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Best Famous Munched Poems

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

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Written by Walter de la Mare | Create an image from this poem

Nicholas Nye

 Thistle and darnell and dock grew there, 
And a bush, in the corner, of may, 
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl 
In the blazing heat of the day; 

Half asleep and half awake, 
While the birds went twittering by, 
And nobody there my lone to share 
But Nicholas Nye. 

Nicholas Nye was lean and gray, 
Lame of leg and old, 
More than a score of donkey's years 
He had been since he was foaled; 
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked, 
Would sometimes stoop and sigh, 
And turn to his head, as if he said, 
"Poor Nicholas Nye!" 

Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow, 
Lazily swinging his tail, 
At break of day he used to bray,-- 
Not much too hearty and hale; 
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin, 
And a clean calm light in his eye, 
And once in a while; he'd smile:-- 
Would Nicholas Nye. 

Seem to be smiling at me, he would, 
From his bush in the corner, of may,-- 
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, 
Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray; 
And over the grass would seem to pass 
'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, 
Something much better than words between me 
And Nicholas Nye. 

But dusk would come in the apple boughs, 
The green of the glow-worm shine, 
The birds in nest would crouch to rest, 
And home I'd trudge to mine; 
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew, 
Asking not wherefore nor why, 
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post, 
Old Nicholas Nye.


Written by Joseph Brodsky | Create an image from this poem

May 24 1980

 I have braved, for want of wild beasts, steel cages,
carved my term and nickname on bunks and rafters,
lived by the sea, flashed aces in an oasis,
dined with the-devil-knows-whom, in tails, on truffles.
From the height of a glacier I beheld half a world, the earthly width. Twice have drowned, thrice let knives rake my nitty-gritty.
Quit the country the bore and nursed me.
Those who forgot me would make a city.
I have waded the steppes that saw yelling Huns in saddles, worn the clothes nowadays back in fashion in every quarter, planted rye, tarred the roofs of pigsties and stables, guzzled everything save dry water. I've admitted the sentries' third eye into my wet and foul dreams. Munched the bread of exile; it's stale and warty.
Granted my lungs all sounds except the howl;
switched to a whisper. Now I am forty.
What should I say about my life? That it's long and abhors transparence.
Broken eggs make me grieve; the omelette, though, makes me vomit.
Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx,
only gratitude will be gushing from it.
Written by Joseph Brodsky | Create an image from this poem

May 24 1980

I have braved for want of wild beasts steel cages 
carved my term and nickname on bunks and rafters 
lived by the sea flashed aces in an oasis 
dined with the-devil-knows-whom in tails on truffles.
From the height of a glacier I beheld half a world the earthly
width. Twice have drowned thrice let knives rake my nitty-gritty.
Quit the country the bore and nursed me.
Those who forgot me would make a city.
I have waded the steppes that saw yelling Huns in saddles 
worn the clothes nowadays back in fashion in every quarter 
planted rye tarred the roofs of pigsties and stables 
guzzled everything save dry water.
I've admitted the sentries' third eye into my wetand foul
dreams. Munched the bread of exile; it's stale and warty.
Granted my lungs all sounds except the howl;
switched to a whisper. Now I am forty.
What should I say about my life? That it's long and abhors transparence.
Broken eggs make me grieve; the omelette though makes me vomit.
Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx 
only gratitude will be gushing from it.
Written by J R R Tolkien | Create an image from this poem

Troll Sat Alone on His Seat of Stone

 Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim.
As should be a-lyin' in the graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in the graveyard.'

'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Skinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don't need his shinbone.'

Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!'

'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,
'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now.'

But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.

Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! *****!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Old Pardon the Son of Reprieve

 You never heard tell of the story? 
Well, now, I can hardly believe! 
Never heard of the honour and glory 
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? 
But maybe you're only a Johnnie 
And don't know a horse from a hoe? 
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, 
But, really, a young un should know. 
They bred him out back on the "Never", 
His mother was Mameluke breed. 
To the front -- and then stay there - was ever 
The root of the Mameluke creed. 
He seemed to inherit their wiry 
Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- 
As hard as a flint and as fiery 
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. 

We ran him at many a meeting 
At crossing and gully and town, 
And nothing could give him a beating -- 
At least when our money was down. 
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, 
Nor odds, though the others were fast; 
He'd race with a dogged persistence, 
And wear them all down at the last. 

At the Turon the Yattendon filly 
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, 
And we all began to look silly, 
While her crowd were starting to laugh; 
But the old horse came faster and faster, 
His pluck told its tale, and his strength, 
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, 
And won it, hands down, by a length. 

And then we swooped down on Menindie 
To run for the President's Cup; 
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy 
To them is board, lodging, and sup. 
Eye-openers they are, and their system 
Is never to suffer defeat; 
It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em 
You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat". 

We strolled down the township and found 'em 
At drinking and gaming and play; 
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, 
And betting was soon under way. 
Their horses were good uns and fit uns, 
There was plenty of cash in the town; 
They backed their own horses like Britons, 
And, Lord! how we rattled it down! 

With gladness we thought of the morrow, 
We counted our wages with glee, 
A simile homely to borrow -- 
"There was plenty of milk in our tea." 
You see we were green; and we never 
Had even a thought of foul play, 
Though we well might have known that the clever 
Division would "put us away". 

Experience docet, they tell us, 
At least so I've frequently heard; 
But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows 
Were up to each move on the board: 
They got to his stall -- it is sinful 
To think what such villains will do -- 
And they gave him a regular skinful 
Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. 

He munched it all night, and we found him 
Next morning as full as a hog -- 
The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; 
He looked like an overfed frog. 
We saw we were done like a dinner -- 
The odds were a thousand to one 
Against Pardon turning up winner, 
'Twas cruel to ask him to run. 

We got to the course with our troubles, 
A crestfallen couple were we; 
And we heard the " books" calling the doubles -- 
A roar like the surf of the sea. 
And over the tumult and louder 
Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" 
Says Jimmy, "The children of Judah 
Are out on the warpath today." 

Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, 
The horses in those days were stout, 
They had to run well to win money; 
I don't see such horses about. 
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper 
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up, 
They wouldn't earn much of their damper 
In a race like the President's Cup. 

The first heat was soon set a-going; 
The Dancer went off to the front; 
The Don on his quarters was showing, 
With Pardon right out of the hunt. 
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- 
You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; 
They finished all bunched, and he followed 
All lathered and dripping with sweat. 

But troubles came thicker upon us, 
For while we were rubbing him dry 
The stewards came over to warn us: 
"We hear you are running a bye! 
If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation 
And win the next heat -- if he can -- 
He'll earn a disqualification; 
Just think over that now, my man!" 

Our money all gone and our credit, 
Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; 
And then people thought that we did it 
It really was terribly hard. 
We were objects of mirth and derision 
To folks in the lawn and the stand, 
Anf the yells of the clever division 
Of "Any price Pardon!" were grand. 

We still had a chance for the money, 
Two heats remained to be run: 
If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, 
The clever division were done. 
And Pardon was better, we reckoned, 
His sickness was passing away, 
So we went to the post for the second 
And principal heat of the day. 

They're off and away with a rattle, 
Like dogs from the leashes let slip, 
And right at the back of the battle 
He followed them under the whip. 
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly 
He dropped right away from the pack; 
I tell you it made me feel sickly 
To see the blue jacket fall back. 

Our very last hope had departed -- 
We thought the old fellow was done, 
When all of a sudden he started 
To go like a shot from a gun. 
His chances seemed slight to embolden 
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, 
We thought, "Now or never! The old un 
May reckon with some of 'em yet." 

Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; 
He swept like the wind down the dip, 
And over the rise by the garden 
The jockey was done with the whip. 
The field was at sixes and sevens -- 
The pace at the first had been fast -- 
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, 
For Pardon was coming at last. 

And how he did come! It was splendid; 
He gained on them yards every bound, 
Stretching out like a greyhound extended, 
His girth laid right down on the ground. 
A shimmer of silk in the cedars 
As into the running they wheeled, 
And out flashed the whips on the leaders, 
For Pardon had collared the field. 

Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- 
I knew that the battle was won -- 
The son of Haphazard was failing, 
The Yattendon filly was done; 
He cut down The Don and The Dancer, 
He raced clean away from the mare -- 
He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! 
And up went my hat in the air! 

Then loud fron the lawn and the garden 
Rose offers of "Ten to one on!" 
"Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!" 
No use; all the money was gone. 
He came for the third heat light-hearted, 
A-jumping and dancing about; 
The others were done ere they started 
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. 

He won it, and ran it much faster 
Than even the first, I believe; 
Oh, he was the daddy, the master, 
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. 
He showed 'em the method of travel -- 
The boy sat still as a stone -- 
They never could see him for gravel; 
He came in hard-held, and alone. 

* * * * * * * 

But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow 
Like me, with my thatch of the snow; 
When he dies, then I hope I may follow, 
And go where the racehorses go. 
I don't want no harping nor singing -- 
Such things with my style don't agree; 
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing 
There's music sufficient for me. 

And surely the thoroughbred horses 
Will rise up again and begin 
Fresh faces on far-away courses, 
And p'raps they might let me slip in. 
It would look rather well the race-card on 
'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, 
"Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, 
Blue halo, white body and wings." 

And if they have racing hereafter, 
(And who is to say they will not?) 
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter 
Proclaim that the battle grows hot; 
As they come down the racecourse a-steering, 
He'll rush to the front, I believe; 
And you'll hear the great multitude cheering 
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve


Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

the man the gun and the dog

 yesterday the man was pleased
the sun sat in the tree and all
upon the land held to the harmony
his coming then expected

 his gun in his arm
 his dog at his heels

a blackbird sang on a high branch
a white horse ambled by the hedge
a brindled cow munched grass - the man
shared his heartbeat with them

 his gun in his arm
 his dog at his heels

today he was disturbed - a mist
obscured what grew inside and out
a tree loomed upon him like a threat
his walk had nothing safe about it

 a gun in his arm
 a dog at his heels

a huge crow shrieked from the tree
its wings churning the mist
its beak sharpening for attack
its claws reaching for the man's eyes

 shoot said the gun
 the dog stayed at his heels

the man shot - once - and the crow
reared backwards from the blast
a thunder cloud dripping red rain
and fell to earth a muted blackbird

 good said the gun
 the dog stayed at his heels

an elephant (but white as leprosy)
with trunk and tusks upraised crashed 
through the hedge trumpeting and causing 
earth and man to shudder violently

 shoot shoot said the gun
 the dog stayed at his heels

the man shot - twice - and the beast
bellowing with a disbelieving pain
exploded (staining the mist deep red) 
and fell to earth an old white horse

 good good said the gun
 the dog stayed at his heels

a mammoth buffalo brindled and bristling
a taste for death snorting from its snout
hurtled towards the man - with flecks 
of flesh still hanging from its jaws

 shoot shoot shoot said the gun
 the dog stayed at his heels

the man shot - thrice - and the monster
spun round with the savagest of roars
drenching the landscape in a hot red spray
then fell to earth a gentle brindled cow

 good good good said the gun
 the dog barked once

the man stood stunned in the thick mist
alien to the fields he had known
from his first breath - he comprehended
nothing but the gun in his hand

 shoot shoot shoot shoot said the gun
 the dog barked twice

the man shot - four times - and the dog
with not a sound fell to earth
and rolled on its back - its four
legs sticking stiffly in the air

 good good good good said the gun
 as the dog lay still

the man looked hard at the dog and saw
an upside down reflection of himself
he hurled the gun (bereft of bullets)
into a pond - it stuck stock-upwards

 the gun reverted to the tree
 its wood had come from

 the dog was lifted skywards
 by invisible cords

the man went on walking - for days the man stood stunned in the thick mist
alien to the fields he had known
from his first breath - he comprehended
nothing but the gun in his hand

 shoot shoot shoot shoot said the gun
 the dog barked twice

the man shot - four times - and the dog
with not a sound fell to earth
and rolled on its back - its four
legs sticking stiffly in the air

 good good good good said the gun
 as the dog lay still

the man looked hard at the dog and saw
an upside down reflection of himself
he hurled the gun (bereft of bullets)
into a pond - it stuck stock-upwards

 the gun reverted to the tree
 its wood had come from

 the dog was lifted skywards
 by invisible cords

the man went on walking - for days
weeks months even till the sun returned -
loving the mist (its near wisdom
its light uncompromising touch)

 now he is free of the gun
 he understands the dog

a blackbird sings in a high branch
a white horse ambles by the hedge
a brindled cow munches grass - the man
shares his heartbeat with them

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry