Best Famous Reputations Poems

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

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• All Famous Reputations Poems

Written by Rg Gregory | from the Ansty Experience (a) they seek to celebrate the word not to bring their knives out on a poem dissecting it to find a heart whose beat lies naked on a table not to score in triumph on a line no sensitive would put a nostril to but simply to receive it as an offering glimpsing the sacred there poem probes the poet's once-intention but each time said budges its truth afresh (leaving the poet's self estranged from the once-intending man) and six ears in the room have tuned objectives sifting the coloured strands the words have hidden from the poet asking what world has come to light people measured by their heartbeats language can't flout that come-and-go to touch the heartbeat in a poem calls for the brain's surrender a warm diffusion of the mind a listening to an eery silence the words both mimic and destroy (no excuses slipping off the tongue) and when a poem works the unknown opens a timid shutter on a world so familiar it's not been seen before - and then it's gone bringing a frisson to an altered room and in a stuttering frenzy dusty attributes are tried to resurrect a glimpse of what it's like inside a truth (the glow a glow-worm makes) this is not (not much) what happens there's serious concern and banter there's opacity there's chit-chat diversions and derailings from a line some avalanche has blocked (what a fine pass through the mountains) poetry and fidgets are blood-brothers it's within all these the cosmos calls that makes these afternoons a rich adventure through a common field when three men moving towards death (without alacrity but conscious of it) find youth again and bubble with its springs - opening worn valves to give such flow their own direction there's no need of competition no wish to prove that one of us holds keys the others don't to the sacral chambers - no want to find consensus in technique or drench the rites of words in orthodox belief - difference is essential and delightful (integrity's all) quality's a private quarrel between the poem and the poet - taste the private hang-up of receivers mostly migrained by exposure to opinions not their own - fed from a culture no one bleeds in sustained by reputations manured by a few and spread by hearsay (b) these meetings are a modest vow to let each poet speak uncluttered from establishment's traditions and conditions where passions rippling from the marrow can choose a space to innocent themselves and long-held tastes for carlos williams gurney poems to siva (to name a few) can surface in a side-attempt to show unexpected lineage from the source to present patterns of the poet - but at the core of every poem read and comment made it's not the poem or the poet being sifted to the seed but poetry itself given the works the most despised belittled enervated creative cowcake of them all in the public eye prestigious when it doesn't matter to the clapped-out powers and turned away from when too awkward and impolitic to confront - ball to be bounced from high art to low when fights break out amongst the teachers and shakespeare's wielded as a cane as the rich old crusty clan reverts to the days it hated him at school but loved the beatings - loudhailer broken-down old-banger any ram-it- up-your-**** and suck-my-prick to those who want to tear chintz curtains down and shock the cosy populace to taste life at its rawest (most obscene) courtesan to fashion and today's ploy - advertisement's gold gimmick slave of beat and rhythm - dead but much loved donkey in the hearts of all who learned di-dah di-dah at school and have been stuck in the custard since plaything political-tool pop- star's goo - poetry's been made to garb itself in all these rags and riches this age applauds the eye - is one of outward exploration - the earth (in life) and universe (in fiction) are there for scurrying over - haste is everything and the beat is all fireworks feed the fancy - a great ah rewards the enterprise that fills night skies with flashing bountifuls of way-out stars - poetry has to be in service to this want (is fed into the system gracelessly) there can be no standing-still or stopping-by no take a little time and see what blossoms here - we're into poetry in motion and all that **** and i can accept it all - what stirs the surface of the ocean ignores the depths - what talks the hindlegs off the day can't murder dreams - that's not to say the depths and dreams aren't there for those who need them - it's commonplace they hold the keystones of our lives i fear something else much deeper the diabolical self-deceiving (wilful destruction of the spirit) by those loudspeaking themselves as poetry's protectors - publishers editors literature officers poetry societies and centres all all jumping on the flagship competition's crock of gold find the winners pick the famous all the hopefuls cry please name us aspiring poets search their wardrobes for the wordy swimsuit likely to catch the eyeful of the judges (winners too in previous contests inured to the needle of success but this time though now they are tops totally pissed-off with the process only here because the money's good) winners' middle name is wordsworth losers swallow a dose of shame organisers rub their golden hands pride themselves on their discernment these jacks have found the beanstalk castle harp and the golden egg the stupid giant and his frightened wife who let them steal their best possessions whose ear for poetry's so poor they think fum rhymes with englishman and so of course they get no prizes thief and trickster now come rich poetry's purpose is to hit the jackpot so great the lust for poetic fame thousands without a ghost of winning find poems like mothballs in their drawers sprinkle them with twinkling stardust post them off with copperplate cheques the judges wipe their arses on them the money's gone to a super cause everyone knows it's just a joke who gets taken - the foolish and vain if they're daft enough and such bad poets more money than sense the best advice is - keep it up grannies the cause is noble and we'll take your cheque again and again and again it's the winners who fall in the bog to win is to be preened - conceit finds a little fluffy nest dear to the feted heart and swells there fed (for a foetal space) on all the praisiest worms but in the nest is a bloated thing that sucks (and chokes) on hurt that has the knack of pecking where there's malice - it grows two heads winners by their nature soon become winged and weighted - icarus begins to prey upon their waking dreams prometheus gnawed by eagles the tight-shut box epimetheus gave pandora about to burst apart - yeats's centre cannot hold being poets they know the references and they learn the lesson quickly climb upon others as they would climb on you - in short be ruthless or be dead they mostly fade away being too intact or too weak-willed to go the shining way with light- ning bolts at every second bend agents breathing fire up their pants those who withstand the course become the poets of their day (and every one naturally good as gold - exceptions to the rule - out of the hearing and the judgment of their rivals) the media covet the heartache and the bile - love the new meteor can't wait to blast it from the heavens universities will start the cult with-it secondary teachers catch the name on fast - magazines begin to taste the honey on the plate and soon another name is buzzing round the bars where literary pass- ons meet to dole out bits of hem i accept it all - it's not for me above it all the literary lions (jackals to each other) stand posed upon their polystyrene mountains constructed by their fans and foes alike (they have such need of them) disdaining what they see but terror- stricken when newcomers climb up waving their thin bright books for so long they've dubbed themselves the intellectual cream - deigning to hand out poems when they're asked (for proper recompense in cash or fawning) - but well beyond the risk of letting others turn the bleeders down so sure they are they're halfway to the gods (yet still need preening) a poem from one of them is like the loaves and fishes jesus touched and rendered food for the five thousand they too can walk on water in their home - or so the reviewers say poetry from their mouths is such a gift if you don't read or understand it you'll be damned - i accept all that but what i can't accept is (all this while) the source and bed of what is poetry to me as cracked and parched - condemned ignored made mock of shoved in wilderness by those who've gone the gilded route (mapped out by ego and a driving need to claim best prick with a capital pee) it's being roomed with the said poem coming back and back to the same felt heartbeat having its way with words absorbing the strains and promises that make the language opt for paths no other voice would go - shifting a dull stone and knowing what bright creature this instinct has bred there it's trusting the poet with his own map not wanting to tear it up before the ink is dry because the symbols he's been using don't suit your own conception of terrain you've not been born to - it's being pleased to have connections made in ways you couldn't dream of (wouldn't want to)

Written by Rudyard Kipling | One Viceroy Resigns So here's your Empire. No more wine, then? Good. We'll clear the Aides and khitmatgars away. (You'll know that fat old fellow with the knife -- He keeps the Name Book, talks in English too, And almost thinks himself the Government. ) O Youth, Youth, Youth! Forgive me, you're so young. Forty from sixty -- twenty years of work And power to back the working. Ay def mi! You want to know, you want to see, to touch, And, by your lights, to act. It's natural. I wonder can I help you. Let me try. You saw -- what did you see from Bombay east? Enough to frighten any one but me? Neat that! It frightened Me in Eighty-Four! You shouldn't take a man from Canada And bid him smoke in powder-magazines; Nor with a Reputation such as -- Bah! That ghost has haunted me for twenty years, My Reputation now full blown -- Your fault -- Yours, with your stories of the strife at Home, Who's up, who's down, who leads and who is led -- One reads so much, one hears so little here. Well, now's your turn of exile. I go back To Rome and leisure. All roads lead to Rome, Or books -- the refuge of the destitute. When you . . . that brings me back to India. See! Start clear. I couldn't. Egypt served my turn. You'll never plumb the Oriental mind, And if you did it isn't worth the toil. Think of a sleek French priest in Canada; Divide by twenty half-breeds. Multiply By twice the Sphinx's silence. There's your East, And you're as wise as ever. So am I. Accept on trust and work in darkness, strike At venture, stumble forward, make your mark, (It's chalk on granite), then thank God no flame Leaps from the rock to shrivel mark and man. I'm clear -- my mark is made. Three months of drought Had ruined much. It rained and washed away The specks that might have gathered on my Name. I took a country twice the size of France, And shuttered up one doorway in the North. I stand by those. You'll find that both will pay, I pledged my Name on both -- they're yours to-night. Hold to them -- they hold fame enough for two. I'm old, but I shall live till Burma pays. Men there -- not German traders -- Crsthw-te knows -- You'll find it in my papers. For the North Guns always -- quietly -- but always guns. You've seen your Council? Yes, they'll try to rule, And prize their Reputations. Have you met A grim lay-reader with a taste for coins, And faith in Sin most men withhold from God? He's gone to England. R-p-n knew his grip And kicked. A Council always has its H-pes. They look for nothing from the West but Death Or Bath or Bournemouth. Here's their ground. They fight Until the middle classes take them back, One of ten millions plus a C. S. I. Or drop in harness. Legion of the Lost? Not altogether -- earnest, narrow men, But chiefly earnest, and they'll do your work, And end by writing letters to the Times, (Shall I write letters, answering H-nt-r -- fawn With R-p-n on the Yorkshire grocers? Ugh!) They have their Reputations. Look to one -- I work with him -- the smallest of them all, White-haired, red-faced, who sat the plunging horse Out in the garden. He's your right-hand man, And dreams of tilting W-ls-y from the throne, But while he dreams gives work we cannot buy; He has his Reputation -- wants the Lords By way of Frontier Roads. Meantime, I think, He values very much the hand that falls Upon his shoulder at the Council table -- Hates cats and knows his business; which is yours. Your business! twice a hundered million souls. Your business! I could tell you what I did Some nights of Eighty-Five, at Simla, worth A Kingdom's ransom. When a big ship drives, God knows to what new reef the man at the whee! Prays with the passengers. They lose their lives, Or rescued go their way; but he's no man To take his trick at the wheel again -- that's worse Than drowning. Well, a galled Mashobra mule (You'll see Mashobra) passed me on the Mall, And I was -- some fool's wife and ducked and bowed To show the others I would stop and speak. Then the mule fell -- three galls, a hund-breadth each, Behind the withers. Mrs. Whatsisname Leers at the mule and me by turns, thweet thoul! "How could they make him carry such a load!" I saw -- it isn't often I dream dreams -- More than the mule that minute -- smoke and flame From Simla to the haze below. That's weak. You're younger. You'll dream dreams before you've done. You've youth, that's one -- good workmen -- that means two Fair chances in your favor. Fate's the third. I know what I did. Do you ask me, "Preach"? I answer by my past or else go back To platitudes of rule -- or take you thus In confidence and say: "You know the trick: You've governed Canada. You know. You know!" And all the while commend you to Fate's hand (Here at the top on loses sight o' God), Commend you, then, to something more than you -- The Other People's blunders and . . . that's all. I'd agonize to serve you if I could. It's incommunicable, like the cast That drops the tackle with the gut adry. Too much -- too little -- there's your salmon lost! And so I tell you nothing --with you luck, And wonder -- how I wonder! -- for your sake And triumph for my own. You're young, you're young, You hold to half a hundred Shibboleths. I'm old. I followed Power to the last, Gave her my best, and Power followed Me. It's worth it -- on my sould I'm speaking plain, Here by the claret glasses! -- worth it all. I gave -- no matter what I gave -- I win. I know I win. Mine's work, good work that lives! A country twice the size of France -- the North Safeguarded. That's my record: sink the rest And better if you can. The Rains may serve, Rupees may rise -- three pence will give you Fame -- It's rash to hope for sixpence -- If they rise Get guns, more guns, and lift the salt-tax. Oh! I told you what the Congress meant or thought? I'll answer nothing. Half a year will prove The full extent of time and thought you'll spare To Congress. Ask a Lady Doctor once How little Begums see the light -- deduce Thence how the True Reformer's child is born. It's interesting, curious . . . and vile. I told the Turk he was a gentlman. I told the Russian that his Tartar veins Bled pure Parisian ichor; and he purred. The Congress doesn't purr. I think it swears. You're young -- you'll swear to ere you've reached the end. The End! God help you, if there be a God. (There must be one to startle Gl-dst-ne's soul In that new land where all the wires are cut. And Cr-ss snores anthems on the asphodel. ) God help you! And I'd help you if I could, But that's beyond me. Yes, your speech was crude. Sound claret after olives -- yours and mine; But Medoc slips into vin ordinaire. (I'll drink my first at Genoa to your health. ) Raise it to Hock. You'll never catch my style. And, after all, the middle-classes grip The middle-class -- for Brompton talk Earl's Court. Perhaps you're right. I'll see you in the Times -- A quarter-column of eye-searing print, A leader once a quarter -- then a war; The Strand abellow through the fog: "Defeat!" "'Orrible slaughter!" While you lie awake And wonder. Oh, you'll wonder ere you're free! I wonder now. The four years slide away So fast, so fast, and leave me here alone. R-y, C-lv-n, L-l, R-b-rts, B-ck, the rest, Princes and Powers of Darkness troops and trains, (I cannot sleep in trains), land piled on land, Whitewash and weariness, red rockets, dust, White snows that mocked me, palaces -- with draughts, And W-stl-nd with the drafts he couldn't pay, Poor W-ls-n reading his obituary. Before he died, and H-pe, the man with bones, And A-tch-s-n a dripping mackintosh At Council in the Rains, his grating "Sirrr" Half drowned by H-nt-r's silky: "Bat my lahnd. " Hunterian always: M-rsh-l spinning plates Or standing on his head; the Rent Bill's roar, A hundred thousand speeches, must red cloth, And Smiths thrice happy if I call them Jones, (I can't remember half their names) or reined My pony on the Mall to greet their wives. More trains, more troops, more dust, and then all's done. Four years, and I forget. If I forget How will they bear me in their minds? The North Safeguarded -- nearly (R-b-rts knows the rest), A country twice the size of France annexed. That stays at least. The rest may pass -- may pass -- Your heritage -- and I can teach you nought. "High trust," "vast honor," "interests twice as vast," "Due reverence to your Council" -- keep to those. I envy you the twenty years you've gained, But not the five to follow. What's that? One? Two! -- Surely not so late. Good-night. Don't dream.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Editor Whedon To be able to see every side of every question; To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long; To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose, To use great feelings and passions of the human family For base designs, for cunning ends, To wear a mask like the Greek actors -- Your eight-page paper -- behind which you huddle, Bawling through the megaphone of big type: "This is I, the giant. " Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief, Poisoned with the anonymous words Of your clandestine soul. To scratch dirt over scandal for money, And exhume it to the winds for revenge, Or to sell papers, Crushing reputations, or bodies, if need be, To win at any cost, save your own life. To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization, As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the track And derails the express train. To be an editor, as I was. Then to lie here close by the river over the place Where the sewage flows from the village, And the empty cans and garbage are dumped, And abortions are hidden.

Written by Carolyn Kizer | A Song for Muriel No-one explains me because There is nothing to explain. It's all right here Very clear. O for my reputations sake To be difficult and opaque! No-one explains me because Though myopic, I see plain. I just put it down With a leer and a frown. . . Why does it make you sweat? Is this the thanks I get? No-one explains me because There are tears in my bawdy song. Once I am dead Something will be said. How nice I won't be here To see how they get it wrong.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Pro-Consuls The overfaithful sword returns the user His heart's desire at price of his heart's blood. The clamour of the arrogant accuser Wastes that one hour we needed to make good. This was foretold of old at our outgoing; This we accepted who have squandered, knowing, The strength and glory of our reputations, At the day's need, as it were dross, to guard The tender and new-dedicate foundations Against the sea we fear -- not man's award. They that dig foundations deep, Fit for realms to rise upon, Little honour do they reap Of their generation, Any more than mountains gain Stature till we reach the plain. With noveil before their face Such as shroud or sceptre lend -- Daily in the market-place, Of one height to foe and friend -- They must cheapen self to find Ends uncheapened for mankind. Through the night when hirelings rest, Sleepless they arise, alone, The unsleeping arch to test And the o'er-trusted corner-stone, 'Gainst the need, they know, that lies Hid behind the centuries. Not by lust of praise or show Not by Peace herself betrayed -- Peace herself must they forego Till that peace be fitly made; And in single strength uphold Wearier hands and hearts acold. On the stage their act hath framed For thy sports, O Liberty! Doubted are they, and defamed By the tongues their act set free, While they quicken, tend and raise Power that must their power displace. Lesser men feign greater goals, Failing whereof they may sit Scholarly to judge the souls That go down into the pit, And, despite its certain clay, Heave a new world towards the day. These at labour make no sign, More than planets, tides or years Which discover God's design, Not our hopes and not our fears; Nor in aught they gain or lose Seek a triumph or excuse. For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, who Heeds how they perished or were paid that bore it? For, so the Shrine abide, what shame -- what pride -- If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | The Passing of Gundagai "I'll introduce a friend!" he said, "And if you've got a vacant pen You'd better take him in the shed And start him shearing straight ahead; He's one of these here quiet men. "He never strikes -- that ain't his game; No matter what the others try He goes on shearing just the same. I never rightly knew his name -- We always call him 'Gundagai!'" Our flashest shearer then had gone To train a racehorse for a race; And, while his sporting fit was on He couldn't be relied upon, So Gundagai shore in his place. Alas for man's veracity! For reputations false and true! This Gundagai turned out to be For strife and all-round villainy The very worst I ever knew! He started racing Jack Devine, And grumbled when I made him stop. The pace he showed was extra fine, But all those pure-bred ewes of mine Were bleeding like a butcher's shop. He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed, From roof to rafter, floor to shelf: As for my mongrel ewes, he said, I ought to get a razor-blade And shave the blooming things myself. On Sundays he controlled a "school", And played "two-up" the livelong day; And many a young confiding fool He shore of his financial wool; And when he lost he would not pay. He organised a shearers' race, And "touched" me to provide the prize. His pack-horse showed surprising pace And won hands down -- he was The Ace, A well-known racehorse in disguise. Next day the bruiser of the shed Displayed an opal-tinted eye, With large contusions on his head, He smiled a sickly smile, and said He's "had a cut at Gundagai!" But, just as we were getting full Of Gundagai and all his ways, A telgram for "Henry Bull" Arrived. Said he, "That's me -- all wool! Let's see what this here message says. " He opened it; his face grew white, He dropped the shears and turned away It ran, "Your wife took bad last night; Come home at once -- no time to write, We fear she may not last the day. " He got his cheque -- I didn't care To dock him for my mangled ewes; His store account, we called it square, Poor wretch! he had enough to bear, Confronted by such dreadful news. The shearers raised a little purse To help a mate, as shearers will. "To pay the doctor and the nurse. And, if there should be something worse, To pay the undertaker's bill. " They wrung his hand in sympathy, He rode away without a word, His head hung down in misery . . . A wandering hawker passing by Was told of what had just occurred. "Well! that's a curious thing," he siad, "I've known that feller all his life -- He's had the loan of this here shed! I know his wife ain't nearly dead, Because he hasn't got a wife!" You should have heard the whipcord crack As angry shearers galloped by; In vain they tried to fetch him back -- A little dust along the track Was all they saw of "Gundagai".