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Best Famous Plastered Poems

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

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Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Roosters

 At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first cock

just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo

off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,

grates like a wet match 
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.
Cries galore come from the water-closet door, from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor, where in the blue blur their rusting wives admire, the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare with stupid eyes while from their beaks there rise the uncontrolled, traditional cries.
Deep from protruding chests in green-gold medals dressed, planned to command and terrorize the rest, the many wives who lead hens' lives of being courted and despised; deep from raw throats a senseless order floats all over town.
A rooster gloats over our beds from rusty irons sheds and fences made from old bedsteads, over our churches where the tin rooster perches, over our little wooden northern houses, making sallies from all the muddy alleys, marking out maps like Rand McNally's: glass-headed pins, oil-golds and copper greens, anthracite blues, alizarins, each one an active displacement in perspective; each screaming, "This is where I live!" Each screaming "Get up! Stop dreaming!" Roosters, what are you projecting? You, whom the Greeks elected to shoot at on a post, who struggled when sacrificed, you whom they labeled "Very combative.
.
.
" what right have you to give commands and tell us how to live, cry "Here!" and "Here!" and wake us here where are unwanted love, conceit and war? The crown of red set on your little head is charged with all your fighting blood Yes, that excrescence makes a most virile presence, plus all that vulgar beauty of iridescence Now in mid-air by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather, and one is flying, with raging heroism defying even the sensation of dying.
And one has fallen but still above the town his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down; and what he sung no matter.
He is flung on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung with his dead wives with open, bloody eyes, while those metallic feathers oxidize.
St.
Peter's sin was worse than that of Magdalen whose sin was of the flesh alone; of spirit, Peter's, falling, beneath the flares, among the "servants and officers.
" Old holy sculpture could set it all together in one small scene, past and future: Christ stands amazed, Peter, two fingers raised to surprised lips, both as if dazed.
But in between a little cock is seen carved on a dim column in the travertine, explained by gallus canit; flet Petrus underneath it, There is inescapable hope, the pivot; yes, and there Peter's tears run down our chanticleer's sides and gem his spurs.
Tear-encrusted thick as a medieval relic he waits.
Poor Peter, heart-sick, still cannot guess those cock-a-doodles yet might bless, his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness, a new weathervane on basilica and barn, and that outside the Lateran there would always be a bronze cock on a porphyry pillar so the people and the Pope might see that event the Prince of the Apostles long since had been forgiven, and to convince all the assembly that "Deny deny deny" is not all the roosters cry.
In the morning a low light is floating in the backyard, and gilding from underneath the broccoli, leaf by leaf; how could the night have come to grief? gilding the tiny floating swallow's belly and lines of pink cloud in the sky, the day's preamble like wandering lines in marble, The cocks are now almost inaudible.
The sun climbs in, following "to see the end," faithful as enemy, or friend.


Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

At the Fishhouses

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered with creamy iridescent coats of mail, with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses, set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, is an ancient wooden capstan, cracked, with two long bleached handles and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population and of codfish and herring while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
Down at the water's edge, at the place where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp descending into the water, thin silver tree trunks are laid horizontally across the gray stones, down and down at intervals of four or five feet.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, element bearable to no mortal, to fish and to seals .
.
.
One seal particularly I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me.
He was interested in music; like me a believer in total immersion, so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.
" He stood up in the water and regarded me steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, the clear gray icy water .
.
.
Back, behind us, the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows, a million Christmas trees stand waiting for Christmas.
The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in, your wrist would ache immediately, your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn as if the water were a transmutation of fire that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, derived from the rocky breasts forever, flowing and drawn, and since our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.
Written by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | Create an image from this poem

Standardization

 When, darkly brooding on this Modern Age, 
The journalist with his marketable woes 
Fills up once more the inevitable page 
Of fatuous, flatulent, Sunday-paper prose; 

Whenever the green aesthete starts to whoop 
With horror at the house not made with hands 
And when from vacuum cleaners and tinned soup 
Another pure theosophist demands 

Rebirth in other, less industrial stars 
Where huge towns thrust up in synthetic stone 
And films and sleek miraculous motor cars 
And celluloid and rubber are unknown; 

When from his vegetable Sunday School 
Emerges with the neatly maudlin phrase 
Still one more Nature poet, to rant or drool 
About the "Standardization of the Race"; 

I see, stooping among her orchard trees, 
The old, sound Earth, gathering her windfalls in, 
Broad in the hams and stiffening at the knees, 
Pause and I see her grave malicious grin.
For there is no manufacturer competes With her in the mass production of shapes and things.
Over and over she gathers and repeats The cast of a face, a million butterfly wings.
She does not tire of the pattern of a rose.
Her oldest tricks still catch us with surprise.
She cannot recall how long ago she chose The streamlined hulls of fish, the snail's long eyes, Love, which still pours into its ancient mould The lashing seed that grows to a man again, From whom by the same processes unfold Unending generations of living men.
She has standardized his ultimate needs and pains.
Lost tribes in a lost language mutter in His dreams: his science is tethered to their brains, His guilt merely repeats Original Sin.
And beauty standing motionless before Her mirror sees behind her, mile on mile, A long queue in an unknown corridor, Anonymous faces plastered with her smile.
Written by John Betjeman | Create an image from this poem

Meditation on the A30

 A man on his own in a car
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle
and puffs at his pitiful life

She's losing her looks very fast,
she loses her temper all day;
that lorry won't let me get past,
this Mini is blocking my way.
"Why can't you step on it and shift her! I can't go on crawling like this! At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead- Thank heavens we don't have to kiss.
"I'ld like a nice blonde on my knee And one who won't argue or nag.
Who dares to come hooting at me? I only give way to a Jag.
"You're barmy or plastered, I'll pass you, you bastard- I will overtake you.
I will!" As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe And the corner's accepting its kill.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

A Prodigal

 The brown enormous odor he lived by
was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,
for him to judge.
The floor was rotten; the sty was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung.
Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts, the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare-- even to the sow that always ate her young-- till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head.
But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts (he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours), the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red the burning puddles seemed to reassure.
And then he thought he almost might endure his exile yet another year or more.
But evenings the first star came to warn.
The farmer whom he worked for came at dark to shut the cows and horses in the barn beneath their overhanging clouds of hay, with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light, safe and companionable as in the Ark.
The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.
The lantern--like the sun, going away-- laid on the mud a pacing aureole.
Carrying a bucket along a slimy board, he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight, his shuddering insights, beyond his control, touching him.
But it took him a long time finally to make up his mind to go home.
Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

from The Tenth Elegy

 Ah, but the City of Pain: how strange its streets are:
the false silence of sound drowning sound,
and there--proud, brazen, effluence from the mold of emptiness--
the gilded hubbub, the bursting monument.
How an Angel would stamp out their market of solaces, set up alongside their church bought to order: clean and closed and woeful as a post office on Sunday.
Outside, though, there's always the billowing edge of the fair.
Swings of Freedom! High-divers and Jugglers of Zeal! And the shooting gallery with its figures of idiot Happiness which jump, quiver, and fall with a tinny ring whenever some better marksman scores.
Onward he lurches from cheers to chance; for booths courting each curious taste are drumming and barking.
And then--for adults only-- a special show: how money breeds, its anatomy, not some charade: money's genitals, everything, the whole act from beginning to end--educational and guaranteed to make you virile .
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Oh, but just beyond that, behind the last of the billboards, plastered with signs for "Deathless," that bitter beer which tastes sweet to those drinking it as long as they have fresh distractions to chew .
.
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, just beyond those boards, just on the other side: things are real.
Children play, lovers hold each other, off in the shadows, pensive, on the meager grass, while dogs obey nature.
The youth is drawn farther on; perhaps he's fallen in love with a young Lament .
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He pursues her, enters meadowland.
She says: "It's a long way.
We live out there .
.
.
" Where? And the youth follows.
Something in her bearing stirs him.
Her shoulders, neck--, perhaps she's of noble descent.
Still, he leaves her, turns around, glances back, waves .
.
.
What's the use? She's a Lament.
Written by Marilyn Hacker | Create an image from this poem

For K. J. Leaving and Coming Back

 August First: it was a year ago
we drove down from St.
-Guilhem-le-Désert to open the house in St.
Guiraud rented unseen.
I'd stay; you'd go; that's where our paths diverged.
I'd settle down to work, you'd start the next month of your Wanderjahr.
I turned the iron key in the rusted lock (it came, like a detective-story clue, in a manila envelope, postmarked elsewhere, unmarked otherwise) while you stood behind me in the midday heat.
Somnolent shudders marked our progress.
Two horses grazed on a roof across the street.
You didn't believe me until you turned around.
They were both old, one mottled gray, one white.
Past the kitchen's russet dark, we found bookshelves on both sides of the fireplace: Verlaine, L'Étranger, Notes from the Underground.
Through an archway, a fresh-plastered staircase led steeply upward.
In a white room stood a white-clad brass bed.
Sunlight in your face came from the tree-filled window.
"You did good.
" We laid crisp sheets we would inaugurate that night, rescued from the grenier a wood- en table we put under the window.
Date our homes from that one, to which you returned the last week of August, on a late bus, in shorts, like a crew-cut, sunburned bidasse.
Sunburned, in shorts, a new haircut, with Auden and a racing pulse I'd earned by "not being sentimental about you," I sprinted to "La Populaire.
" You walked into my arms when you got out.
At a two minute bus stop, who would care? "La Populaire" puffed onward to Millau while we hiked up to the hiatus where we'd left ourselves when you left St.
Guiraud after an unambiguous decade of friendship, and some months of something new.
A long week before either of us said a compromising word acknowledging what happened every night in the brass bed and every bird-heralded blue morning was something we could claim and keep and use; was, like the house, a place where we could bring our road-worn, weary selves.
Now, we've a pause in a year we wouldn't have wagered on.
Dusk climbs the tiled roof opposite; the blue's still sun-soaked; it's a week now since you've gone to be a daughter in the capital.
(I came north with you as far as Beaune.
) I cook things you don't like.
Sometimes I fall asleep, book open, one A.
M.
, sometimes I long for you all night in Provencal or langue d'oc, or wish I could, when I'm too much awake.
My early walk, my late walk mark the day's measures like rhyme.
(There's nothing I hate---perhaps I hate the adipose deposits on my thighs ---as much as having to stay put and wait!) Although a day alone cuts tight or lies too limp sometimes, I know what I didn't know a year ago, that makes it the right size: owned certainty; perpetual surprise.


Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

THE BLINDED BOURBONS

 ("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?") 
 
 {II. v., November, 1836.} 


 Who then, to them{1} had told the Future's story? 
 Or said that France, low bowed before their glory, 
 One day would mindful be 
 Of them and of their mournful fate no more, 
 Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er 
 The unremembering sea? 
 
 That their old Tuileries should see the fall 
 Of blazons from its high heraldic hall, 
 Dismantled, crumbling, prone;{2} 
 Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave{3} 
 A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave 
 An eagle, then unknown? 
 
 That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited, 
 Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art created 
 For princely sport and ease, 
 Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, 
 Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade 
 Of the great Louis' trees? 
 
 Fraser's Magazine. 
 
 {Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.} 
 
 {Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so 
 irreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town 
 Council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.} 
 
 {Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers, 
 the Third Napoleon's initial "N" flourished for two decades, but has 
 been excised or plastered over, the words "National Property" or 
 "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.} 


 




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

McCluskys Nell

 In Mike Maloney's Nugget bar the hooch was flowin' free,
An' One-eyed Mike was shakin' dice wi' Montreal Maree,
An roarin' rageful warning when the boys got overwild,
When peekin' through the double door he spied a tiny child.
Then Mike Maloney muttered: "Hell! Now ain't that jest too bad; It's Dud McClusky's orphen Nell a-lookin' for her dad.
An' him in back, a-lushin' wine wi' Violet de Vere- Three times I've told the lousy swine to keep away from here.
" "Pore leetle sing! He leaves her lone, so he go on ze spree: I feex her yet, zat Violet," said Montreal Maree.
Now I'm accommodatin' when it comes to scented sin But when I saw that innocent step in our drunken din, I felt that I would like to crawl an' hide my head in shame.
An' judgin' by their features all them sourdoughs felt the same.
For there they stood like chunks o' wood, forgettin' how to swear, An' every glass o' likker was suspended in the air.
For with her hair of sunny silk, and big, blue pansy eyes She looked jest like an angel child stepped outa paradise.
So then Big Mike, paternal like, took her upon his knee.
"Ze pauv' petite! She ees so sweet," said Montreal Maree.
The kid was mighty scared, we saw, an' peaked an' pale an' sad; She nestled up to One-eyed Mike jest like he was her dad.
Then he got strokin' of her hair an' she began to sob, An' there was anger in the air of all that plastered mob, When in a hush so stark an' strained it seemed to stab the ear, We heard the lush, plunk-parlour laugh o' Violet de Vere.
Then Montreal Maree arose an' vanished from our sight, An' soon we heard the sound o' blows suggestin' female fight.
An' when she joined the gang again dishevelly was she: "Jeezecrize! I fix zat Violet," said Montreal Maree.
Then Barman Bill cam forward with what seemed a glass o' milk: "It's jest an egg-nog Missy, but it's slick an' smooth as silk.
" An' as the kiddy slowly sipped wi' gaze o' glad surprise, Them fifty sozzled sourdoughs uttered fifty happy sighs.
Then Ragtime Joe swung on his stool an' soft began to play A liltin' tune that made ye think o' daffydills in May; An' Gumboot Jones in solemn tones said: "You should hear her sing; They've got the cabin next to mine, an like a bird in Spring, She fills that tumble-down old shack wi' simple melodee.
" "Maybe she sing a song for us," said Montreal Maree.
Now I don't hold wi' mushy stuff, tear-jerkin' ain't my line, Yet somehow that kid's singin' sent the shivers down my spine; An' all them salted sourdoughs sighed, an' every eye was dim For what she sang upon the bar was just a simple hymn; Somethin' about "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide," My Mother used to sing it - say, I listened bleary-eyed.
That childish treble was so sweet, so clear, so tender true, It seemed to grip you by the heart an' did ***** things to you.
It made me think o' childhood days from sin an' sorrow free: "Zat child, she make me want to cry," said Montreal Maree.
Then up spoke One-eyed Mike: "What can't with us let her abide; For her dear Mother's sake we gotta send that kid outside.
Ye know this camp's a den o' sin, ye know that Dud's no dice - Let's stake her to a convent school, an' have her brought up nice.
" An' so them bearded sourdoughs crowded round an' on an' all, Dug down an' flung upon the bar their nuggets great and small.
"I guess we got a thousand bucks," exulted One-eyed Mike; "You bastards are a credit to the camp of Lucky Strike.
" "You see zis leetle silver cross my mozzaire give to me - Look, boys, I hang it on zee gosse," said Montreal Maree.
Time marches on; that little Nell is now a famous star, An' yet she got her singin' start on Mike Maloney's bar.
Aye it was back in ninety-eight she made her first dayboo, An' of that audience to-day are left but only two.
For all them bibulous sourdoughs have bravely passed away.
An' Lucky Strike is jest another ghost town to-day.
But Nell now sings in opera, we saw her in Boheem; 'Twas at a high-toned matinay, an' say! she was a dream.
So also thought the white-haired dame a-sittin' down by me - My lovin' spouse that once was known as Montreal Maree.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Ernie Pyle

 I wish I had a simple style
 In writing verse,
As in his prose had Ernie Pyle,
 So true and terse;
Springing so forthright from the heart
 With guileless art.
I wish I could put back a dram As Ernie could; I wish that I could cuss and damn As soldier should; And fain with every verse would I Ernie outvie.
Alas! I cannot claim his high Humanity; Nor emulate his pungent, dry Profanity; Nor share his love of common folk Who bear life's yolk.
Oh Ernie, who on earth I knew In war and wine, Though frail of fame, in soul how you Were pure and fine! I'm proud that once when we were plastered You called me 'bastard.
'
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