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Best Famous Objective Poems

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

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Written by Amy Clampitt | Create an image from this poem

A Catalpa Tree On West Twelfth Street

 While the sun stops, or
seems to, to define a term
for the indeterminable,
the human aspect, here
in the West Village, spindles
to a mutilated dazzle—

niched shards of solitude
embedded in these brownstone
walkups such that the Hudson
at the foot of Twelfth Street
might be a thing that's 
done with mirrors: definition

by deracination—grunge,
hip-hop, Chinese takeout,
co-ops—while the globe's
elixir caters, year by year,
to the resurgence of this
climbing tentpole, frilled and stippled

yet again with bloom
to greet the solstice:
What year was it it over-
took the fire escape? The
roof's its next objective.
Will posterity (if there is any)pause to regret such layerings of shade, their cadenced crests' trans- valuation of decay, the dust and perfume of an all too terminable process?

Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Hard-Luck Henry

 Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;
That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;
That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song
To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;
That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,
Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?
But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof--he knew the way to lose.
'Twas in the fall of nineteen four--leap-year I've heard them say-- When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a hillside lay.
And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past, Late in the year he struck it rich, the real pay-streak at last.
The riffles of his sluicing-box were choked with speckled earth, And night and day he worked that lay for all that he was worth.
And when in chill December's gloom his lucky lease expired, He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.
One day while meditating on the waywardness of fate, He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate; A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life, A woman with soft, soothing ways, a confidant, a wife.
And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon stove, He wished that he had staked a claim in Love's rich treasure-trove; When suddenly he paused and held aloft a Yukon egg, For there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg.
You know these Yukon eggs of ours--some pink, some green, some blue-- A dollar per, assorted tints, assorted flavors too.
The supercilious cheechako might designate them high, But one acquires a taste for them and likes them by-and-by.
Well, Hard-Luck Henry took this egg and held it to the light, And there was more faint pencilling that sorely taxed his sight.
At last he made it out, and then the legend ran like this-- "Will Klondike miner write to Peg, Plumhollow, Squashville, Wis.
?" That night he got to thinking of this far-off, unknown fair; It seemed so sort of opportune, an answer to his prayer.
She flitted sweetly through his dreams, she haunted him by day, She smiled through clouds of nicotine, she cheered his weary way.
At last he yielded to the spell; his course of love he set-- Wisconsin his objective point; his object, Margaret.
With every mile of sea and land his longing grew and grew.
He practised all his pretty words, and these, I fear, were few.
At last, one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine, He found himself before her house, the threshold of the shrine.
His courage flickered to a spark, then glowed with sudden flame-- He knocked; he heard a welcome word; she came--his goddess came.
Oh, she was fair as any flower, and huskily he spoke: "I'm all the way from Klondike, with a mighty heavy poke.
I'm looking for a lassie, one whose Christian name is Peg, Who sought a Klondike miner, and who wrote it on an egg.
" The lassie gazed at him a space, her cheeks grew rosy red; She gazed at him with tear-bright eyes, then tenderly she said: "Yes, lonely Klondike miner, it is true my name is Peg.
It's also true I longed for you and wrote it on an egg.
My heart went out to someone in that land of night and cold; But oh, I fear that Yukon egg must have been mighty old.
I waited long, I hoped and feared; you should have come before; I've been a wedded woman now for eighteen months or more.
I'm sorry, since you've come so far, you ain't the one that wins; But won't you take a step inside--I'll let you see the twins.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

These are the days that Reindeer love

 These are the days that Reindeer love
And pranks the Northern star --
This is the Sun's objective,
And Finland of the Year.
Written by Louise Gluck | Create an image from this poem

Circes Grief

 In the end, I made myself
Known to your wife as
A god would, in her own house, in
Ithaca, a voice
Without a body: she
Paused in her weaving, her head turning
First to the right, then left
Though it was hopeless of course
To trace that sound to any
Objective source: I doubt
She will return to her loom
With what she knows now.
When You see her again, tell her This is how a god says goodbye: If I am in her head forever I am in your life forever.
Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem


 We’d gained our first objective hours before 
While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, 
Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke.
Things seemed all right at first.
We held their line, With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed, And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench.
The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud, Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled; And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime.
And then the rain began,—the jolly old rain! A yawning soldier knelt against the bank, Staring across the morning blear with fog; He wondered when the Allemands would get busy; And then, of course, they started with five-nines Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud.
Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke.
He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, Sick for escape,—loathing the strangled horror And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead.
An officer came blundering down the trench: ‘Stand-to and man the fire-step!’ On he went.
Gasping and bawling, ‘Fire-step .
counter-attack!’ Then the haze lifted.
Bombing on the right Down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; And stumbling figures looming out in front.
‘O Christ, they’re coming at us!’ Bullets spat, And he remembered his rifle .
rapid fire.
And started blazing wildly .
then a bang Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans.
Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, Bleeding to death.
The counter-attack had failed.

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

Devotion to Duty

 I was near the King that day.
I saw him snatch And briskly scan the G.
Thick-voiced, he read it out.
(His face was grave.
) ‘This officer advanced with the first wave, ‘And when our first objective had been gained, ‘(Though wounded twice), reorganized the line: ‘The spirit of the troops was by his fine ‘Example most effectively sustained.
’ He gripped his beard; then closed his eyes and said, ‘Bathsheba must be warned that he is dead.
‘Send for her.
I will be the first to tell ‘This wife how her heroic husband fell.
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

the plane and the blackbird

 a cold bright sun
two days to christmas
a first-quarter moon
at a good vantage-point

a small white coffin
driven slowly uphill
from the cemetery gate
to the minimal grave

fifty people attending
unexpected collection
of nettle-stung hearts 
at a barely-lived dying

a shuffling past yews
thoughts finding rhythm
a lightness that bred
from a silent aceptance

a red-arrowed plane
in single formation
scissored the sky's blue
above the procession

sagittarian arrow
a sizzling of fire
an unconscious dipping
of wings in salute

to a baby whose burning
from birth to departing
took thirteen fast days
from rain into sunshine

till almost the hilltop
the hole with its mound
a circle of people
shared its raw hollow

no vicar no service
a speaking of poems
cotoneaster sprigs
dropped into the grave

the red plane returned
cut its own circle
honoured the sunlight
and passed by the moon

from a treetop nearby
a sharp-singing blackbird
trilled its objective
gold-beaked lullay

the grave was filled in
the high hill deserted
and down in the valley
a rare christmas came

Book: Reflection on the Important Things