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Best Famous Puppy Poems

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

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Written by Mahmoud Darwish | Create an image from this poem

Under Siege

 Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time 
Close to the gardens of broken shadows, 
We do what prisoners do, 
And what the jobless do: 
We cultivate hope.
*** A country preparing for dawn.
We grow less intelligent For we closely watch the hour of victory: No night in our night lit up by the shelling Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us In the darkness of cellars.
*** Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.
*** On the verge of death, he says: I have no trace left to lose: Free I am so close to my liberty.
My future lies in my own hand.
Soon I shall penetrate my life, I shall be born free and parentless, And as my name I shall choose azure letters.
.
.
*** You who stand in the doorway, come in, Drink Arabic coffee with us And you will sense that you are men like us You who stand in the doorways of houses Come out of our morningtimes, We shall feel reassured to be Men like you! *** When the planes disappear, the white, white doves Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession Of the ether and of play.
Higher, higher still, the white, white doves Fly off.
Ah, if only the sky Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].
*** Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting The sky from collapse.
Behind the hedge of steel Soldiers piss—under the watchful eye of a tank— And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass.
.
.
*** [To a killer] If you had contemplated the victim’s face And thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in the Gas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifle And you would have changed your mind: this is not the way to find one’s identity again.
*** The siege is a waiting period Waiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm.
*** Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.
*** We have brothers behind this expanse.
Excellent brothers.
They love us.
They watch us and weep.
Then, in secret, they tell each other: "Ah! if this siege had been declared.
.
.
" They do not finish their sentence: "Don’t abandon us, don’t leave us.
" *** Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day.
And ten wounded.
And twenty homes.
And fifty olive trees.
.
.
Added to this the structural flaw that Will arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas.
*** A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved For my clothing is drenched with his blood.
*** If you are not rain, my love Be tree Sated with fertility, be tree If you are not tree, my love Be stone Saturated with humidity, be stone If you are not stone, my love Be moon In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon [So spoke a woman to her son at his funeral] *** Oh watchmen! Are you not weary Of lying in wait for the light in our salt And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound Are you not weary, oh watchmen? *** A little of this absolute and blue infinity Would be enough To lighten the burden of these times And to cleanse the mire of this place.
*** It is up to the soul to come down from its mount And on its silken feet walk By my side, hand in hand, like two longtime Friends who share the ancient bread And the antique glass of wine May we walk this road together And then our days will take different directions: I, beyond nature, which in turn Will choose to squat on a high-up rock.
*** On my rubble the shadow grows green, And the wolf is dozing on the skin of my goat He dreams as I do, as the angel does That life is here.
.
.
not over there.
*** In the state of siege, time becomes space Transfixed in its eternity In the state of siege, space becomes time That has missed its yesterday and its tomorrow.
*** The martyr encircles me every time I live a new day And questions me: Where were you? Take every word You have given me back to the dictionaries And relieve the sleepers from the echo’s buzz.
*** The martyr enlightens me: beyond the expanse I did not look For the virgins of immortality for I love life On earth, amid fig trees and pines, But I cannot reach it, and then, too, I took aim at it With my last possession: the blood in the body of azure.
*** The martyr warned me: Do not believe their ululations Believe my father when, weeping, he looks at my photograph How did we trade roles, my son, how did you precede me.
I first, I the first one! *** The martyr encircles me: my place and my crude furniture are all that I have changed.
I put a gazelle on my bed, And a crescent of moon on my finger To appease my sorrow.
*** The siege will last in order to convince us we must choose an enslavement that does no harm, in fullest liberty! *** Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart’s health, The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease: The disease of hope.
*** And in what remains of the dawn, I walk toward my exterior And in what remains of the night, I hear the sound of footsteps inside me.
*** Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the Blackness of this tunnel! *** Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces: Greetings to my apparition.
*** My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me, A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees A marble epitaph of time And always I anticipate them at the funeral: Who then has died.
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who? *** Writing is a puppy biting nothingness Writing wounds without a trace of blood.
*** Our cups of coffee.
Birds green trees In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall To another like a gazelle The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us Of the sky.
And other things of suspended memories Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid, And that we are the guests of eternity.


Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

What Are Little Boys Made Of?


What are little boys made of, made of?
What are little boys made of?
"Snaps and snails, and puppy-dogs' tails;
And that's what little boys are made of.
"
What are little girls made of, made of?
What are little girls made of?
"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;
And that's what little girls are made of.
"
Written by Stephen Crane | Create an image from this poem

It was wrong to do this said the angel

 "It was wrong to do this," said the angel.
"You should live like a flower, Holding malice like a puppy, Waging war like a lambkin.
" "Not so," quoth the man Who had no fear of spirits; "It is only wrong for angels Who can live like the flowers, Holding malice like the puppies, Waging war like the lambkins.
"
Written by Jonathan Swift | Create an image from this poem

The Ladys Dressing Room

 Five hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void And Betty otherwise employed, Stole in and took a strict survey Of all the litter as it lay; Whereof, to make the matter clear, An inventory follows here.
And first a dirty smock appeared, Beneath the arm-pits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best, And Strephon bids us guess the rest; And swears how damnably the men lie In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces The various combs for various uses, Filled up with dirt so closely fixt, No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare, Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair; A forehead cloth with oil upon't To smooth the wrinkles on her front.
Here alum flower to stop the steams Exhaled from sour unsavory streams; There night-gloves made of Tripsy's hide, Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she died, With puppy water, beauty's help, Distilled from Tripsy's darling whelp; Here gallypots and vials placed, Some filled with washes, some with paste, Some with pomatum, paints and slops, And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands, Fouled with the scouring of her hands; The basin takes whatever comes, The scrapings of her teeth and gums, A nasty compound of all hues, For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon's bowels, When he beheld and smelt the towels, Begummed, besmattered, and beslimed With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grimed.
No object Strephon's eye escapes: Here petticoats in frowzy heaps; Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot All varnished o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings, why should I expose, Stained with the marks of stinking toes; Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking, Which Celia slept at least a week in? A pair of tweezers next he found To pluck her brows in arches round, Or hairs that sink the forehead low, Or on her chin like bristles grow.
The virtues we must not let pass, Of Celia's magnifying glass.
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't It shewed the visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose The smallest worm in Celia's nose, And faithfully direct her nail To squeeze it out from head to tail; (For catch it nicely by the head, It must come out alive or dead.
) Why Strephon will you tell the rest? And must you needs describe the chest? That careless wench! no creature warn her To move it out from yonder corner; But leave it standing full in sight For you to exercise your spite.
In vain, the workman shewed his wit With rings and hinges counterfeit To make it seem in this disguise A cabinet to vulgar eyes; For Strephon ventured to look in, Resolved to go through thick and thin; He lifts the lid, there needs no more: He smelt it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box, When Epimetheus oped the locks, A sudden universal crew Of humane evils upwards flew, He still was comforted to find That Hope at last remained behind; So Strephon lifting up the lid To view what in the chest was hid, The vapours flew from out the vent.
But Strephon cautious never meant The bottom of the pan to grope And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine Be once in Celia's chamber seen! O may she better learn to keep "Those secrets of the hoary deep"! As mutton cutlets, prime of meat, Which, though with art you salt and beat As laws of cookery require And toast them at the clearest fire, If from adown the hopeful chops The fat upon the cinder drops, To stinking smoke it turns the flame Poisoning the flesh from whence it came; And up exhales a greasy stench For which you curse the careless wench; So things which must not be exprest, When plumpt into the reeking chest, Send up an excremental smell To taint the parts from whence they fell, The petticoats and gown perfume, Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey, Disgusted Strephon stole away Repeating in his amorous fits, Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits! But vengeance, Goddess never sleeping, Soon punished Strephon for his peeping: His foul Imagination links Each dame he see with all her stinks; And, if unsavory odors fly, Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his description fits, And both ideas jump like wits By vicious fancy coupled fast, And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind To all the charms of female kind.
Should I the Queen of Love refuse Because she rose from stinking ooze? To him that looks behind the scene Satira's but some pocky queen.
When Celia in her glory shows, If Strephon would but stop his nose (Who now so impiously blasphemes Her ointments, daubs, and paints and creams, Her washes, slops, and every clout With which he makes so foul a rout), He soon would learn to think like me And bless his ravished sight to see Such order from confusion sprung, Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Frog Prince

 Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out of the sky like rain.
Frogs arrive With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.
My guilts are what we catalogue.
I'll take a knife and chop up frog.
Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father's genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.
The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off like a light bulb.
At the sight of him the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he's an apple and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog the touch-me-nots explode like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.
Mr.
Poison is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.
Mama Brundig, he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ for a souvenir.
Frog has boil disease and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me.
Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.
Why should a certain quite adorable princess be walking in her garden at such a time and toss her golden ball up like a bubble and drop it into the well? It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills holes in our skulls to let the Boston Symphony through.
But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron pot into the bottom of the well.
Lost, she said, my moon, my butter calf, my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
Balls such as these are not for sale in Au Bon Marché.
I took the moon, she said, between my teeth and now it is gone and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.
Suddenly the well grew thick and boiling and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess, he said, I am not a vagabond, a cattle farmer, a shepherd, a doorkeeper, a postman or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said, for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler, those three you will never do, but she made the promises with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth like a tricky old dog and she ran back to the castle leaving the frog quite alone.
That evening at dinner time a knock was heard on the castle door and a voice demanded: King's youngest daughter, let me in.
You promised; now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise and forced her to comply.
The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate looking over her bacon and calves' liver.
We will eat in tandem, he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled as if a small machine had entered her.
He sat upon the liver and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn't exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank as if it were Socrates' hemlock.
Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour! There was the pillow with the princess breathing and there was the sinuous frog riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river of shut doors, he said, and I have made my way over the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room.
Kaboom! Like a genie coming out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.
He hired a night watchman so that no one could enter the chamber and he had the well boarded over so that never again would she lose her ball, that moon, that Krishna hair, that blind poppy, that innocent globe, that madonna womb.


Written by Oliver Goldsmith | Create an image from this poem

An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog

 Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran— Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad— When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost its wits To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light That showed the rogues they lied,— The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died!
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 106: 28 July

 28 July

Calmly, while sat up friendlies & made noise
delight fuller than he can ready sing
or studiously say,
on hearing that the year had swung to pause
and culminated in an abundant thing,
came his Lady's birthday.
Dogs fill daylight, doing each other ill: my own in love was lugged so many blocks we had to have a vet.
Comes unrepentant round the lustful mongrel again today, glaring at her bandages & locks: his bark has grit.
This screen-porch where my puppy suffers and I swarm I hope with heartless love is now towards the close of day the scene of a vision of friendlies who withstand animal nature so far as to allow grace awhile to stay.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Room Of My Life

 Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into, the suffering brother of the wood walls, the forty-eight keys of the typewriter each an eyeball that is never shut, the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest, the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde, the sockets on the wall waiting like a cave of bees, the gold rug a conversation of heels and toes, the fireplace a knife waiting for someone to pick it up, the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore, the phone two flowers taking root in its crotch, the doors opening and closing like sea clams, the lights poking at me, lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there although birds explode right and left.
I feed the world in here too, offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Verse For a Certain Dog

 Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!) You look about, and all you see is fair; This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!) A skeptic world you face with steady gaze; High in young pride you hold your noble head, Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?) Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong, Yours the white rapture of a winged soul, Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!) "Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!) You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt, You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)
Written by James Merrill | Create an image from this poem

The Victor Dog

 Bix to Buxtehude to Boulez,
The little white dog on the Victor label
Listens long and hard as he is able.
It's all in a day's work, whatever plays.
From judgment, it would seem, he has refrained.
He even listens earnestly to Bloch, Then builds a church upon our acid rock.
He's man's--no--he's the Leiermann's best friend, Or would be if hearing and listening were the same.
Does he hear?I fancy he rather smells Those lemon-gold arpeggios in Ravel's "Les jets d'eau du palais de ceux qui s'aiment.
" He ponders the Schumann Concerto's tall willow hit By lightning, and stays put.
When he surmises Through one of Bach's eternal boxwood mazes The oboe pungent as a ***** in heat, Or when the calypso decants its raw bay rum Or the moon in Wozzeck reddens ripe for murder, He doesn't sneeze or howl; just listens harder.
Adamant needles bear down on him from Whirling of outer space, too black, too near-- But he was taught as a puppy not to flinch, Much less to imitate his bête noire Blanche Who barked, fat foolish creature, at King Lear.
Still others fought in the road's filth over Jezebel, Slavered on hearths of horned and pelted barons.
His forebears lacked, to say the least, forebearance.
Can nature change in him?Nothing's impossible.
The last chord fades.
The night is cold and fine.
His master's voice rasps through the grooves' bare groves.
Obediently, in silence like the grave's He sleeps there on the still-warm gramophone Only to dream he is at the première of a Handel Opera long thought lost--Il Cane Minore.
Its allegorical subject is his story! A little dog revolving round a spindle Gives rise to harmonies beyond belief, A cast of stars .
.
.
.
Is there in Victor's heart No honey for the vanquished?Art is art.
The life it asks of us is a dog's life.
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