Best Famous Prodigy Poems

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

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

• All Famous Prodigy Poems

Written by Ogden Nash | First Child ... Second Child FIRST Be it a girl, or one of the boys, It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois, It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician Have possibly been a lobstertrician? His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory, But how's for an infantile inventory? Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle! Whether its head is oval or spherical, You rejoice to find it has only one, Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son; Here's the phenomenon all complete, It's got two hands, it's got two feet, Only natural, but pleasing, because For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws. Furthermore, it is fully equipped: Fingers and toes with nails are tipped; It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut; When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut, When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed And the presence of lungs can be deduced. Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder, This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder. A staggering child, a child astounding, Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding, Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed, A child to stagger and flabbergast, Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn, And the only perfect one ever born. SECOND Arrived this evening at half-past nine. Everybody is doing fine. Is it a boy, or quite the reverse? You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.

Written by Denise Levertov | Celebration Brilliant, this day – a young virtuoso of a day. Morning shadow cut by sharpest scissors, deft hands. And every prodigy of green – whether it's ferns or lichens or needles or impatient points of buds on spindly bushes – greener than ever before. And the way the conifers hold new cones to the light for the blessing, a festive right, and sing the oceanic chant the wind transcribes for them! A day that shines in the cold like a first-prize brass band swinging along the street of a coal-dusty village, wholly at odds with the claims of reasonable gloom.

Written by Marianne Moore | Baseball and Writing Fanaticism?No. Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing. You can never tell with either how it will go or what you will do; generating excitement-- a fever in the victim-- pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter. Victim in what category? Owlman watching from the press box? To whom does it apply? Who is excited?Might it be I? It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel-- a catcher's, as, with cruel puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly back to plate. (His spring de-winged a bat swing. ) They have that killer instinct; yet Elston--whose catching arm has hurt them all with the bat-- when questioned, says, unenviously, "I'm very satisfied. We won. " Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We"; robbed by a technicality. When three players on a side play three positions and modify conditions, the massive run need not be everything. "Going, going . . . "Is it?Roger Maris has it, running fast. You will never see a finer catch. Well . . . "Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why gild it, although deer sounds better-- snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest, one-handing the souvenir-to-be meant to be caught by you or me. Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile. He is no feather. "Strike! . . . Strike two!" Fouled back. A blur. It's gone. You would infer that the bat had eyes. He put the wood to that one. Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel. I think I helped a little bit. " All business, each, and modesty. Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer. In that galaxy of nine, say which won the pennant?Each. It was he. Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws by Boyer, finesses in twos-- like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre- diagnosis with pick-off psychosis. Pitching is a large subject. Your arm, too true at first, can learn to catch your corners--even trouble Mickey Mantle. ("Grazed a Yankee! My baby pitcher, Montejo!" With some pedagogy, you'll be tough, premature prodigy. ) They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees. Trying indeed!The secret implying: "I can stand here, bat held steady. " One may suit him; none has hit him. Imponderables smite him. Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds require food, rest, respite from ruffians. (Drat it! Celebrity costs privacy!) Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice, brewer's yeast (high-potency-- concentrates presage victory sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez-- deadly in a pinch. And "Yes, it's work; I want you to bear down, but enjoy it while you're doing it. " Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain, if you have a rummage sale, don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh. Studded with stars in belt and crown, the Stadium is an adastrium. O flashing Orion, your stars are muscled like the lion.

Written by Robert William Service | The Cuckoo No lyric line I ever penned The praise this parasitic bird; And what is more, I don't intend To write a laudatory word, Since in my garden robins made A nest with eggs of dainty spot, And then a callous cuckoo laid A lone on on the lot. Of course the sillies hatched it out Along with their two tiny chicks, And there it threw its weight about, But with the others would not mix. In fact, it seemed their guts to hate, And crossly kicked them to the ground, So that next morning, sorry fate! Two babes stone dead I found. These stupid robins, how they strove To gluttonize that young cuckoo! And like a prodigy it throve, And daily greedier it grew. How it would snap and glup and spit! Till finally it came to pass, Growing too big the nest to fit, It fell out on the grass. So for a week they fed it there, As in a nook of turf it lay; But it was scornful of their care, for it was twice as big as they. When lo! one afternoon I heard A flutelike call: Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Then suddenly that foulsome bird Flapped to its feet and flew. I'm sure it never said goodbye To its fond foster Pa and Ma, Though to their desolated sigh It might have chirruped: "Au revoir. " But no, it went in wanton mood, Flying the coop for climates new And so I say: "Ingratitude, They name's Cuckoo. "

Written by Katherine Philips | Friendships Mystery To My Dearest Lucasia Come, my Lucasia, since we see That miracles Men's Faith do move, By wonder and by prodigy To the dull angry World let's prove There's a Religion in our Love. For Though we were design'd t'agree, That Fate no liberty destroys, But our Election is as free As Angels, who with greedy choice Are yet determin'd to their joys. Our hearts are doubled by the loss, Here Mixture is Addition grown; We both diffuse, and both ingross: And we whose minds are so much one, Never, yet ever are alone. We court our own Captivity Than Thrones more great and innocent: `Twere banishment to be set free, Since we wear fetters whose intent Not Bondage is but Ornament Divided joys are tedious found, And griefs united easier grow: We are our selves but by rebound, And all our Titles shuffled so, Both Princes, and both Subjects too. Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid, While they (such power in Friendship lies) Are Altars, Priests, and Off'rings made: And each Heart which thus kindly dies, Grows deathless by the Sacrifice.

Written by Anne Killigrew | Upon a Little Lady Under the Discipline of an Excellent Person I. HOw comes the Day orecast ? the Flaming Sun Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run ? He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay, Ne're courted Daphne with a brighter Ray ! And now in Clouds he wraps his Head, As if not Daphne, but himself were dead ! And all the little Winged Troop Forbear to sing, and sit and droop; The Flowers do languish on their Beds, And fading hang their Mourning Heads; The little Cupids discontented, shew, In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow, An other tares his Cheeks and Haire, A third sits blubring in Despaire, Confessing though, in Love, he be, A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie, A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he: Whence is this Evil hurl'd, On all the sweetness of the World ? Among those Things with Beauty shine, (Both Humane natures, and Divine) There was not so much sorrow spi'd, No, no that Day the sweet Adonis died ! II. Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake, The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake. Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above, Govern us Men, but govern still with Love, Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be, Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie. My Prayer not spoken out, One of the Winged Rout, With Indignation great, Sprung from his Airie-Seat, And mounting to a Higher Cloud, With Thunder, or a Voice as loud Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th'Gods, Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods ! And in the Instant that the Thing was meant, He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent ! I follow'd with my watchful Eye, To the Place where the Shaft did flie, But O unheard-of Prodigy. It was retorted back again, And he that sent it, felt the pain, Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain ! But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found, And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound. III. The Place from which the Arrow did return, Swifter than sent, and with the speed did burn, Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare, Tarrast beneath, and open to the Aire, On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tie A purfl'd Curtain, hanging from on high, To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower, And boast the Owners Dignity and Power ! This shew'd the Scene from whence Loves grief arose, And Heaven and Nature both did discompose, A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright, Lay like a Body of Collected Light, But not to Love and Courtship so disclos'd, But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos'd, Who instant on the Faire with Words and Blows, Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shews. IV. But O thou no less Blind, Than Wild and Savage Mind, Who Discipline dar'st name, Thy Outrage and thy shame, And hop'st a Radiant Crown to get All Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit, Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like incircle it! May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand, Grasping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand, Thy Hand, that Furie like------But see! By Apollos Sacred Tree, By his ever Tuneful Lyre, And his bright Image the Eternal Fire, Eudoras she has done this Deed And made the World thus in its Darling bleed ! I know the Cruel Dame, Too well instructed by my Flame ! But see her shape ! But see her Face ! In her Temple such is Diana's Grace ! Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies, When Beautie's wrong'd, no wonder Musick dies ! V. What blood of Centaurs did thy Bosom warme, And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme ? Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud, As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good ! How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand, That Rage of Seas, and People could command, And calme Diseases with the Charming strings, Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things ? But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride, Because thou didst Excel the World beside, And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine, Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine ! And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see, Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee, And punisht in the Lady as unfit, What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit. Divine she is, or else Divine must be, A Borne or else a Growing Deitie ! VI. While thus I did exclaime, And wildly rage and blame, Behold the Sylvan-Quire Did all at one conspire, With shrill and cheerful Throats, T'assume their chirping Notes; The Heav'ns refulgent Eye Dance't in the clear'd-up Skie, And so triumphant shon, As seven-days Beams he had on ! The little Loves burn'd with nobler fier. Each chang'd his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre, Singing chast Aires unto the tuneful strings, And time'd soft Musick with their downy Wings. I turn'd the little Nymph to view, She singing and did smiling shew; Eudora led a heav'nly strain, Her Angels Voice did eccho it again ! I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought, But neerer Heav'n this Piece of Heaven was brought. She also brighter seem'd, than she had been, Vertue darts forth a Light'ning 'bove the Skin. Eudora also shew'd as heretofore, When her soft Graces I did first adore. I saw, what one did Nobly Will, The other sweetly did fulfil; Their Actions all harmoniously did sute, And she had only tun'd the Lady like her Lute.