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Best Famous Patchwork Poems

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

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Written by Hilaire Belloc | Create an image from this poem

October

 Beauty has a tarnished dress, 
And a patchwork cloak of cloth 
Dipped deep in mournfulness, 
Striped like a moth.

Wet grass where it trails 
Dyes it green along the hem; 
She has seven silver veils 
With cracked bells on them.

She is tired of all these-- 
Grey gauze, translucent lawn; 
The broad cloak of Herakles. 
Is tangled flame and fawn.

Water and light are wearing thin: 
She has drawn above her head 
The warm enormous lion skin 
Rough red and gold.


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Inventory Of Goodbye

 I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.

Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

My World Is Pyramid

 I

Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her horny milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.

The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.

The broken halves are fellowed in a cripple,
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.

The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
Sucking the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.

What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And prick the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.


II

My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.

My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
Screwing their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.

My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.

The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.

Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The loin is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Dance At The Phoenix

 To Jenny came a gentle youth 
 From inland leazes lone; 
His love was fresh as apple-blooth 
 By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone. 
And duly he entreated her 
To be his tender minister, 
 And call him aye her own. 

Fair Jenny's life had hardly been 
 A life of modesty; 
At Casterbridge experience keen 
 Of many loves had she 
From scarcely sixteen years above: 
Among them sundry troopers of 
 The King's-Own Cavalry. 

But each with charger, sword, and gun, 
 Had bluffed the Biscay wave; 
And Jenny prized her gentle one 
 For all the love he gave. 
She vowed to be, if they were wed, 
His honest wife in heart and head 
 From bride-ale hour to grave. 

Wedded they were. Her husband's trust 
 In Jenny knew no bound, 
And Jenny kept her pure and just, 
 Till even malice found 
No sin or sign of ill to be 
In one who walked so decently 
 The duteous helpmate's round. 

Two sons were born, and bloomed to men, 
 And roamed, and were as not: 
Alone was Jenny left again 
 As ere her mind had sought 
A solace in domestic joys, 
And ere the vanished pair of boys 
 Were sent to sun her cot. 

She numbered near on sixty years, 
 And passed as elderly, 
When, in the street, with flush of fears, 
 On day discovered she, 
From shine of swords and thump of drum, 
Her early loves from war had come, 
 The King's Own Cavalry. 

She turned aside, and bowed her head 
 Anigh Saint Peter's door; 
"Alas for chastened thoughts!" she said; 
 "I'm faded now, and hoar, 
And yet those notes--they thrill me through, 
And those gay forms move me anew 
 As in the years of yore!"... 

--'Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn 
 Was lit with tapers tall, 
For thirty of the trooper men 
 Had vowed to give a ball 
As "Theirs" had done (fame handed down) 
When lying in the self-same town 
 Ere Buonaparté's fall. 

That night the throbbing "Soldier's Joy," 
 The measured tread and sway 
Of "Fancy-Lad" and "Maiden Coy," 
 Reached Jenny as she lay 
Beside her spouse; till springtide blood 
Seemed scouring through her like a flood 
 That whisked the years away. 

She rose, and rayed, and decked her head 
 To hide her ringlets thin; 
Upon her cap two bows of red 
 She fixed with hasty pin; 
Unheard descending to the street, 
She trod the flags with tune-led feet, 
 And stood before the Inn. 

Save for the dancers', not a sound 
 Disturbed the icy air; 
No watchman on his midnight round 
 Or traveller was there; 
But over All-Saints', high and bright, 
Pulsed to the music Sirius white, 
 The Wain by Bullstake Square. 

She knocked, but found her further stride 
 Checked by a sergeant tall: 
"Gay Granny, whence come you?" he cried; 
 "This is a private ball." 
--"No one has more right here than me! 
Ere you were born, man," answered she, 
 "I knew the regiment all!" 

"Take not the lady's visit ill!" 
 Upspoke the steward free; 
"We lack sufficient partners still, 
 So, prithee let her be!" 
They seized and whirled her 'mid the maze, 
And Jenny felt as in the days 
 Of her immodesty. 

Hour chased each hour, and night advanced; 
 She sped as shod with wings; 
Each time and every time she danced-- 
 Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings: 
They cheered her as she soared and swooped 
(She'd learnt ere art in dancing drooped 
 From hops to slothful swings). 

The favorite Quick-step "Speed the Plough"-- 
 (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel)-- 
"The Triumph," "Sylph," "The Row-dow dow," 
 Famed "Major Malley's Reel," 
"The Duke of York's," "The Fairy Dance," 
"The Bridge of Lodi" (brought from France), 
 She beat out, toe and heel. 

The "Fall of Paris" clanged its close, 
 And Peter's chime told four, 
When Jenny, bosom-beating, rose 
 To seek her silent door. 
They tiptoed in escorting her, 
Lest stroke of heel or chink of spur 
 Should break her goodman's snore. 

The fire that late had burnt fell slack 
 When lone at last stood she; 
Her nine-and-fifty years came back; 
 She sank upon her knee 
Beside the durn, and like a dart 
A something arrowed through her heart 
 In shoots of agony. 

Their footsteps died as she leant there, 
 Lit by the morning star 
Hanging above the moorland, where 
 The aged elm-rows are; 
And, as o'ernight, from Pummery Ridge 
To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge 
 No life stirred, near or far. 

Though inner mischief worked amain, 
 She reached her husband's side; 
Where, toil-weary, as he had lain 
 Beneath the patchwork pied 
When yestereve she'd forthward crept, 
And as unwitting, still he slept 
 Who did in her confide. 

A tear sprang as she turned and viewed 
 His features free from guile; 
She kissed him long, as when, just wooed. 
 She chose his domicile. 
Death menaced now; yet less for life 
She wished than that she were the wife 
 That she had been erstwhile. 

Time wore to six. Her husband rose 
 And struck the steel and stone; 
He glanced at Jenny, whose repose 
 Seemed deeper than his own. 
With dumb dismay, on closer sight, 
He gathered sense that in the night, 
 Or morn, her soul had flown. 

When told that some too mighty strain 
 For one so many-yeared 
Had burst her bosom's master-vein, 
 His doubts remained unstirred. 
His Jenny had not left his side 
Betwixt the eve and morning-tide: 
 --The King's said not a word. 

Well! times are not as times were then, 
 Nor fair ones half so free; 
And truly they were martial men, 
 The King's-Own Cavalry. 
And when they went from Casterbridge 
And vanished over Mellstock Ridge, 
 'Twas saddest morn to see.
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

transformations

 (service resettlement courses at studio fronceri – west wales)

and the swords came in their varying degrees
of shininess and sharpness – some never
having lost their pristine feel – others with blunt 
tips and broken blades – a few so steeped in blood 
a dried rustiness still stained them - and those wilted 
at the hilt (weary of the code that bred them)

they came at the end of their long days of death-
imagined drills and disciplined submissions
times of pride (trapped tongues and rank obedience)
seeking a balmier game-play for their fingers
they learned languages of metal wood and stone
translated scrubbed land to a fond oasis

built (at last) for themselves and not their service
sowed peace’s patchwork on their shot desires
maybe loosened what dreams had long since bolted
and dared to sigh like breezes (old storms’ goodbyes)
they came as swords (not keen on transformations)
and (landscapes reconditioned) left as ploughshares


Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Imagining you'd come to say goodbye..

 Imagining you’d come to say goodbye,
I made a doll of raffia and string.
I gave her thatch hair, and a broomstick skirt
of patchwork satin rags. Around each eye
I stitched thick lashes. Such a touching thing
she was! That even you could not debate –
impassive, undemanding and inert.
Yes, surely she’d cause you yourself to sigh.
Around her breast, I sewed a loden ring
to guard her cotton heart from being hurt,
then sat down in the fabric scraps to wait,
between the rafters and the furnace grate,
needle in hand, and never so aware
no craft on earth is master to despair.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

The Neighborhood

 I wish I could,
 like some, forget,
and never anguish,
 nor regret,

dismissive, free
 to roam the street,
no matter how
the visions meet.

Remembrance is
 a neighborhood
where convicts live
 with great and good,

its roads of red,
 uneven brick,
whose surfaces –
 both rough and slick –

spread out into
 a patchwork plan.
Sometimes at night
 I hear a man

vault past the fence,
 and cross the yard,
my door chain down, 
 and me off-guard.

He curses, threatens,
 pounds the door.
I’m wedged between
 the couch and floor,

ungainly, barefoot,
 limp and pinned,
scared of the dark,
 without a friend,

with only one
 clear thought, that I –
like him, like you –
 don’t want to die.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Sierra Kid

 "I've been where it hurts." the Kid 

He becomes Sierra Kid

 I passed Slimgullion, Morgan Mine, 
 Camp Seco, and the rotting Lode. 
 Dark walls of sugar pine --, 
 And where I left the road 

 I left myself behind; 
 Talked to no one, thought 
 Of nothing. When my luck ran out 
 Lived on berries, nuts, bleached grass. 
 Driven by the wind 
 Through great Sonora pass, 

 I found an Indian's teeth; 
 Turned and climbed again 
 Without direction, compass, path, 
 Without a way of coming down, 
 Until I stopped somewhere 
 And gave the place a name. 

 I called the forests mine; 
 Whatever I could hear 
 I took to be a voice: a man 
 Was something I would never hear.

He faces his second winter in the Sierra

 A hard brown bug, maybe a beetle, 
 Packing a ball of sparrow **** -- 
 What shall I call it? 
 **** beetle? Why's it pushing here 
 At this great height in the thin air 
 With its ridiculous waddle 

 Up the hard side of Hard Luck Hill? 
 And the furred thing that frightened me -- 
 Bobcat, coyote, wild dog -- 
 Flat eyes in winter bush, stiff tail 
 Holding his ground, a rotted log. 
 Grass snakes that wouldn't die, 

 And night hawks hanging on the rim 
 Of what was mine. I know them now; 
 They have absorbed a mind 
 Which must endure the freezing snow 
 They endure and, freezing, find 
 A clear sustaining stream.

He learns to lose

 She was afraid 
 Of everything, 
 The little Digger girl. 
 Pah Utes had killed 
 Her older brother 
 Who may have been her lover 
 The way she cried 
 Over his ring -- 

 The heavy brass 
 On the heavy hand. 
 She carried it for weeks 
 Clenched in her fist 
 As if it might 
 Keep out the loneliness 
 Or the plain fact 
 That he was gone. 

 When the first snows 
 Began to fall 
 She stopped her crying, picked 
 Berries, sweet grass, 
 Mended her clothes 
 And sewed a patchwork shawl. 
 We slept together 
 But did not speak. 

 It may have been 
 The Pah Utes took 
 Her off, perhaps her kin. 
 I came back 
 To find her gone 
 With half the winter left 
 To face alone -- 
 The slow grey dark 

 Moving along 
 The dark tipped grass 
 Between the numbed pines. 
 Night after night 
 For four long months 
 My face to her dark face 
 We two had lain 
 Till the first light.

Civilization comes to Sierra Kid

 They levelled Tater Hill 
 And I was sick. 
 First sun, and the chain saws 
 Coming on; blue haze, 
 Dull blue exhaust 
 Rising, dust rising, and the smell. 

 Moving from their thatched huts 
 The crazed wood rats 
 By the thousand; grouse, spotted quail 
 Abandoning the hills 
 For the sparse trail 
 On which, exposed, I also packed. 

 Six weeks. I went back down 
 Through my own woods 
 Afraid of what I knew they'd done. 
 There, there, an A&P, 
 And not a tree 
 For Miles, and mammoth hills of goods. 

 Fat men in uniforms, 
 Young men in aprons 
 With one face shouting, "He is mad!" 
 I answered: "I am Lincoln, 
 Aaron Burr, 
 The aging son of Appleseed. 

 "I am American 
 And I am cold." 
 But not a one would hear me out. 
 Oh God, what have I seen 
 That was not sold! 
 They shot an old man in the gut.

Mad, dying, Sierra Kid enters the capital

 What have I changed? 
 I unwound burdocks from my hair 
 And scalded stains 
 Of the black grape 
 And hid beneath long underwear 
 The yellowed tape. 

 Who will they find 
 In the dark woods of the dark mind 
 Now I have gone 
 Into the world? 
 Across the blazing civic lawn 
 A shadow's hurled 

 And I must follow. 
 Something slides beneath my vest 
 Like melted tallow, 
 Thick but thin, 
 Burning where it comes to rest 
 On what was skin. 

 Who will they find? 
 A man with no eyes in his head? 
 Or just a mind 
 Calm and alone? 
 Or just a mouth, silent, dead, 
 The lips half gone? 

 Will they presume 
 That someone once was half alive 
 And that the air 
 Was massive where 
 The sickening pyracanthus thrive 
 Staining his tomb? 

 I came to touch 
 The great heart of a dying state. 
 Here is the wound! 
 It makes no sound. 
 All that we learn we learn too late, 
 And it's not much.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Patches

 Mother focused with a frown
The part of me where I sit down.
Said she: "Your pants are wearing through;
Let me sew on a patch for you."
And so she did,--of azure blue.
My britches were of sober grey,
And when I went to school next day,
The fellows said: "Excuse our smile:
We saw your patch 'way off a mile."
Said I: "Sure, it's the latest style."

So each boy asked his Ma to match
With bluer blue my super-patch,
And when to school they came en masse,
It was the emblem of our class,
Admired by every bonnie lass.

Now when I'm old and in my dotage,
I hope I'll have a humble cottage,
And sit me by a hive of bees,
A patchwork quilt accross my knees,
Warming my worn hands in the sun,
All ropey with the work they've done.

The work they've done to give me this
Brief bit of comfort, ease and bliss;
My pathway edged with cockle shells,
And bright with Canterbury bells,
That leads to where my humble thatch is,
It, too, adorned with straw-bright patches.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

At leisure is the Soul

 At leisure is the Soul
That gets a Staggering Blow --
The Width of Life -- before it spreads
Without a thing to do --

It begs you give it Work --
But just the placing Pins --
Or humblest Patchwork -- Children do --
To Help its Vacant Hands --

Book: Reflection on the Important Things