10 Best Famous Sandpaper Poems

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

• All Famous Sandpaper Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | The Death Baby 1. DREAMS I was an ice baby. I turned to sky blue. My tears became two glass beads. My mouth stiffened into a dumb howl. They say it was a dream but I remember that hardening. My sister at six dreamt nightly of my death: "The baby turned to ice. Someone put her in the refrigerator and she turned as hard as a Popsicle." I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed. The milk bottle hissed like a snake. The tomatoes vomited up their stomachs. The caviar turned to lave. The pimentos kissed like cupids. I moved like a lobster, slower and slower. The air was tiny. The air would not do. * I was at the dogs' party. I was their bone. I had been laid out in their kennel like a fresh turkey. This was my sister's dream but I remember that quartering; I remember the sickbed smell of the sawdust floor, the pink eyes, the pink tongues and the teeth, those nails. I had been carried out like Moses and hidden by the paws of ten Boston bull terriers, ten angry bulls jumping like enormous roaches. At first I was lapped, rough as sandpaper. I became very clean. Then my arm was missing. I was coming apart. They loved me until I was gone. 2. THE DY-DEE DOLL My Dy-dee doll died twice. Once when I snapped her head off and let if float in the toilet and once under the sun lamp trying to get warm she melted. She was a gloom, her face embracing her little bent arms. She died in all her rubber wisdom. 3. SEVEN TIMES I died seven times in seven ways letting death give me a sign, letting death place his mark on my forehead, crossed over, crossed over And death took root in that sleep. In that sleep I held an ice baby and I rocked it and was rocked by it. Oh Madonna, hold me. I am a small handful. 4.MADONNA My mother died unrocked, unrocked. Weeks at her deathbed seeing her thrust herself against the metal bars, thrashing like a fish on the hook and me low at her high stage, letting the priestess dance alone, wanting to place my head in her lap or even take her in my arms somehow and fondle her twisted gray hair. But her rocking horse was pain with vomit steaming from her mouth. Her belly was big with another child, cancer's baby, big as a football. I could not soothe. With every hump and crack there was less Madonna until that strange labor took her. Then the room was bankrupt. That was the end of her paying. 5. MAX Max and I two immoderate sisters, two immoderate writers, two burdeners, made a pact. To beat death down with a stick. To take over. To build our death like carpenters. When she had a broken back, each night we built her sleep. Talking on the hot line until her eyes pulled down like shades. And we agreed in those long hushed phone calls that when the moment comes we'll talk turkey, we'll shoot words straight from the hip, we'll play it as it lays. Yes, when death comes with its hood we won't be polite. 6. BABY Death, you lie in my arms like a cherub, as heavy as bread dough. Your milky wings are as still as plastic. Hair soft as music. Hair the color of a harp. And eyes made of glass, as brittle as crystal. Each time I rock you I think you will break. I rock. I rock. Glass eye, ice eye, primordial eye, lava eye, pin eye, break eye, how you stare back! Like the gaze if small children you know all about me. You have worn my underwear. You have read my newspaper. You have seen my father whip me. You have seen my stroke my father's whip. I rock. I rock. We plunge back and forth comforting each other. We are stone. We are carved, a pietà that swings. Outside, the world is a chilly army. Outside, the sea is brought to its knees. Outside, Pakistan is swallowed in a mouthful. I rock. I rock. You are my stone child with still eyes like marbles. There is a death baby for each of us. We own him. His smell is our smell. Beware. Beware. There is a tenderness. There is a love for this dumb traveler waiting in his pink covers. Someday, heavy with cancer or disaster I will look up at Max and say: It is time. Hand me the death baby and there will be that final rocking.

Written by Federico García Lorca | Romance Son?mbulo Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shade around her waist she dreams on her balcony, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. Green, how I want you green. Under the gypsy moon, all things are watching her and she cannot see them. Green, how I want you green. Big hoarfrost stars come with the fish of shadow that opens the road of dawn. The fig tree rubs its wind with the sandpaper of its branches, and the forest, cunning cat, bristles its brittle fibers. But who will come? And from where? She is still on her balcony green flesh, her hair green, dreaming in the bitter sea. --My friend, I want to trade my horse for her house, my saddle for her mirror, my knife for her blanket. My friend, I come bleeding from the gates of Cabra. --If it were possible, my boy, I'd help you fix that trade. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. --My friend, I want to die decently in my bed. Of iron, if that's possible, with blankets of fine chambray. Don't you see the wound I have from my chest up to my throat? --Your white shirt has grown thirsy dark brown roses. Your blood oozes and flees a round the corners of your sash. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. --Let me climb up, at least, up to the high balconies; Let me climb up! Let me, up to the green balconies. Railings of the moon through which the water rumbles. Now the two friends climb up, up to the high balconies. Leaving a trail of blood. Leaving a trail of teardrops. Tin bell vines were trembling on the roofs. A thousand crystal tambourines struck at the dawn light. Green, how I want you green, green wind, green branches. The two friends climbed up. The stiff wind left in their mouths, a strange taste of bile, of mint, and of basil My friend, where is she--tell me-- where is your bitter girl? How many times she waited for you! How many times would she wait for you, cool face, black hair, on this green balcony! Over the mouth of the cistern the gypsy girl was swinging, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. An icicle of moon holds her up above the water. The night became intimate like a little plaza. Drunken "Guardias Civiles" were pounding on the door. Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea. And the horse on the mountain. Original Spanish Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verdes ramas. El barco sobre la mar y el caballo en la monta?a. Con la sombra en la cintura ella sue?a en sus baranda, verde carne, pelo verde, con ojos de fr?a plata. Verde que te quiero verde. Bajo la luna gitana, las cosas la est?n mirando y ella no puede mirarlas. Verde que te quiero verde. Grandes estrellas de escarcha, vienen con el pez de sombra que abre el camino del alba. La higuera frota su viento con la lija de sus ramas, y el monte, gato gardu?o, eriza sus pitas agrias. ?Pero qui?n vendr?? ?Y por d?nde...? Ella sigue en su baranda, verde carne, pelo verde, so?ando en la mar amarga. Compadre, quiero cambiar mi caballo por su casa, mi montura por su espejo, mi cuchillo por su manta. Compadre, vengo sangrando, desde los puertos de Cabra. Si yo pudiera, mocito, este trato se cerraba. Pero yo ya no soy yo, Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. Compadre, quiero morir decentemente en mi cama. De acero, si puede ser, con las s?banas de holanda. ?No ves la herida que tengo desde el pecho a la garganta? Trescientas rosas morenas lleva tu pechera blanca. Tu sangre rezuma y huele alrededor de tu faja. Pero yo ya no soy yo. Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. Dejadme subir al menos hasta las altas barandas, ?dejadme subir!, dejadme hasta las verdes barandas. Barandales de la luna por donde retumba el agua. Ya suben los dos compadres hacia las altas barandas. Dejando un rastro de sangre. Dejando un rastro de l?grimas. Temblaban en los tejados farolillos de hojalata. Mil panderos de cristal, her?an la madrugada. Verde que te quiero verde, verde viento, verdes ramas. Los dos compadres subieron. El largo viento, dejaba en la boca un raro gusto de hiel, de menta y de albahaca. ?Compadre! ?D?nde est?, dime? ?D?nde est? tu ni?a amarga? ?Cu?ntas veces te esper?! ?Cu?ntas veces te esperara, cara fresca, ***** pelo, en esta verde baranda! Sobre el rostro del aljibe se mec?a la gitana. Verde carne, pelo verde, con ojos de fr?a plata. Un car?bano de luna la sostiene sobre el agua. La noche se puso ?ntima como una peque?a plaza. Guardias civiles borrachos en la puerta golpeaban.

Written by James Dickey | The Sharks Parlor Memory: I can take my head and strike it on a wall on Cumberland Island Where the night tide came crawling under the stairs came up the first Two or three steps and the cottage stood on poles all night With the sea sprawled under it as we dreamed of the great fin circling Under the bedroom floor. In daylight there was my first brassy taste of beer And Payton Ford and I came back from the Glynn County slaughterhouse With a bucket of entrails and blood. We tied one end of a hawser To a spindling porch-pillar and rowed straight out of the house Three hundred yards into the vast front yard of windless blue water The rope out slithering its coil the two-gallon jug stoppered and sealed With wax and a ten-foot chain leader a drop-forged shark-hook nestling. We cast our blood on the waters the land blood easily passing For sea blood and we sat in it for a moment with the stain spreading Out from the boat sat in a new radiance in the pond of blood in the sea Waiting for fins waiting to spill our guts also in the glowing water. We dumped the bucket, and baited the hook with a run-over collie pup. The jug Bobbed, trying to shake off the sun as a dog would shake off the sea. We rowed to the house feeling the same water lift the boat a new way, All the time seeing where we lived rise and dip with the oars. We tied up and sat down in rocking chairs, one eye on the other responding To the blue-eye wink of the jug. Payton got us a beer and we sat All morning sat there with blood on our minds the red mark out In the harbor slowly failing us then the house groaned the rope Sprang out of the water splinters flew we leapt from our chairs And grabbed the rope hauled did nothing the house coming subtly Apart all around us underfoot boards beginning to sparkle like sand Pulling out the tarred poles we slept propped-up on leaning to sea As in land-wind crabs scuttling from under the floor as we took runs about Two more porch-pillars and looked out and saw something a fish-flash An almighty fin in trouble a moiling of secret forces a false start Of water a round wave growing in the whole of Cumberland Sound the one ripple. Payton took off without a word I could not hold him either But clung to the rope anyway it was the whole house bending Its nails that held whatever it was coming in a little and like a fool I took up the slack on my wrist. The rope drew gently jerked I lifted Clean off the porch and hit the water the same water it was in I felt in blue blazing terror at the bottom of the stairs and scrambled Back up looking desperately into the human house as deeply as I could Stopping my gaze before it went out the wire screen of the back door Stopped it on the thistled rattan the rugs I lay on and read On my mother's sewing basket with next winter's socks spilling from it The flimsy vacation furniture a bucktoothed picture of myself. Payton came back with three men from a filling station and glanced at me Dripping water inexplicable then we all grabbed hold like a tug-of-war. We were gaining a little from us a cry went up from everywhere People came running. Behind us the house filled with men and boys. On the third step from the sea I took my place looking down the rope Going into the ocean, humming and shaking off drops. A houseful Of people put their backs into it going up the steps from me Into the living room through the kitchen down the back stairs Up and over a hill of sand across a dust road and onto a raised field Of dunes we were gaining the rope in my hands began to be wet With deeper water all other haulers retreated through the house But Payton and I on the stairs drawing hand over hand on our blood Drawing into existence by the nose a huge body becoming A hammerhead rolling in beery shallows and I began to let up But the rope strained behind me the town had gone Pulling-mad in our house far away in a field of sand they struggled They had turned their backs on the sea bent double some on their knees The rope over their shoulders like a bag of gold they strove for the ideal Esso station across the scorched meadow with the distant fish coming up The front stairs the sagging boards still coming in up taking Another step toward the empty house where the rope stood straining By itself through the rooms in the middle of the air. "Pass the word," Payton said, and I screamed it "Let up, good God, let up!" to no one there. The shark flopped on the porch, grating with salt-sand driving back in The nails he had pulled out coughing chunks of his formless blood. The screen door banged and tore off he scrambled on his tail slid Curved did a thing from another world and was out of his element and in Our vacation paradise cutting all four legs from under the dinner table With one deep-water move he unwove the rugs in a moment throwing pints Of blood over everything we owned knocked the buckteeth out of my picture His odd head full of crashed jelly-glass splinters and radio tubes thrashing Among the pages of fan magazines all the movie stars drenched in sea-blood Each time we thought he was dead he struggled back and smashed One more thing in all coming back to die three or four more times after death. At last we got him out logrolling him greasing his sandpaper skin With lard to slide him pulling on his chained lips as the tide came, Tumbled him down the steps as the first night wave went under the floor. He drifted off head back belly white as the moon. What could I do but buy That house for the one black mark still there against death a forehead- toucher in the room he circles beneath and has been invited to wreck? Blood hard as iron on the wall black with time still bloodlike Can be touched whenever the brow is drunk enough. All changes. Memory: Something like three-dimensional dancing in the limbs with age Feeling more in two worlds than one in all worlds the growing encounters. Copyright © James Dickey 1965

Written by W S Merwin | The Burnt Child Matches among other things that were not allowed never would be lying high in a cool blue box that opened in other hands and there they all were bodies clean and smooth blue heads white crowns white sandpaper on the sides of the box scoring fire after fire gone before I could hear the scratch and flare when they were over and catch the smell of the striking I knew what the match would feel like lighting when I was very young a fire engine came and parked in the shadow of the big poplar tree of Fourth Street one night keeping its engine running pumping oxygen to the old woman in the basement when she died the red lights went on burning