Best Famous Orifice Poems

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

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• All Famous Orifice Poems

Written by Les Murray | A Retrospect Of Humidity All the air conditioners now slacken their hummed carrier wave. Once again we've served our three months with remissions in the steam and dry iron of this seaboard. In jellied glare, through the nettle-rash season we've watched the sky's fermenting laundry portend downpours. Some came, and steamed away, and we were clutched back into the rancid saline midnights of orifice weather, to damp grittiness and wiping off the air. Metaphors slump irritably together in the muggy weeks. Shark and jellyfish shallows become suburbs where you breathe a fat towel; babies burst like tomatoes with discomfort in the cotton-wrapped pointing street markets; the Lycra-bulging surf drips from non-swimmers miles from shore, and somehow includes soil. Skins, touching, soak each other. Skin touching any surface wets that and itself in a kind of mutual digestion. Throbbing heads grow lianas of nonsense. It's our annual visit to the latitudes of rice, kerosene and resignation, an averted, temporary visit unrelated, for most, to the attitudes of festive northbound jets gaining height - closer, for some few, to the memory of ulcers scraped with a tin spoon or sweated faces bowing before dry where the flesh is worn inside out, all the hunger-organs clutched in rank nylon, by those for whom exhaustion is spirit: an intrusive, heart-narrowing season at this far southern foot of the monsoon. As the kleenex flower, the hibiscus drops its browning wads, we forget annually, as one forgets a sickness. The stifling days will never come again, not now that we've seen the first sweater tugged down on the beauties of division and inside the rain's millions, a risen loaf of cat on a cool night verandah.

Written by Anne Sexton | Cripples And Other Stories My doctor, the comedian I called you every time and made you laugh yourself when I wrote this silly rhyme. . . Each time I give lectures or gather in the grants you send me off to boarding school in training pants. God damn it, father-doctor, I'm really thirty-six. I see dead rats in the toilet. I'm one of the lunatics. Disgusted, mother put me on the potty. She was good at this. My father was fat on scotch. It leaked from every orifice. Oh the enemas of childhood, reeking of outhouses and shame! Yet you rock me in your arms and whisper my nickname. Or else you hold my hand and teach me love too late. And that's the hand of the arm they tried to amputate. Though I was almost seven I was an awful brat. I put it in the Easy Wringer. It came out nice and flat. I was an instant cripple from my finger to my shoulder. The laundress wept and swooned. My mother had to hold her. I know I was a cripple. Of course, I'd known it from the start. My father took the crowbar and broke the wringer's heart. The surgeons shook their heads. They really didn't know-- Would the cripple inside of me be a cripple that would show? My father was a perfect man, clean and rich and fat. My mother was a brilliant thing. She was good at that. You hold me in your arms. How strange that you're so tender! Child-woman that I am, you think that you can mend her. As for the arm, unfortunately it grew. Though mother said a withered arm would put me in Who's Who. For years she has described it. She sang it like a hymn. By then she loved the shrunken thing, my little withered limb. My father's cells clicked each night, intent on making money. And as for my cells, they brooded, little queens, on honey. Oh boys too, as a matter of fact, and cigarettes and cars. Mother frowned at my wasted life. My father smoked cigars. My cheeks blossomed with maggots. I picked at them like pearls. I covered them with pancake. I wound my hair in curls. My father didn't know me but you kiss me in my fever. My mother knew me twice and then I had to leave her. But those are just two stories and I have more to tell from the outhouse, the greenhouse where you draw me out of hell. Father, I am thirty-six, yet I lie here in your crib. I'm getting born again, Adam, as you prod me with your rib.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Fridolin (The Walk To The Iron Factory) A gentle was Fridolin, And he his mistress dear, Savern's fair Countess, honored in All truth and godly fear. She was so meek, and, ah! so good! Yet each wish of her wayward mood, He would have studied to fulfil, To please his God, with earnest will. From the first hour when daylight shone Till rang the vesper-chime, He lived but for her will alone, And deemed e'en that scarce time. And if she said, "Less anxious be!" His eye then glistened tearfully. Thinking that he in duty failed, And so before no toil he quailed. And so, before her serving train, The Countess loved to raise him; While her fair mouth, in endless strain, Was ever wont to praise him. She never held him as her slave, Her heart a child's rights to him gave; Her clear eye hung in fond delight Upon his well-formed features bright. Soon in the huntsman Robert's breast Was poisonous anger fired; His black soul, long by lust possessed, With malice was inspired; He sought the Count, whom, quick in deed, A traitor might with ease mislead, As once from hunting home they rode, And in his heart suspicion sowed. "Happy art thou, great Count, in truth," Thus cunningly he spoke; "For ne'er mistrust's envenomed tooth Thy golden slumbers broke; A noble wife thy love rewards, And modesty her person guards. The tempter will be able ne'er Her true fidelity to snare. " A gloomy scowl the Count's eye filled: "What's this thou say'st to me? Shall I on woman's virtue build, Inconstant as the sea? The flatterer's mouth with ease may lure; My trust is placed on ground more sure. No one, methinks, dare ever burn To tempt the wife of Count Savern. " The other spoke: "Thou sayest it well, The fool deserves thy scorn Who ventures on such thoughts to dwell, A mere retainer born,-- Who to the lady he obeys Fears not his wishes' lust to raise. "-- "What!" tremblingly the Count began, "Dost speak, then, of a living man?"-- "Is, then, the thing, to all revealed, Hid from my master's view? Yet, since with care from thee concealed, I'd fain conceal it too"-- "Speak quickly, villain! speak or die!" Exclaimed the other fearfully. "Who dares to look on Cunigond?" "'Tis the fair page that is so fond. " "He's not ill-shaped in form, I wot," He craftily went on; The Count meanwhile felt cold and hot, By turns in every bone. "Is't possible thou seest not, sir, How he has eyes for none but her? At table ne'er attends to thee, But sighs behind her ceaselessly?" "Behold the rhymes that from him came His passion to confess"-- "Confess!"--"And for an answering flame,-- The impious knave!--to press. My gracious lady, soft and meek, Through pity, doubtless, feared to speak; That it has 'scaped me, sore I rue; What, lord, canst thou to help it do?" Into the neighboring wood then rode The Count, inflamed with wrath, Where, in his iron foundry, glowed The ore, and bubbled forth. The workmen here, with busy hand, The fire both late and early fanned. The sparks fly out, the bellows ply, As if the rock to liquefy. The fire and water's might twofold Are here united found; The mill-wheel, by the flood seized hold, Is whirling round and round; The works are clattering night and day, With measured stroke the hammers play, And, yielding to the mighty blows, The very iron plastic grows. Then to two workmen beckons he, And speaks thus in his ire; "The first who's hither sent by me Thus of ye to inquire 'Have ye obeyed my lord's word well?' Him cast ye into yonder hell, That into ashes he may fly, And ne'er again torment mine eye!" The inhuman pair were overjoyed, With devilish glee possessed For as the iron, feeling void, Their heart was in their breast, And brisker with the bellows' blast, The foundry's womb now heat they fast, And with a murderous mind prepare To offer up the victim there. Then Robert to his comrade spake, With false hypocrisy: "Up, comrade, up! no tarrying make! Our lord has need of thee. " The lord to Fridolin then said: "The pathway toward the foundry tread, And of the workmen there inquire, If they have done their lord's desire. " The other answered, "Be it so!" But o'er him came this thought, When he was all-prepared to go, "Will she command me aught?" So to the Countess straight he went: "I'm to the iron-foundry sent; Then say, can I do aught for thee? For thou 'tis who commandest me. " To this the Lady of Savern Replied in gentle tone: "To hear the holy mass I yearn, For sick now lies my son; So go, my child, and when thou'rt there, Utter for me a humble prayer, And of thy sins think ruefully, That grace may also fall on me. " And in this welcome duty glad, He quickly left the place; But ere the village bounds he had Attained with rapid pace, The sound of bells struck on his ear, From the high belfry ringing clear, And every sinner, mercy-sent, Inviting to the sacrament. "Never from praising God refrain Where'er by thee He's found!" He spoke, and stepped into the fane, But there he heard no sound; For 'twas the harvest time, and now Glowed in the fields the reaper's brow; No choristers were gathered there, The duties of the mass to share. The matter paused he not to weigh, But took the sexton's part; "That thing," he said, "makes no delay Which heavenward guides the heart. " Upon the priest, with helping hand, He placed the stole and sacred band, The vessels he prepared beside, That for the mass were sanctified. And when his duties here were o'er, Holding the mass-book, he, Ministering to the priest, before The altar bowed his knee, And knelt him left, and knelt him right, While not a look escaped his sight, And when the holy Sanctus came, The bell thrice rang he at the name. And when the priest, bowed humbly too, In hand uplifted high, Facing the altar, showed to view The present Deity, The sacristan proclaimed it well, Sounding the clearly-tinkling bell, While all knelt down, and beat the breast, And with a cross the Host confessed. The rites thus served he, leaving none, With quick and ready wit; Each thing that in God's house is done, He also practised it. Unweariedly he labored thus, Till the Vobiscum Dominus, When toward the people turned the priest, Blessed them,--and so the service ceased. Then he disposed each thing again, In fair and due array; First purified the holy fane, And then he went his way, And gladly, with a mind at rest, On to the iron-foundry pressed, Saying the while, complete to be, Twelve paternosters silently. And when he saw the furnace smoke, And saw the workmen stand, "Have ye, ye fellows," thus he spoke, "Obeyed the Count's command?" Grinning they ope the orifice, And point into the fell abyss: "He's cared for--all is at an end! The Count his servants will commend. " The answer to his lord he brought, Returning hastily, Who, when his form his notice caught, Could scarcely trust his eye: "Unhappy one! whence comest thou?"-- "Back from the foundry"--"Strange, I vow! Hast in thy journey, then, delayed?"-- "'Twas only, lord, till I had prayed. " "For when I from thy presence went (Oh pardon me!) to-day, As duty bid, my steps I bent To her whom I obey. She told me, lord, the mass to hear, I gladly to her wish gave ear, And told four rosaries at the shrine, For her salvation and for thine. " In wonder deep the Count now fell, And, shuddering, thus spake he: "And, at the foundry, quickly tell, What answer gave they thee?" "Obscure the words they answered in,-- Showing the furnace with a grin: 'He's cared for--all is at an end! The Count his servants will commend. '" "And Robert?" interrupted he, While deadly pale he stood,-- "Did he not, then, fall in with thee? I sent him to the wood. "-- "Lord, neither in the wood nor field Was trace of Robert's foot revealed. "-- "Then," cried the Count, with awe-struck mien, "Great God in heaven his judge hath been!" With kindness he before ne'er proved, He led him by the hand Up to the Countess,--deeply moved,-- Who naught could understand. "This child, let him be dear to thee, No angel is so pure as he! Though we may have been counselled ill, God and His hosts watch o'er him still. "

Written by John Crowe Ransom | The Equilibrists Full of her long white arms and milky skin He had a thousand times remembered sin. Alone in the press of people traveled he, Minding her jacinth, and myrrh, and ivory. Mouth he remembered: the quaint orifice From which came heat that flamed upon the kiss, Till cold words came down spiral from the head. Grey doves from the officious tower illsped. Body: it was a white field ready for love, On her body's field, with the gaunt tower above, The lilies grew, beseeching him to take, If he would pluck and wear them, bruise and break. Eyes talking: Never mind the cruel words, Embrace my flowers, but not embrace the swords. But what they said, the doves came straightway flying And unsaid: Honor, Honor, they came crying. Importunate her doves. Too pure, too wise, Clambering on his shoulder, saying, Arise, Leave me now, and never let us meet, Eternal distance now command thy feet. Predicament indeed, which thus discovers Honor among thieves, Honor between lovers. O such a little word is Honor, they feel! But the grey word is between them cold as steel. At length I saw these lovers fully were come Into their torture of equilibrium; Dreadfully had forsworn each other, and yet They were bound each to each, and they did not forget. And rigid as two painful stars, and twirled About the clustered night their prison world, They burned with fierce love always to come near, But honor beat them back and kept them clear . Ah, the strict lovers, they are ruined now! I cried in anger. But with puddled brow Devising for those gibbeted and brave Came I descanting: Man, what would you have? For spin your period out, and draw your breath, A kinder saeculum begins with Death. Would you ascend to Heaven and bodiless dwell? Or take your bodies honorless to Hell ? In Heaven you have heard no marriage is, No white flesh tinder to your lecheries, Your male and female tissue sweetly shaped Sublimed away, and furious blood escaped. Great lovers lie in Hell, the stubborn ones Infatuate of the flesh upon the bones; Stuprate, they rend each other when they kiss, The pieces kiss again, no end to this. But still I watched them spinning, orbited nice. Their flames were not more radiant than their ice. I dug in the quiet earth and wrought the tomb And made these lines to memorize their doom:— EPITAPH Equilibrists lie here; stranger, tread light; Close, but untouching in each other's sight; Mouldered the lips arid ashy the tall skull. Let them lie perilous and beautiful.

Written by Nick Flynn | Statuary Bees may be trusted, always, to discover the best, nay, the only human, solution. Let me cite an instance; an event, that, though occurring in nature, is still in itself wholly abnormal. I refer to the manner in which the bees will dispose of a mouse or a slug that may happen to have found its way into the hive. The intruder killed, they have to deal with the body, which will very soon poison their dwelling. If it be impossible for them to expel or dismember it, they will proceed methodically & hermetically to enclose it in a veritable sepulcher of propolis & wax, which will tower fantastically above the ordinary monuments of the city. * When we die our bodies powder, our bodies the vessel & the vessel empties. Our dying does not fill the hive with the stench of dying. But outside the world hungers. A cockroach, stung, can be dragged back out. A careless child forced a snail inside with a stick once. We waxed over the orifice of its shell sealing the creature in. And here, the bottom of the comb, a mouse, driven in by winter & lack. Its pawing woke us. We stung it dead. Even before it died it reeked - worse the moment it ceased twitching. Now everyday we crawl over it to pass outside, the wax form of what was staring out, its airless sleep, the mouse we built to warn the rest from us.

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Progress Let there be many windows to your soul, That all the glory of the universe May beautify it. Not the narrow pane Of one poor creed can catch the radiant rays That shine from countless sources. Tear away The blinds of superstition; let the light Pour through fair windows broad as truth itself And high as God. Why should the spirit peer Through some priest-curtained orifice, and grope Along dim corridors of doubt, when all The splendor from unfathomed seas of space Might bathe it with the golden waves of Love? Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths; Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs, And throw your soul wide open to the light Of Reason and of knowledge. Tune your ear To all the wordless music of the stars, And to the voice of Nature; and your heart Shall turn to truth and goodness as the plant Turns to the sun. A thousand unseen hands Reach down to help you to their peace-crowned heights, And all the forces of the firmament Shall fortify your strength. Be not afraid To thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole.