Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Powdering Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Powdering poems, articles about Powdering poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Powdering poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Nazim Hikmet | Create an image from this poem

A Spring Piece Left In The Middle

 Taut, thick fingers punch
the teeth of my typewriter.
Three words are down on paper
 in capitals:
SPRING
 SPRING
 SPRING...
And me -- poet, proofreader,
the man who's forced to read
two thousand bad lines
 every day
 for two liras--
why,
 since spring
 has come, am I
 still sitting here
 like a ragged 
 black chair?
My head puts on its cap by itself,
 I fly out of the printer's,
 I'm on the street.
The lead dirt of the composing room
 on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket.
 SPRING IN THE AIR...

In the barbershops
 they're powdering
 the sallow cheeks
 of the pariah of Publishers Row.
And in the store windows
 three-color bookcovers
 flash like sunstruck mirrors.
But me,
I don't have even a book of ABC's
that lives on this street
and carries my name on its door!
But what the hell...
I don't look back,
the lead dirt of the composing room
 on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket,
 SPRING IN THE AIR...

 *

The piece got left in the middle.
It rained and swamped the lines.
But oh! what I would have written...
The starving writer sitting on his three-thousand-page
 three-volume manuscript
wouldn't stare at the window of the kebab joint
but with his shining eyes would take
the Armenian bookseller's dark plump daughter by storm...
The sea would start smelling sweet.
Spring would rear up
 like a sweating red mare
and, leaping onto its bare back,
 I'd ride it
 into the water.
Then
 my typewriter would follow me
 every step of the way.
I'd say:
 "Oh, don't do it!
 Leave me alone for an hour..."
then
my head-my hair failing out--
 would shout into the distance:
 "I AM IN LOVE..."

 *

I'm twenty-seven,
she's seventeen.
"Blind Cupid,
lame Cupid,
both blind and lame Cupid
said, Love this girl,"
 I was going to write;
 I couldn't say it
 but still can!
But if
 it rained,
if the lines I wrote got swamped,
if I have twenty-five cents left in my pocket,
 what the hell...
Hey, spring is here spring is here spring
 spring is here!
My blood is budding inside me!


 20 and 21 April 1929


Written by Laure-Anne Bosselaar | Create an image from this poem

Dinner at the Who's Who

  amidst swirling wine 
and flickers of silver guests quote 
Dante, Brecht, Kant and each other. 

 I wait in the hall after not 
powdering my nose, trying to re-
compose that woman who’ll 

 graciously take her place 
at the table and won’t tell her hosts:
I looked into your bedroom 

 and closets, smelled your 
“Obsession” and “Brut,” sat 
on your bed, imagined you 

 in those spotless sheets, looked 
long into the sad eyes of your son
staring at your walls from his frame.

 I tried to smile at myself 
in your mirrors, wondering if you 
smile that way too: those resilient 

 little smiles one smiles 
at one’s self before facing the day, 
or another long night ahead — 

 guests coming for dinner. 
So I wait in this hall because 
there are nights it’s hard 

 not to blurt out Stop! Stop 
our babble: Pulitzer, Wall Street, sex,
Dante, politics, wars, have some Chianti...

 let’s stop and talk. Of our thirsts 
and obsessions, our bedrooms 
and closets, the brutes in our mirrors, 

 the eyes of our sons. 
There is time yet — let’s talk. 
I am starving.
Written by Anna Akhmatova | Create an image from this poem

March Elegy

 I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory
won't let go of half of them:
a modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry