10 Best Famous Radar Poems

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

• All Famous Radar Poems

Written by Muhammad Ali | Clay comes out to meet Liston Clay comes out to meet Liston and Liston starts to retreat, if Liston goes back an inch farther he'll end up in a ringside seat. Clay swings with his left, Clay swings with his right, Look at young Cassius carry the fight Liston keeps backing, but there's not enough room, It's a matter of time till Clay lowers the boom. Now Clay lands with a right, What a beautiful swing, and the punch raises the Bear clean out of the ring. Liston is still rising and the ref wears a frown, For he can't start counting till Sonny goes down. Now Liston is disappearing from view, The crowd is going frantic, But radar stations have picked him up, Somewhere over the Atlantic. Who would have thought when they came to the fight? That they'd witness the launching of a human satellite. Yes the crowd did not dream, when they put up the money, That they would see a total eclipse of the Sonny. Muhammad Ali Quotes Poems Ding! Ali comes out to meet Frazier But Frazier starts to retreat If Frazier goes back any further He'll wind up in a ringside seat Ali swings to the left Ali swings to the right Look at the kid Carry the fight Frazier keeps backing But there's not enough room It's a matter of time Then Ali lowers the boom Now Ali lands to the right What a beautiful swing! And deposits Frazier Clean out of the ring Frazier's still rising But the referee wears a frown For he can't start counting Till Frazier comes down Now Frazier disappears from view The crowd is getting frantic But our radar stations have picked him up He's somewhere over the Atlantic Who would have thought that When they came to the fight That they would have witnessed The launching of a coloured satellite!

Written by Allen Ginsberg | Who Runs America? Oil brown smog over Denver Oil red dung colored smoke level to level across the horizon blue tainted sky above Oil car smog gasoline hazing red Denver's day December bare trees sticking up from housetop streets Plane lands rumbling, planes rise over radar wheels, black smoke drifts from tailfins Oil millions of cars speeding the cracked plains Oil from Texas, Bahrein, Venezuela Mexico Oil that turns General Motors revs up Ford lights up General Electric, oil that crackles thru International Business Machine computers, charges dynamos for ITT sparks Western Electric runs thru Amer Telephone & Telegraph wires Oil that flows thru Exxon New Jersey hoses, rings in Mobil gas tank cranks, rumbles Chrysler engines shoots thru Texaco pipelines blackens ocean from broken Gulf tankers spills onto Santa Barbara beaches from Standard of California derricks offshore.

Written by Ruth Padel | Night Then spoke the thunder, shattering the looming blackness of our national life. The rumble that breaks a spell of the dry season – Saro-Wiwa, "The Storm Breaks" Does a zebra foal dream? Head lower, lower under lenticular dark cloud, he drags harlequin fetlocks, porcelain quails' egg hooflets through pimpling dust, slower, slower through the silver rainbow night, this soot and fester cellar-lighting, electricity of the blue and evil eye. Night ringed with eyes, gutter-glow of new-soused theatre, hyena, leopard, caracal (that caramel cat with ear tufts, anxious to feed her cubs) watching the lame foal weakened by drought. All you know is, that you don't know, and are afraid. Moonshadow where the big rocks laugh apart. Predator-senses. Cilia. Heat detectors crowd this long auditorium, segment after segment of the midnight shuffle-plains. They radar in on bodies, fluids, molecules of flesh that do not know they glow, they draw. Let's give him one dream-memory, a zebra wish fulfilled in dazing plod, some sheer green wall of sugarcane. And look - he's made it through into the bleach and blaze, rose curdling over indigo and lard, this granult scar of dawn. One more dawn nearer the water. Sky blood-taggled, blood-tufted, rushes over him like a white bowl at the end of things, the little safe horizon of a pilot's dial, an inventory of therapeutic gems.

Written by Adrienne Rich | November 1968 Stripped you're beginning to float free up through the smoke of brushfires and incinerators the unleafed branches won't hold you nor the radar aerials You're what the autumn knew would happen after the last collapse of primary color once the last absolutes were torn to pieces you could begin How you broke open, what sheathed you until this moment I know nothing about it my ignorance of you amazes me now that I watch you starting to give yourself away to the wind

Written by Les Murray | Bats Ultrasound Sleeping-bagged in a duplex wing with fleas, in rock-cleft or building radar bats are darkness in miniature, their whole face one tufty crinkled ear with weak eyes, fine teeth bared to sing. Few are vampires. None flit through the mirror. Where they flutter at evening's a ***** tonal hunting zone above highest C. Insect prey at the peak of our hearing drone re to their detailing tee: ah, eyrie-ire; aero hour, eh? O'er our ur-area (our era aye ere your raw row) we air our array err, yaw, row wry - aura our orrery, our eerie ü our ray, our arrow. A rare ear, our aery Yahweh.

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 21: Some good people daring and subtle voices Some good people, daring & subtle voices and their tense faces, as I think of it I see sank underground. I see. My radar digs. I do not dig. Cool their flushing blood, them eyes is shut-” eyes? Appalled: by all the dead: Henry brooded. Without exception! All. ALL. The senior population waits. Come down! come down! A ghastly & flashing pause, clothed, life called; us do. In a madhouse heard I an ancient man tube-fed who had not said for fifteen years (they said) one canny word, senile forever, who a heart might pierce, mutter 'O come on down. O come on down.' Clear whom he meant.

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 63: Bats have no bankers and they do not drink Bats have no bankers and they do not drink and cannot be arrested and pay no tax and, in general, bats have it made. Henry for joining the human race is bats, known to be so, by few them who think, out of the cave. Instead of the cave! ah lovely-chilly, dark, ur-moist his cousins hang in hundreds or swerve with personal radar, crisisless, kid. Instead of the cave? I serve, inside, my blind term. Filthy four-foot lights reflect on the whites of our eyes. He then salutes for sixty years of it just now a one of valor and insights, a theatrical man, O scholar & Legionnaire who as quickly might have killed as cast you. Olè. Stormed with years he tranquil commands and appears.