10 Best Famous Punctured Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Punctured poems. This is a select list of the best famous Punctured poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Punctured poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of punctured poems.

• All Famous Punctured Poems

Written by Rg Gregory | from imperfect Eden (1) and off to scott's (the dockers' restaurant) burly men packed in round solid tables but what the helle (drowned in hellespont) this place for me was rich in its own fables i'll be the lover sunk if that enables an awesome sense of just how deep the spells that put scotts for me beyond the dardanelles lace-curtained windows (or memory plays me false) no capped odysseus could turn such sirens down or was it a circean slip that shocked the pulse all men are pigs when hunger rips the gown and these men were not there to grace the town service bustling (no time to take caps off) hot steaming food and noses in the trough i loved it deeply squashed in there with you rough offensive banter bantered back the smells of sweat and cargoes mixed with stew and dumplings lamb chops roast beef - what the **** these toughened men could outdo friar tuck so ravenous their faith blown off the sea that god lived in the stomach raucously perhaps cramped into scotts i felt it most that you belonged in a living sea of men who shared the one blood-vision of a coast tides washed you to but washed you off again too much history made the struggle plain but all the time there was this rough-hewn glimmer that truth wore dirty clothes and ate its dinner at midday - scotts was a parliament of sorts where what was said had not the solid weight of what was felt (or what was eaten) courts bewigged and stuffed with pomp of state were brushed aside in favour of the plate but those who entered hungry came out wise unspoken resolutions mulled like pies (2) and then the tram ride home (if we were lucky - and nothing during the day had caused despair) trams had a gift about them that was snaky wriggling their straitened ways from lair to lair they hissed upon their wires and flashed the air they swallowed people whole and spewed them out and most engorged in them became devout you either believed in trams or thought them heathen savage contraptions that shook you to your roots on busy jaunts there was no room for breathing damn dignity - rapt flesh was in cahoots all sexes fused from head-scarves to their boots and somewhere in the melee children pressed shoulders to crotches noses to the rest and in light-headed periods trams debunked the classier lissome ways of shifting freight emptied of pomp their anarchy instinct they'd rattle down their tracks at such a rate they'd writhe their upper structures like an eight being drawn by revelling legless topers strict rails (they claimed) gave sanction for such capers trams had this kind of catholic conviction the end ordained their waywardness was blessed if tramways claimed per se this benediction who cared if errant trams at times seemed pissed religions prosper from the hedonist who shags the world by day and prays at night those drunken trams still brim me with delight to climb the twisted stairs and seek a seat as tram got under way through sozzled rotors and find olympia vacant at my feet (the gods too razzled by the rasping motors - the sharps of life too much for absolutors) would send me skeltering along the aisle king of the upper world for one short while and all the shaking rolling raucous gait of this metallic serpent sizzling through the maze of shoppy streets (o dizzy state) sprinkled my heart-strings with ambrosial dew (well tell a lie but such a wish will do) and i'd be gloried as if leviathan said hop on nip and sped me to japan so back to earth - the tram that netley day would be quite sober bumbling through the town the rush-hour gone and night still on its way mum lil and baby (babies) would stay down and we'd be up the top - too tired to clown our bodies glowed (a warm contentment brewed) burnt backs nor aching legs could pop that mood (3) i lay in bed one day my joints subsiding lost in a day-dream rhythmed by my heart medicine-time (a pleasure not abiding) i did my best to play the sleeping part then at my back a nurse's rustling skirt a bending breeze (all breathing held in check) and then she blew sweet eddies down my neck the nurse (of all) whose presence turned the winter to summer's morning (cool before the sun) who touched the quick with such exquisite splinter the wince was there but no great hurt was done she moved like silk the finest loom had spun the ward went dark when she was gone or late and i was seven longing to be eight that whispering down my spine by scented lips threw wants and hopes my way that stewed my mind a draught drunk down in paradisal sips stirred passages in me not then defined at three i'd touched the grail with fingers blind to heart-ache - this nurse though first described the gates to elysium where grown-up love pupates but soon a cloud knocked pristine sex aback (i had to learn the hard way nothing's easy) i went my own route off the sanctioned track and came distraught - in fact distinctly queasy without permission (both nonchalant and breezy) i sailed from bed to have a pee (or worse) and got locked in - and drew that nurse's curse not only hers but all the fussing staff's for daring such a voyage in my state whose heart just then was not a bag of laughs did i not understand the fist of fate that waited naughty boys who could not wait thunderous gods glared through the quaking panes a corporate wrath set back my growing pains forget the scented lips the creeping bliss of such a nurse's presence on my flesh locked in i'd been an hour or more amiss they thought i'd done a bunk or slipped the leash when found i'd gone all blue like frozen fish those scented lips discharged their angry bile and cupid's dart fell short a scornful mile come christmas day the christmas tree was bright its mothering arms held glittering gifts for all and i was seven longing to be eight and i was given a large pink fluffy ball my spirit shrank into the nearest wall true love reduced to this insulting gimcrack my pumped-up heart was punctured by a tintack

Written by Ted Hughes | Earth-Moon Once upon a time there was a person He was walking along He met the full burning moon Rolling slowly twoards him Crushing the stones and houses by the wayside. She shut his eyes from the glare. He drew his dagger And stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. The cry that quit the moon's wounds Circled the earth. The moon shrank, like a punctured airship, Shrank, shrank, smaller, smaller, Till it was nothing But a silk handkerchief, torn, And wet as tears. The person picked it up. He walked on Into moonless night Carrying his strange trophy.

Written by Charles Webb | Suitcase Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping his hands above his head in victory; the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away. There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding. A hexagonal seal announces the defunct "U.S. Trunk Company." The frame is wood— big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather, its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes. "It's beautiful. Much too expensive," she told Dad, and kissed him. The lining is pink, quilted acetate. Three sides have pouches with elastic tops— stretched out now, like old underwear. I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres when I was so little she didn't blush. The right front corner has been punctured and crushed. (I could have choked the baggage handler.) The handle—blue plastic doorknocker— is fringed with wrinkled tags from United, Delta, U.S. Air (which crunched the hole, flying the suitcase back from Houston). I'd gone there to see Mom in the "home," and save some boyhood relics before my sister gave them to Good Will. "Take mine," Mom said, hearing my suitcase was full. "I won't need luggage, the next place I go."

Written by Robert William Service | The Odyssey Of Erbert Iggins Me and Ed and a stretcher Out on the nootral ground. (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher There's a 'undred smellin' around.) Me and Eddie O'Brian, Both of the R. A. M. C. "It'as a 'ell of a night For a soul to take flight," As Eddie remarks to me. Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, Thinkin' our job is done, When sudden and clear, Wot do we 'ear: 'Owl of a wounded 'Un. "Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; "Got to take all we can. 'E may be a Germ Wiv the 'eart of a worm, But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' ('E'd always a medical knack), When that wounded 'Un 'E rolls to 'is gun, And 'e plugs me pal in the back. Now what would you do? I arst you. There was me slaughtered mate. There was that 'Un (I'd collered 'is gun), A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, But when I got through, Between me and you, It was 'orrid and jaggy and red. "'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." It's slow and it's sure and it's steady (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). The rockets are shootin' and shinin', It's rainin' a perishin' flood, The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', And I'm up to me stern in the mud. There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; It's black as a bucket of tar; Oh, I'm doin' my bit, But I'm 'avin' a fit, And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar. "Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." Gord! But I'm crocky already; My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! There goes the biff of a bullet. The Boches have got us for fair. Another one -- WHUT! The son of a ****! 'E managed to miss by a 'air. 'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? Gave it a dooce of a wrench. Is it Eddy or me Wot's a-bleedin' so free? Crust! but it's long to the trench. I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, And Ed ain't a flapper by far; I'm blamed if I understand 'ow We've managed to get where we are. But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. "Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. Old pal, it's all right; It's a 'ell of a fight, But are we down-'earted? No-o-o." Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? It's the rummiest sort of a go. For when it's most real, It's then that you feel You're a-watchin' a cinema show. 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, And I'm 'ere in a pit Where a coal-box 'as 'it, And it's all like a giddy romance. The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': `Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood In the rain and the mud, Which is some'ow the right thing to do; Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. A feller wot punctured your partner; Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, And you still see 'is eyes Starin' bang at the skies, And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. But you wish you was back in your diggin's Asleep on your mouldy old stror. Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, But you ain't just enjoyin' the war." "'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. It's us for the bomb-belt again. Except for the shrap Which 'as 'it me a tap, I'm feelin' as right as the rain. It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, But don't be oneasy, my pippin, I'm goin' to pilot you in. It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. The bullets is buzzin' like bees. Me shoulder's red-'ot, And I'm bleedin' a lot, And me legs is on'inged at the knees. But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. Just stick it, old sport, play the game. I make 'em out clearer and clearer, Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. 'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! I'll carry you in if I die. By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. They're sendin' out stretchers for two. Let's give 'em the hoorah between us ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). My flipper is mashed to a jelly. A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. We've shed lots of gore And we're leakin' some more, But -- wot a hoccasion it's been! Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, Shoulder to shoulder -- so. They mustn't think we was down-'earted. Old pal, we was never down-'earted. If they arsts us if we was down-'earted We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'"