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Best Famous Respective(A) Poems

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

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Written by Raymond Carver | Create an image from this poem

Circulation

 And all at length are gathered in.
 --LOUISE BOGAN

By the time I came around to feeling pain
and woke up, moonlight
flooded the room. My arm lay paralyzed,
propped up like an old anchor under
your back. You were in a dream,
you said later, where you'd arrived
early for the dance. But after
a moment's anxiety you were okay
because it was really a sidewalk
sale, and the shoes you were wearing,
or not wearing, were fine for that.

 *

"Help me," I said. And tried to hoist
my arm. But it just lay there, aching,
unable to rise on its own. Even after
you said, "What is it? What's wrong?"
it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved
by any expression of fear or amazement.
We shouted at it, and grew afraid
when it didn't answer. "It's gone to sleep,"
I said, and hearing those words
knew how absurd this was. But
I couldn't laugh. Somehow,
between the two of us, we managed
to raise it. This can't be my arm
is what I kept thinking as
we thumped it, squeezed it, and
prodded it back to life. Shook it
until that stinging went away.

We said a few words to each other.
I don't remember what. Whatever
reassuring things people
who love each other say to each other
given the hour and such odd
circumstance. I do remember
you remarked how it was light
enough in the room that you could see
circles under my eyes.
You said I needed more regular sleep,
and I agreed. Each of us went
to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed
on our respective sides.
Pulled the covers up. "Good night,"
you said, for the second time that night.
And fell asleep. Maybe
into that same dream, or else another.

 *

I lay until daybreak, holding
both arms fast across my chest.
Working my fingers now and then.
While my thoughts kept circling
around and around, but always going back
where they'd started from.
That one inescapable fact: even while
we undertake this trip,
there's another, far more bizarre,
we still have to make.


Written by Coventry Patmore | Create an image from this poem

Unthrift

 Ah, wasteful woman, she who may 
On her sweet self set her own price, 
Knowing men cannot choose but pay, 
How she has cheapen'd paradise; 
How given for nought her priceless gift, 
How spoil'd the bread and spill'd the wine, 
Which, spent with due, respective thrift, 
Had made brutes men, and men divine.
Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem

Safety-Clutch

 Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.

And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"

Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."

Then, for further comprehension 
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--

How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.

These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.

None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.

Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.

I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.

For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.

Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.

Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.

Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Hod Putt

 Here I lie close to the grave 
Of Old Bill Piersol, 
Who grew rich trading with the indians, and who 
Afterwards took the bankrupt law 
And emergeed from it richer than ever. 
Myself grown tired of toil and poverty 
And beholding how Old Bill and others grew in wealth, 
Robbed a traveler one night near Proctor's Grove, 
Killing him unwittingly while doing so, 
For the which I was tried and hanged. 
That was my way of going into bankruptcy. 
Now we who took the bankrupt law in our respective ways 
Sleep peacefully side by side.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things