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Best Famous Off The Hook Poems

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

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Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Wanting To Die

 Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the most unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water, I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die, but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue! -- that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad bone; bruised, you'd say, and yet she waits for me, year and year, to so delicately undo an old would, to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon, leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, leaving the page of a book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love, whatever it was, an infection.


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Wanting to Die

 Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention, the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water, I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die, but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!-- that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say, and yet she waits for me, year after year, to so delicately undo an old wound, to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon, leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, leaving the page of the book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 8: The weather was fine. They took away his teeth

 The weather was fine.
They took away his teeth, white & helpful; bothered his backhand; halved his green hair.
They blew out his loves, his interests.
'Underneath,' (they called in iron voices) 'understand, is nothing.
So there.
' The weather was very fine.
They lifted off his covers till he showed, and cringed & pled to see himself less.
They instaleld mirrors till he flowed.
'Enough' (murmmered they) 'if you will watch Us instead, yet you may saved be.
Yes.
' The weather fleured.
They weakened all his eyes, and burning thumbs into his ears, and shook his hand like a notch.
They flung long silent speeches.
(Off the hook!) They sandpapered his plumpest hope.
(So capsize.
) They took away his crotch.