Best Famous Rink Poems

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

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• All Famous Rink Poems

Written by John Betjeman | Winter Landscape The three men coming down the winter hill In brown, with tall poles and a pack of hounds At heel, through the arrangement of the trees, Past the five figures at the burning straw, Returning cold and silent to their town, Returning to the drifted snow, the rink Lively with children, to the older men, The long companions they can never reach, The blue light, men with ladders, by the church The sledge and shadow in the twilit street, Are not aware that in the sandy time To come, the evil waste of history Outstretched, they will be seen upon the brow Of that same hill: when all their company Will have been irrecoverably lost, These men, this particular three in brown Witnessed by birds will keep the scene and say By their configuration with the trees, The small bridge, the red houses and the fire, What place, what time, what morning occasion Sent them into the wood, a pack of hounds At heel and the tall poles upon their shoulders, Thence to return as now we see them and Ankle-deep in snow down the winter hill Descend, while three birds watch and the fourth flies.

Written by Chris Mansell | The unquiet city we are succulents our cool jade arms open over clean tables our fine bone china minds pull the strings of our tongues together we plait our thoughts with the television back through the aerials and transmission towers prodding through the literal fog the mechanics of which distance does not startle us or the ears pretend to hear the telephone the page also wearies us we have taken the meaning out of things by laying them face to face in our dictionary of emotions we are so entirely alone that we are unaware of it and we enjoy the religion of solitude because religions are at base meaningless and we can turn from them to a new hobby to clean ashtrays or emptier whiskey glasses we the women of our building Margaret Gladys Cecily Ida Eileen and I have the cleanest washing on our block we are proud and air our sheets although it's a long time since any serious stain or passionate figment seeped through that censorious cloth we have plants one of us has a budgie and I have three fish the details are unimportant God does not come here often we would be suspicious if he did without an identity card we collect each others' mail remind each other of garbage days and are frightened of the louts from the skating rink but in the night I leave my curtains open and air my pendant tremulous breasts

Written by Robert Burns | 141. Tam Samson's Elegy HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay 1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson 2 again grown weel, To preach an’ read? “Na’ waur than a’! cries ilka chiel, “Tam Samson’s dead!” Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane, An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean, In mourning weed; To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane— Tam Samson’s dead! The Brethren, o’ the mystic level May hing their head in woefu’ bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel; Tam Samson’s dead! When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the loughs the curlers flock, Wi’ gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the “cock?” Tam Samson’s dead! When Winter muffles up his cloak, He was the king o’ a’ the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar, In time o’ need; But now he lags on Death’s “hog-score”— Tam Samson’s dead! Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail, And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail Tam Samson’s dead! Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’; Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa; Tam Samson’s dead! That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d, Saw him in shooting graith adorn’d, While pointers round impatient burn’d, Frae couples free’d; But och! he gaed and ne’er return’d! Tam Samson’s dead! In vain auld age his body batters, In vain the gout his ancles fetters, In vain the burns cam down like waters, An acre braid! Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters “Tam Samson’s dead!” Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, An’ aye the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward Death behind him jumpit, Wi’ deadly feid; Now he proclaims wi’ tout o’ trumpet, “Tam Samson’s dead!” When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger, Wi’ weel-aimed heed; “L—d, five!” he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger— Tam Samson’s dead! Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father; Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head; Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, “Tam Samson’s dead!” There, low he lies, in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest To hatch an’ breed: Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest! Tam Samson’s dead! When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his memory crave, O’ pouther an’ lead, Till Echo answer frae her cave, “Tam Samson’s dead!” Heav’n rest his saul whare’er he be! Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me: He had twa fauts, or maybe three, Yet what remead? Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson’s dead! THE EPITAPHTam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies Ye canting zealots, spare him! If honest worth in Heaven rise, Ye’ll mend or ye win near him. PER CONTRAGo, Fame, an’ canter like a filly Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie; 3 Tell ev’ry social honest billie To cease his grievin’; For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie. Tam Samson’s leevin’! Note 1. A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide “The Ordination. ” stanza ii. —R. B. [back] Note 2. Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also “The Ordination,” stanza ix. —R. B. [back] Note 3. Kilmarnock. —R. B. [back]

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Homer Clapp Often Aner Clute at the gate Refused me the parting kiss, Saying we should be engaged before that; And just with a distant clasp of the hand She bade me good-night, as I brought her home From the skating rink or the revival. No sooner did my departing footsteps die away Than Lucius Atherton, (So I learned when Aner went to Peoria) Stole in at her window, or took her riding Behind his spanking team of bays Into the country. The shock of it made me settle down, And I put all the money I got from my father's estate Into the canning factory, to get the job Of head accountant, and lost it all. And then I knew I was one of Life's fools, Whom only death would treat as the equal Of other men, making me feel like a man.

Written by John Berryman | Winter Landscape The three men coming down the winter hill In brown, with tall poles and a pack of hounds At heel, through the arrangement of the trees, Past the five figures at the burning straw, Returning cold and silent to their town, Returning to the drifted snow, the rink Lively with children, to the older men, The long companions they can never reach, The blue light, men with ladders, by the church The sledge and shadow in the twilit street, Are not aware that in the sandy time To come, the evil waste of history Outstretched, they will be seen upon the brow Of that same hill: when all their company Will have been irrecoverably lost, These men, this particular three in brown Witnessed by birds will keep the scene and say By their configuration with the trees, The small bridge, the red houses and the fire, What place, what time, what morning occasion Sent them into the wood, a pack of hounds At heel and the tall poles upon their shoulders, Thence to return as now we see them and Ankle-deep in snow down the winter hill Descend, while three birds watch and the fourth flies.

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 117: Disturbed when Henrys love returned with a hubby Disturbed, when Henry's love returned with a hubby,— I see that, Henry, I don't put that down,— he thought he had to think or with a razor like a skating-rink have more to say or more to them downtown in the Christmas season, like a hobby. Their letters will, released, shake the mapped world at some point, in the National Geographic. (Friend, that hurt. ) It's horrible how near she was my hurt in the old days—now she's a lawyer twirled halfway around her finger and I am elated & vague for love of her and she is chilly & lost for love of me and we are for each other that which needs which, corresponding to Henry's mother but which can not have, like the lifting sea over each other's fur.