Best Famous Nicked Poems

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

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• All Famous Nicked Poems

Written by Dylan Thomas | I In My Intricate Image I I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels, Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator Laying my ghost in metal, The scales of this twin world tread on the double, My half ghost in armour hold hard in death's corridor, To my man-iron sidle. Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels, Bright as her spinning-wheels, the colic season Worked on a world of petals; She threads off the sap and needles, blood and bubble Casts to the pine roots, raising man like a mountain Out of the naked entrail. Beginning with doom in the ghost, and the springing marvels, Image of images, my metal phantom Forcing forth through the harebell, My man of leaves and the bronze root, mortal, unmortal, I, in my fusion of rose and male motion, Create this twin miracle. This is the fortune of manhood: the natural peril, A steeplejack tower, bonerailed and masterless, No death more natural; Thus the shadowless man or ox, and the pictured devil, In seizure of silence commit the dead nuisance. The natural parallel. My images stalk the trees and the slant sap's tunnel, No tread more perilous, the green steps and spire Mount on man's footfall, I with the wooden insect in the tree of nettles, In the glass bed of grapes with snail and flower, Hearing the weather fall. Intricate manhood of ending, the invalid rivals, Voyaging clockwise off the symboled harbour, Finding the water final, On the consumptives' terrace taking their two farewells, Sail on the level, the departing adventure, To the sea-blown arrival. II They climb the country pinnacle, Twelve winds encounter by the white host at pasture, Corner the mounted meadows in the hill corral; They see the squirrel stumble, The haring snail go giddily round the flower, A quarrel of weathers and trees in the windy spiral. As they dive, the dust settles, The cadaverous gravels, falls thick and steadily, The highroad of water where the seabear and mackerel Turn the long sea arterial Turning a petrol face blind to the enemy Turning the riderless dead by the channel wall. (Death instrumental, Splitting the long eye open, and the spiral turnkey, Your corkscrew grave centred in navel and nipple, The neck of the nostril, Under the mask and the ether, they making bloody The tray of knives, the antiseptic funeral; Bring out the black patrol, Your monstrous officers and the decaying army, The sexton sentinel, garrisoned under thistles, A cock-on-a-dunghill Crowing to Lazarus the morning is vanity, Dust be your saviour under the conjured soil. ) As they drown, the chime travels, Sweetly the diver's bell in the steeple of spindrift Rings out the Dead Sea scale; And, clapped in water till the triton dangles, Strung by the flaxen whale-weed, from the hangman's raft, Hear they the salt glass breakers and the tongues of burial. (Turn the sea-spindle lateral, The grooved land rotating, that the stylus of lightning Dazzle this face of voices on the moon-turned table, Let the wax disk babble Shames and the damp dishonours, the relic scraping. These are your years' recorders. The circular world stands still. ) III They suffer the undead water where the turtle nibbles, Come unto sea-stuck towers, at the fibre scaling, The flight of the carnal skull And the cell-stepped thimble; Suffer, my topsy-turvies, that a double angel Sprout from the stony lockers like a tree on Aran. Be by your one ghost pierced, his pointed ferrule, Brass and the bodiless image, on a stick of folly Star-set at Jacob's angle, Smoke hill and hophead's valley, And the five-fathomed Hamlet on his father's coral Thrusting the tom-thumb vision up the iron mile. Suffer the slash of vision by the fin-green stubble, Be by the ships' sea broken at the manstring anchored The stoved bones' voyage downward In the shipwreck of muscle; Give over, lovers, locking, and the seawax struggle, Love like a mist or fire through the bed of eels. And in the pincers of the boiling circle, The sea and instrument, nicked in the locks of time, My great blood's iron single In the pouring town, I, in a wind on fire, from green Adam's cradle, No man more magical, clawed out the crocodile. Man was the scales, the death birds on enamel, Tail, Nile, and snout, a saddler of the rushes, Time in the hourless houses Shaking the sea-hatched skull, And, as for oils and ointments on the flying grail, All-hollowed man wept for his white apparel. Man was Cadaver's masker, the harnessing mantle, Windily master of man was the rotten fathom, My ghost in his metal neptune Forged in man's mineral. This was the god of beginning in the intricate seawhirl, And my images roared and rose on heaven's hill.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Work Gangs BOX cars run by a mile long. And I wonder what they say to each other When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack. Maybe their chatter goes: I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line. I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards. I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers. I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year bunches of bananas from Florida; they look for me with watermelons from Mississippi next year. Hammers and shovels of work gangs sleep in shop corners when the dark stars come on the sky and the night watchmen walk and look. Then the hammer heads talk to the handles, then the scoops of the shovels talk, how the day’s work nicked and trimmed them, how they swung and lifted all day, how the hands of the work gangs smelled of hope. In the night of the dark stars when the curve of the sky is a work gang handle, in the night on the mile long sidetracks, in the night where the hammers and shovels sleep in corners, the night watchmen stuff their pipes with dreams— and sometimes they doze and don’t care for nothin’, and sometimes they search their heads for meanings, stories, stars. The stuff of it runs like this: A long way we come; a long way to go; long rests and long deep sniffs for our lungs on the way. Sleep is a belonging of all; even if all songs are old songs and the singing heart is snuffed out like a switchman’s lantern with the oil gone, even if we forget our names and houses in the finish, the secret of sleep is left us, sleep belongs to all, sleep is the first and last and best of all. People singing; people with song mouths connecting with song hearts; people who must sing or die; people whose song hearts break if there is no song mouth; these are my people.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Three Balls JABOWSKY’S place is on a side street and only the rain washes the dusty three balls. When I passed the window a month ago, there rested in proud isolation: A family bible with hasps of brass twisted off, a wooden clock with pendulum gone, And a porcelain crucifix with the glaze nicked where the left elbow of Jesus is represented. I passed to-day and they were all there, resting in proud isolation, the clock and the crucifix saying no more and no less than before, and a yellow cat sleeping in a patch of sun alongside the family bible with the hasps off. Only the rain washes the dusty three balls in front of Jabowsky’s place on a side street.

Written by Carl Sandburg | The Liars (March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fine clothes. A liar goes in rags. A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes. A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies. And the stonecutters earn a living—with lies—on the tombs of liars. Aliar looks ’em in the eye And lies to a woman, Lies to a man, a pal, a child, a fool. And he is an old liar; we know him many years back. A liar lies to nations. A liar lies to the people. A liar takes the blood of the people And drinks this blood with a laugh and a lie, A laugh in his neck, A lie in his mouth. And this liar is an old one; we know him many years. He is straight as a dog’s hind leg. He is straight as a corkscrew. He is white as a black cat’s foot at midnight. The tongue of a man is tied on this, On the liar who lies to nations, The liar who lies to the people. The tongue of a man is tied on this And ends: To hell with ’em all. To hell with ’em all. It’s a song hard as a riveter’s hammer, Hard as the sleep of a crummy hobo, Hard as the sleep of a lousy doughboy, Twisted as a shell-shock idiot’s gibber. The liars met where the doors were locked. They said to each other: Now for war. The liars fixed it and told ’em: Go. Across their tables they fixed it up, Behind their doors away from the mob. And the guns did a job that nicked off millions. The guns blew seven million off the map, The guns sent seven million west. Seven million shoving up the daisies. Across their tables they fixed it up, The liars who lie to nations. And now Out of the butcher’s job And the boneyard junk the maggots have cleaned, Where the jaws of skulls tell the jokes of war ghosts, Out of this they are calling now: Let’s go back where we were. Let us run the world again, us, us. Where the doors are locked the liars say: Wait and we’ll cash in again. So I hear The People talk. I hear them tell each other: Let the strong men be ready. Let the strong men watch. Let your wrists be cool and your head clear. Let the liars get their finish, The liars and their waiting game, waiting a day again To open the doors and tell us: War! get out to your war again. So I hear The People tell each other: Look at to-day and to-morrow. Fix this clock that nicks off millions When The Liars say it’s time. Take things in your own hands. To hell with ’em all, The liars who lie to nations, The liars who lie to The People.