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Best Famous Risings Poems

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

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Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Code of Morals

 Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.

And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --
At e'en, the dying sunset bore her busband's homilies.

He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,
As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.

'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt --
So stopped to take the message down -- and this is whay they learnt --

"Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot" twice. The General swore.
"Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before?
"'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!'
"Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?"

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still,
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;
For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran: --
"Don't dance or ride with General Bangs -- a most immoral man."

[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General's private life.

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,
And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not): --
"I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!"

All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know
By word or act official who read off that helio.
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as "that most immoral man."


Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

Early Spring

 Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,

hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Bridge Over The Aire Book 3

 THE KINGDOM OF MY HEART





1



The halcyon settled on the Aire of our days

Kingfisher-blue it broke my heart in two

Shall I forget you? Shall I forget you?



I am the mad poet first love

You never got over

You are my blue-eyed

Madonna virgin bride

I shall carve ‘MG loves BT’

On the bark of every 

Wind-bent tree in 

East End Park



2



The park itself will blossom

And grow in chiaroscuro

The Victorian postcard’s view

Of avenue upon avenue

With palms and pagodas

Lakes and waterfalls and

A fountain from Versailles.





3



You shall be my queen

In the Kingdom of Deira

Land of many rivers

Aire the greatest

Isara the strong one

Robed in stillness

Wide, deep and dark.





4



In Middleton Woods

Margaret and I played

Truth or dare

She bared her breasts

To the watching stars.





5



“Milk, milk,

Lemonade, round

The corner

Chocolate spread”

Nancy chanted at

Ten in the binyard

Touching her ****,

Her ****, her bum,

Margaret joined in

Chanting in unison.





6



The skipping rope

Turned faster

And faster, slapping

The hot pavement,

Margaret skipped

In rhythm, never

Missing a beat,

Lifting the pleat

Of her skirt

Whirling and twirling.





7



Giggling and red

Margaret said

In a whisper

“When we were

Playing at Nancy’s

She pushed a spill

Of paper up her

You-know-what

She said she’d

Let you watch

If you wanted.”





8



Margaret, this Saturday morning in June

There is a queue at the ‘Princess’ for

The matin?e, down the alley by the blank

Concrete of the cinema’s side I hide

With you, we are counting our picture

Money, I am counting the stars in your

Hair, bound with a cheap plastic comb.





9



You have no idea of my need for you

A lifetime long, every wrong decision

I made betrayed my need; forty years on

Hear my song and take my hand and move

Us to the house of love where we belong.





10



Margaret we sat in the cinema dark

Warm with the promise of a secret kiss

The wall lights glowed amber on the



Crumbling plaster, we looked with longing

At the love seats empty in the circle,

Vowing we would share one.



11



There is shouting and echoes

Of wild splashing from York

Road baths; forty years on

It stirs my memory and

Will not be gone.





12



The ghosts of tramtracks

Light up lanes

To nowhere

In Leeds Ten.



Every road

Leads nowhere

In Leeds Nine.



Motorways have cut

The city’s heart

In two; Margaret,

Our home lies buried

Under sixteen feet

Of stone.

13



Our families moved

And we were lost

I was not there to hear

The whispered secret

Of your first period.





14



God is courage’s infinite ground

Tillich said; God, give me enough

To stand another week without her

Every day gets longer, every sleep

Less deep.





15



Why can’t I find you,

Touch you,

Bind your straw-gold hair

The colour of lank

February grass?



16



Under the stone canopy

Of the Grand Arcade

I pass Europa Nightclub;

In black designer glass

I watch the faces pass

But none is like your’s,

No voice, no eyes,

No smile at all

Like your’s.





17



From Kirkstall Lock

The rhubarb crop

To Knostrop’s forcing sheds

The roots ploughed up

Arranged in beds

Of perfect darkness

Where the buds burst

With a pip, rich pink

Stalks and yellow leaves

Hand-picked by

Candle-light to

Keep the colour right

So every night the

Rhubarb train

Could go from Leeds

To Covent Garden.





18



The smell of Saturday morning

Is the smell of freedom

How the bounds may grow

Slowly slowly as I go.



“Rag-bone rag-bone

White donkey stone”

Auntie Nellie scoured

Her door step, polished

The brass knocker

Till I saw my face

Bunched like a fist

Complete with goggles

Grinning like a monkey

In a mile of mirrors.





19



Every door step had a stop

A half-stone iron weight

To hold it back and every 

Step was edged with donkey

Stone in yellow or white

From the ragman or the potman

With his covered cart jingling

Jangling as it jerked hundreds

Of cups on hooks pint and

Half pint mugs and stacks of

Willow-patterned plates

From Burmantofts.





20



We heard him a mile off

Nights in summer when

He trundled round the

Corner over the cobbles

Jamming the wood brake

Blocks whoaing the horses

With their gleaming brasses

And our mams were always

Waiting where he stopped.





21



Double summer-time made

The nights go on for ever

And no-one cared any more

How long we played what

Or where and we were left

Alone and that’s all I wanted

Then or now to be left alone

Never to be called in from

The Hollows never to be

Called from Margaret.





22



City of back-to-backs

From Armley Heights

Laid out in rows

Like trees or grass

I watch you pass.



23



The Aire is slow and almost

Still



In the Bridgefield

The Joshua Tetley clock

Over the Atkinson Grimshaw

Print

Is stopped at nineteen fifty

Four

The year I left.





24



Grimshaw’s home was

Half a mile away

In Knostrop Hall

Margaret and I

Climbed the ruined

Walls her hair was

Blowing in the wind

Her eyes were stars

In the green night

Her hands were holding 

My hands.





25



Half a century later

I look out over Leeds Nine

What little’s left is broken

Or changed Saturday night

Is silent and empty

The paths over the Hollows

Deserted the bell

Of St. Hilda’s still.



26



On a single bush

The yellow roses blush

Pink in the amber light

Night settles on the

Fewstons and the Copperfields

No mothers’ voices calling us.



Lilac and velvet clover

Grew all over the Hollows

It was all the luck

We knew and when we left

Our luck went too.





27



Solid black

Velvet basalt

Polished jet

Millstone grit

Leeds Town Hall

Built with it

Soaks up the fog

Is sealed with smog

Battered buttressed

Blackened plinths

White lions’ paws

Were soft their

Smiles like your’s.

28



Narrow lanes, steep inclines,

Steps, blank walls, tight

And secret openings’

The lanes are your hips

The inclines the lines

Of your thighs, the steps

Your breasts, blank walls

Your buttocks, tight and

Secret openings your

Taut vagina’s lips.





29



There is a keening and a honing

And a winnowing in the wind

I am the surge and flow

In Winwaed’s water the last breath

Of Elmete’s King.



I am Penda crossing the Aire

Camping at Killingbeck

Conquered by Aethalwald

Ruler of Deira.





30



Life is a bird hovering

In the Hall of the King

Between darkness and darkness flickering

The stone of Scone at last lifted

And borne on the wind, Dunedin, take it

Hold it hard and fast its light

Is leaping it is freedom’s

Touchstone and firestone.





31



Eir, Ayer or Aire

I’ll still be there

Your wanderings off course

Old Ea, Old Eye, Dead Eye

Make no difference to me.

Eg-an island - is Aire’s

True source, names

Not places matter

With the risings

Of a river

Ea land-by-water

I’ll make my own way

Free, going down river

To the far-off sea.





32



Poetry is my business, my affair.

My cri-de-coeur, jongleur

Of Mercia and Elmete, Margaret,

Open your door I am heaping

Imbroglios of stars on the floor

Meet me by the Office Lock

At midnight or by the Town Hall Clock.



33



Nennius nine times have I knocked

On the door of your grave, nine times

More have I made Pilgrimage to Elmete’s

Wood where long I lay by beck and bank

Waiting for your tongue to flame

With Pentecostal fire.





34



Margaret you rode in the hollow of my hand

In the harp of my heart, searching for you

I wandered in Kirkgate Market’s midnight

Down avenues of shuttered stalls, our secrets

Kept through all the years.

From the Imperial on Beeston Hill

I watch the city spill glass towers

Of light over the horizon’s rim.





35



The railyard’s straights

Are buckled plates

Red bricks for aggregate

All lost like me

Ledsham and Ledston

Both belong to Leeds

But Ledston Luck

Is where Aire leads.



36



Held of the Crown

By seven thanes

In Saxon times

‘In regione Loidis’

Baeda scripsit

Leeds, Leeds,

You answer

All my needs.





37



A horse shoe stuck for luck

Behind a basement window:

Margaret, now we’ll see

What truth there is

In dreams and poetry!



I am at one with everyone

There is poetry

Falling from the air

And you have put it there.





38



The sign for John Eaton Street

Is planted in the back garden

Of the transport caf? between

The strands of a wire mesh fence

Straddling the cobbles of a street

That is no more, a washing line

And an abandoned caravan.



39



‘This open land to let’

Is what you get on the Hollows

Thousands of half-burned tyres

The rusty barrel of a Trumix lorry

Concrete slabs, foxgloves and condoms,

The Go-Kart Arena’s signboards,

Half the wall of Ellerby Lane School.





40



There is a mermaid singing

On East Street on an IBM poster

Her hair is lack-lustre

Her breasts are facing the camera

Her tail is like a worn-out brush.



Chimney stacks

Blind black walls

Of factories

Grimy glass

Flickering firelight

 In black-leaded grates.





41



Hunslet de Ledes

Hop-scotch, hide and seek,

Bogies-on-wheels

Not one tree in Hunslet

Except in the cemetery

The lake filled in

For fifty years,

The bluebell has rung

Its last perfumed peal.





42



I couldn’t play out on Sunday

Mam and dad thought us a cut

Above the rest, it was another

Test I failed, keeping me and

Margaret apart was like the Aztecs

Tearing the heart from the living flesh.





43



Father, your office job

Didn’t save you

From the drugs

They never gave you.





44



Isaiah, my son,

You made it back

From Balliol to Beeston

At a run via the

Playing fields of Eton.



There is a keening and a honing

And a winnowing in the wind

Winwaed’s water with red bluid blent.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

 1
OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking, 
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, 
Out of the Ninth-month midnight, 
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d
 alone, bare-headed, barefoot, 
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, 
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, 
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, 
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, 
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, 
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, 
From the myriad thence-arous’d words, 
From the word stronger and more delicious than any, 
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, 
Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, 
A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, 
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, 
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them, 
A reminiscence sing. 

2
Once, Paumanok, 
When the snows had melted—when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass
 was
 growing, 
Up this sea-shore, in some briers,
Two guests from Alabama—two together, 
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown, 
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, 
And every day the she-bird, crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, 
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. 

3
Shine! shine! shine! 
Pour down your warmth, great Sun! 
While we bask—we two together. 

Two together!
Winds blow South, or winds blow North, 
Day come white, or night come black, 
Home, or rivers and mountains from home, 
Singing all time, minding no time, 
While we two keep together.

4
Till of a sudden, 
May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate, 
One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest, 
Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next, 
Nor ever appear’d again.

And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea, 
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather, 
Over the hoarse surging of the sea, 
Or flitting from brier to brier by day, 
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird,
The solitary guest from Alabama. 

5
Blow! blow! blow! 
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore! 
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me. 

6
Yes, when the stars glisten’d,
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake, 
Down, almost amid the slapping waves, 
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. 

He call’d on his mate; 
He pour’d forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.

Yes, my brother, I know; 
The rest might not—but I have treasur’d every note; 
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding, 
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, 
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, 
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, 
Listen’d long and long. 

Listen’d, to keep, to sing—now translating the notes, 
Following you, my brother.

7
Soothe! soothe! soothe! 
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, 
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, 
But my love soothes not me, not me. 

Low hangs the moon—it rose late;
O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love. 

O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, 
With love—with love. 

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers? 
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! loud! loud! 
Loud I call to you, my love! 

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves; 
Surely you must know who is here, is here; 
You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon! 
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? 
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! 
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. 

Land! land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only
 would;

For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. 

O rising stars! 
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. 

O throat! O trembling throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere! 
Pierce the woods, the earth; 
Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want. 

Shake out, carols! 
Solitary here—the night’s carols!
Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols! 
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! 
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea! 
O reckless, despairing carols. 

But soft! sink low;
Soft! let me just murmur; 
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea; 
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, 
So faint—I must be still, be still to listen; 
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.

Hither, my love! 
Here I am! Here! 
With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you; 
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. 

Do not be decoy’d elsewhere!
That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice; 
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray; 
Those are the shadows of leaves. 

O darkness! O in vain! 
O I am very sick and sorrowful.

O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea! 
O troubled reflection in the sea! 
O throat! O throbbing heart! 
O all—and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. 

Yet I murmur, murmur on!
O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why. 

O past! O life! O songs of joy! 
In the air—in the woods—over fields; 
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! 
But my love no more, no more with me!
We two together no more. 

8
The aria sinking; 
All else continuing—the stars shining, 
The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous echoing, 
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok’s shore, gray and rustling; 
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost
 touching; 
The boy extatic—with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, 
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting, 
The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, 
The colloquy there—the trio—each uttering, 
The undertone—the savage old mother, incessantly crying, 
To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing—some drown’d secret hissing, 
To the outsetting bard of love.

9
Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,) 
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me? 
For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, 
Now I have heard you, 
Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake,
And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than
 yours, 
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, 
Never to die. 

O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—projecting me; 
O solitary me, listening—nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you;
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, 
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, 
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night, 
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon, 
The messenger there arous’d—the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me. 

O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;) 
O if I am to have so much, let me have more! 
O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;) 
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes, spring as from graves
 around
 me!
O phantoms! you cover all the land and all the sea! 
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me; 
O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved! 
O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms! 

A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all, 
Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen; 
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves? 
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? 

10
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not, 
Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break, 
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word DEATH; 
And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death, 
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous’d child’s heart,
But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet, 
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over, 
Death, Death, Death, Death, Death. 

Which I do not forget, 
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach, 
With the thousand responsive songs, at random, 
My own songs, awaked from that hour; 
And with them the key, the word up from the waves, 
The word of the sweetest song, and all songs,
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, 
The sea whisper’d me.
Written by William Lisle Bowles | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs July 20th 1787

 On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
Tomorrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part;
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide.


Written by William Lisle Bowles | Create an image from this poem

X. On Dover Cliffs

 ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood 
Rear their o'er-shadowing heads, and at their feet 
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, 
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; 
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, 
And o'er the distant billows the still Eve 
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave 
To-morrow -- of the friends he lov'd most dear, -- 
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: -- 
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all 
The thoughts, that would full fain the past recall, 
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, 
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, 
The World his country, and his God his guide.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry