Best Famous Nuclear Poems

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

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• All Famous Nuclear Poems

Written by Allen Ginsberg | Plutonian Ode I What new element before us unborn in nature? Is there a new thing under the Sun? At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative, Scientific theme First penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poison- ous hand, named for Death's planet through the sea beyond Uranus whose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of Hades, Sire of avenging Furies, billionaire Hell- King worshipped once with black sheep throats cut, priests's face averted from underground mysteries in single temple at Eleusis, Spring-green Persephone nuptialed to his inevitable Shade, Demeter mother of asphodel weeping dew, her daughter stored in salty caverns under white snow, black hail, grey winter rain or Polar ice, immemor- able seasons before Fish flew in Heaven, before a Ram died by the starry bush, before the Bull stamped sky and earth or Twins inscribed their memories in clay or Crab'd flood washed memory from the skull, or Lion sniffed the lilac breeze in Eden-- Before the Great Year began turning its twelve signs, ere constellations wheeled for twenty-four thousand sunny years slowly round their axis in Sagittarius, one hundred sixty-seven thousand times returning to this night Radioactive Nemesis were you there at the beginning black dumb tongueless unsmelling blast of Disil- lusion? I manifest your Baptismal Word after four billion years I guess your birthday in Earthling Night, I salute your dreadful presence last majestic as the Gods, Sabaot, Jehova, Astapheus, Adonaeus, Elohim, Iao, Ialdabaoth, Aeon from Aeon born ignorant in an Abyss of Light, Sophia's reflections glittering thoughtful galaxies, whirl- pools of starspume silver-thin as hairs of Einstein! Father Whitman I celebrate a matter that renders Self oblivion! Grand Subject that annihilates inky hands & pages' prayers, old orators' inspired Immortalities, I begin your chant, openmouthed exhaling into spacious sky over silent mills at Hanford, Savannah River, Rocky Flats, Pantex, Burlington, Albuquerque I yell thru Washington, South Carolina, Colorado, Texas, Iowa, New Mexico, Where nuclear reactors creat a new Thing under the Sun, where Rockwell war-plants fabricate this death stuff trigger in nitrogen baths, Hanger-Silas Mason assembles the terrified weapon secret by ten thousands, & where Manzano Moun- tain boasts to store its dreadful decay through two hundred forty millenia while our Galaxy spirals around its nebulous core. I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak with your presence, I roar your Lion Roar with mortal mouth. One microgram inspired to one lung, ten pounds of heavy metal dust adrift slow motion over grey Alps the breadth of the planet, how long before your radiance speeds blight and death to sentient beings? Enter my body or not I carol my spirit inside you, Unnaproachable Weight, O heavy heavy Element awakened I vocalize your con- sciousness to six worlds I chant your absolute Vanity. Yeah monster of Anger birthed in fear O most Ignorant matter ever created unnatural to Earth! Delusion of metal empires! Destroyer of lying Scientists! Devourer of covetous Generals, Incinerator of Armies & Melter of Wars! Judgement of judgements, Divine Wind over vengeful nations, Molester of Presidents, Death-Scandal of Capital politics! Ah civilizations stupidly indus- trious! Canker-Hex on multitudes learned or illiterate! Manu- factured Spectre of human reason! O solidified imago of practicioner in Black Arts I dare your reality, I challenge your very being! I publish your cause and effect! I turn the wheel of Mind on your three hundred tons! Your name enters mankind's ear! I embody your ultimate powers! My oratory advances on your vaunted Mystery! This breath dispels your braggart fears! I sing your form at last behind your concrete & iron walls inside your fortress of rubber & translucent silicon shields in filtered cabinets and baths of lathe oil, My voice resounds through robot glove boxes & ignot cans and echoes in electric vaults inert of atmo- sphere, I enter with spirit out loud into your fuel rod drums underground on soundless thrones and beds of lead O density! This weightless anthem trumpets transcendent through hidden chambers and breaks through iron doors into the Infernal Room! Over your dreadful vibration this measured harmony floats audible, these jubilant tones are honey and milk and wine-sweet water Poured on the stone black floor, these syllables are barley groats I scatter on the Reactor's core, I call your name with hollow vowels, I psalm your Fate close by, my breath near deathless ever at your side to Spell your destiny, I set this verse prophetic on your mausoleum walls to seal you up Eternally with Diamond Truth! O doomed Plutonium. II The Bar surveys Plutonian history from midnight lit with Mercury Vapor streetlamps till in dawn's early light he contemplates a tranquil politic spaced out between Nations' thought-forms proliferating bureaucratic & horrific arm'd, Satanic industries projected sudden with Five Hundred Billion Dollar Strength around the world same time this text is set in Boulder, Colorado before front range of Rocky Mountains twelve miles north of Rocky Flats Nuclear Facility in United States of North America, Western Hemi- sphere of planet Earth six months and fourteen days around our Solar System in a Spiral Galaxy the local year after Dominion of the last God nineteen hundred seventy eight Completed as yellow hazed dawn clouds brighten East, Denver city white below Blue sky transparent rising empty deep & spacious to a morning star high over the balcony above some autos sat with wheels to curb downhill from Flatiron's jagged pine ridge, sunlit mountain meadows sloped to rust-red sandstone cliffs above brick townhouse roofs as sparrows waked whistling through Marine Street's summer green leafed trees. III This ode to you O Poets and Orators to come, you father Whitman as I join your side, you Congress and American people, you present meditators, spiritual friends & teachers, you O Master of the Diamond Arts, Take this wheel of syllables in hand, these vowels and consonants to breath's end take this inhalation of black poison to your heart, breath out this blessing from your breast on our creation forests cities oceans deserts rocky flats and mountains in the Ten Directions pacify with exhalation, enrich this Plutonian Ode to explode its empty thunder through earthen thought-worlds Magnetize this howl with heartless compassion, destroy this mountain of Plutonium with ordinary mind and body speech, thus empower this Mind-guard spirit gone out, gone out, gone beyond, gone beyond me, Wake space, so Ah! July 14, 1978

Written by Allen Ginsberg | Nagasaki Days I -- A Pleasant Afternoon for Michael Brownstein and Dick Gallup One day 3 poets and 60 ears sat under a green-striped Chau- tauqua tent in Aurora listening to Black spirituals, tapping their feet, appreciating words singing by in mountain winds on a pleasant sunny day of rest -- the wild wind blew thru blue Heavens filled with fluffy clouds stretched from Central City to Rocky Flats, Plutonium sizzled in its secret bed, hot dogs sizzled in the Lion's Club lunchwagon microwave mouth, orangeade bubbled over in waxen cups Traffic moved along Colefax, meditators silent in the Diamond Castle shrine-room at Boulder followed the breath going out of their nostrils, Nobody could remember anything, spirits flew out of mouths & noses, out of the sky, across Colorado plains & the tent flapped happily open spacious & didn't fall down. June 18, 1978 II -- Peace Protest Cumulus clouds float across blue sky over the white-walled Rockwell Corporation factory -- am I going to stop that? * Rocky Mountains rising behind us Denver shining in morning light -- Led away from the crowd by police and photographers * Middleaged Ginsberg and Ellsberg taken down the road to the greyhaired Sheriff's van -- But what about Einstein? What about Einstein? Hey, Einstein Come back! III -- Golden Courthouse Waiting for the Judge, breathing silent Prisoners, witnesses, Police -- the stenographer yawns into her palms. August 9, 1978 IV -- Everybody's Fantasy I walked outside & the bomb'd dropped lots of plutonium all over the Lower East Side There weren't any buildings left just iron skeletons groceries burned, potholes open to stinking sewer waters There were people starving and crawling across the desert the Martian UFOs with blue Light destroyer rays passed over and dried up all the waters Charred Amazon palmtrees for hundreds of miles on both sides of the river August 10, 1978 V -- Waiting Room at the Rocky Flats Plutonium Plant "Give us the weapons we need to protect ourselves!" the bareheaded guard lifts his flyswatter above the desk -- whap! * A green-letter'd shield on the pressboard wall! "Life is fragile. Handle with care" -- My Goodness! here's where they make the nuclear bomb triggers. August 17, 1978 VI -- Numbers in Red Notebook 2,000,000 killed in Vietnam 13,000,000 refugees in Indochina 1972 200,000,000 years for the Galaxy to revolve on its core 24,000 the Babylonian Great Year 24,000 half life of plutonium 2,000 the most I ever got for a poetry reading 80,000 dolphins killed in the dragnet 4,000,000,000 years earth been born Summer 1978

Written by Rg Gregory | eight roundels (roundel: variation of the rondeau consisting of three stanzas of three lines each, linked together with but two rhymes and a refrain at the end of the first and third group) 1. the blind rose today's fullness is tomorrow's gone (the next day after no one knows) last year's dream now feeds upon what blindly grows imagine if you like a rose on which no likely sun has shone a darkness chokes it (just suppose) the die though's cast - a marathon of hopes endeavours then bestows dawn's right to spill its colours on what blindly grows 2. squeaking there are so few words left now to grow green on - my vocabulary's stumped for a hard-edged phrase to let you know my truth's not been gazumped love itself of course is blandly thumped each time it suits you to imagine no fruits are guilty for their being scrumped if you can't be honest with me - better go if dumped is what you wish then i'll be dumped excuse me if i go on squeaking though my truth's not been gazumped 3. ease of mind the world spins - today i have migraine the peace i seek is never less than ill striving's no answer to the bumptious pain that is love's overspill wanting warmth encourages the chill relaxation breeds its bitter strain the worst of all crimes is - i love you still hope itself by nature is inane i squat in a box dismembered from such will to let me find the ease of mind again that is love's overspill 4. a roundel for ptolemy the earth is not the system's centre- so ok heliocentric - well our sun's a midget spawning galaxies blow our minds away space then equal to a digit the mightiest telescope's a widget science at best hard guessing gone astray no genius stretch beyond a second's fidget ptolemy discarded yet may have his say infinity takes a hologram to bridge it each shard of us contains the cosmos - space then equal to a digit 5. reflection everything you do is my reflection the hurts you cause are my pain inside out blame's no matter for a close inspection your guilt turns mine about love itself is many hands of doubt it cannot be without it breeds rejection its silences result in one big shout i am left with nothing but dejection what's gold in me has nowhere to get out love's pride is fatal to correction my guilt turns yours about 6. the round the round understands the fluidity of order how the thing lit up and the shadow can't compete how the centre is that version of the border the moment makes complete notice each face around a space at times replete with insights given to no one else as warder but not condemned when those insights retreat impermanence is eternity's recorder - with an intricate sense of pattern power can't delete the round honours those cracks in the divine disorder the moment makes complete 7. the actor acting is not the true self's dissipation but not its preening either - outside the role it honours it best fights shy of reputation - being what prometheus stole it is a distant spark of that first live coal a conscious glimpse of human desperation rekindled as a longing to console the waning spirit or the shattered dedication actors are allies of the delphic hole for good or ill they echo human expectation being what prometheus stole 8. roundels in honour of the round (i) when energy was born it asked this question which way dear parents do i go from here mum fluttered indifferently (i blame exhaustion) dad pointed with his sexual gear so energy thrust straight ahead and fostered fear at once its dreaded source became a bastion too holy to be doubted - mum flipped a gear she sought revenge on dad for his lewd suggestion taking too long of course - things went nuclear the scale of the damage was too much to ingest when dad pointed with his sexual gear (ii) she sat with her flowing skirt spread out on the earth and tore the garment into strips from toe to waist laying them to point around the wide world's girth my way the truth flows best dad laughed his head off at the pointless waste and energy itself was seized by powerful mirth perhaps mum's petalled skirt was not well placed in time mishandled plenty breeds its dearth dad's roisterous one-way-ism was disgraced energy began to sense what mum was worth her way the truth flows best

Written by Carolyn Forche | The Testimony Of Light Our life is a fire dampened, or a fire shut up in stone. --Jacob Boehme, De Incarnatione Verbi Outside everything visible and invisible a blazing maple. Daybreak: a seam at the curve of the world. The trousered legs of the women shimmered. They held their arms in front of them like ghosts. The coal bones of the house clinked in a kimono of smoke. An attention hovered over the dream where the world had been. For if Hiroshima in the morning, after the bomb has fallen, is like a dream, one must ask whose dream it is. {1} Must understand how not to speak would carry it with us. With bones put into rice bowls. While the baby crawled over its dead mother seeking milk. Muga-muchu {2}: without self, without center. Thrown up in the sky by a wind. The way back is lost, the one obsession. The worst is over. The worst is yet to come. 1--. . . is the question asked by Peter Schwenger in Letter Bomb. Nuclear Holocaust and the Exploding Word. 2--. . . is from Robert Jay Lifton's Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima.

Written by Nazim Hikmet | Optimistic Man as a child he never plucked the wings off flies he didn't tie tin cans to cats' tails or lock beetles in matchboxes or stomp anthills he grew up and all those things were done to him I was at his bedside when he died he said read me a poem about the sun and the sea about nuclear reactors and satellites about the greatness of humanity

Written by John Matthew | Where Giant Mushrooms Grow! In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show That’s where they test how to vaporize people and flesh By splitting and fusing atoms and start the world afresh. A new era, a new definition, with the nuclear shield Dawned with huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields Can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks. They are making bullets and missiles with lasers That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers Future soldiers don’t have to die for their country’s glory They use their global positioning bullet, that’s the story. Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line futile windmill tilters Your wars are lost before you even see victory, dissenters No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die. They say their soldiers are smart , they see in the dark Their bullets can pierce armor; they can blast your mark Where were you soldiers of the mind, I mourn When from your toils such Frankensteins were born? No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

Written by Thomas Lux | Unlike For Example The Sound Of A Riptooth Saw gnawing through a shinbone, a high howl inside of which a bloody, slashed-by-growls note is heard, unlike that sound, and instead, its opposite: a barely sounded sound (put your nuclear ears on for it, your giant hearing horn, its cornucopia mouth wide) -- a slippery whoosh of rain sliding down a mirror leaned against a windfallen tree stump, the sound a child's head makes falling against his mother's breast, or the sound, from a mile away, as the town undertaker lets Grammy's wrist slip from his grip and fall to the shiny table. And, if you turn your head just right and open all your ears, you might hear this finest sound, this lost sound: a plow's silvery prow cleaving the earth (your finger dragging through milk, a razor cutting silk) like a clipper ship cuts the sea. If you do hear this sound, then follow it with your ear and also your eye as it and the tractor that pulls it disappear over a hill until it is no sound at all, until it comes back over the hill again, again dragging its furrow, its ground-rhythm, its wide open throat, behind it.