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Best Famous Sandpiper Poems

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

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Written by Stephen Dunn | Create an image from this poem

Walking The Marshland

 It was no place for the faithless,
so I felt a little odd
walking the marshland with my daughters,

Canada geese all around and the blue 
herons just standing there;
safe, and the abundance of swans.
The girls liked saying the words, gosling, egret, whooping crane, and they liked when I agreed.
The casinos were a few miles to the east.
I liked saying craps and croupier and sometimes I wanted to be lost in those bright windowless ruins.
It was April, the gnats and black flies weren't out yet.
The mosquitoes hadn't risen from their stagnant pools to trouble paradise and to give us the great right to complain.
I loved these girls.
The world beyond Brigantine awaited their beauty and beauty is what others want to own.
I'd keep that to myself.
The obvious was so sufficient just then.
Sandpiper.
Red-wing Blackbird.
"Yes," I said.
But already we were near the end.
Praise refuge, I thought.
Praise whatever you can.


Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Sandpiper

 The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat.
On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
--Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards.
As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist.
And then the world is minute and vast and clear.
The tide is higher or lower.
He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied, looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
Written by Robert Pinsky | Create an image from this poem

At Pleasure Bay

 In the willows along the river at Pleasure Bay
A catbird singing, never the same phrase twice.
Here under the pines a little off the road In 1927 the Chief of Police And Mrs.
W.
killed themselves together, Sitting in a roadster.
Ancient unshaken pilings And underwater chunks of still-mortared brick In shapes like bits of puzzle strew the bottom Where the landing was for Price's Hotel and Theater.
And here's where boats blew two blasts for the keeper To shunt the iron swing-bridge.
He leaned on the gears Like a skipper in the hut that housed the works And the bridge moaned and turned on its middle pier To let them through.
In the middle of the summer Two or three cars might wait for the iron trusswork Winching aside, with maybe a child to notice A name on the stern in black-and-gold on white, Sandpiper, Patsy Ann, Do Not Disturb, The Idler.
If a boat was running whiskey, The bridge clanged shut behind it as it passed And opened up again for the Coast Guard cutter Slowly as a sundial, and always jammed halfway.
The roadbed whole, but opened like a switch, The river pulling and coursing between the piers.
Never the same phrase twice, the catbird filling The humid August evening near the inlet With borrowed music that he melds and changes.
Dragonflies and sandflies, frogs in the rushes, two bodies Not moving in the open car among the pines, A sliver of story.
The tenor at Price's Hotel, In clown costume, unfurls the sorrow gathered In ruffles at his throat and cuffs, high quavers That hold like splashes of light on the dark water, The aria's closing phrases, changed and fading.
And after a gap of quiet, cheers and applause Audible in the houses across the river, Some in the audience weeping as if they had melted Inside the music.
Never the same.
In Berlin The daughter of an English lord, in love With Adolf Hitler, whom she has met.
She is taking Possession of the apartment of a couple, Elderly well-off Jews.
They survive the war To settle here in the Bay, the old lady Teaches piano, but the whole world swivels And gapes at their feet as the girl and a high-up Nazi Examine the furniture, the glass, the pictures, The elegant story that was theirs and now Is part of hers.
A few months later the English Enter the war and she shoots herself in a park, An addled, upper-class girl, her life that passes Into the lives of others or into a place.
The taking of lives--the Chief and Mrs.
W.
Took theirs to stay together, as local ghosts.
Last flurries of kisses, the revolver's barrel, Shivers of a story that a child might hear And half remember, voices in the rushes, A singing in the willows.
From across the river, Faint quavers of music, the same phrase twice and again, Ranging and building.
Over the high new bridge The flashing of traffic homeward from the racetrack, With one boat chugging under the arches, outward Unnoticed through Pleasure Bay to the open sea.
Here's where the people stood to watch the theater Burn on the water.
All that night the fireboats Kept playing their spouts of water into the blaze.
In the morning, smoking pilasters and beams.
Black smell of char for weeks, the ruin already Soaking back into the river.
After you die You hover near the ceiling above your body And watch the mourners awhile.
A few days more You float above the heads of the ones you knew And watch them through a twilight.
As it grows darker You wander off and find your way to the river And wade across.
On the other side, night air, Willows, the smell of the river, and a mass Of sleeping bodies all along the bank, A kind of singing from among the rushes Calling you further forward in the dark.
You lie down and embrace one body, the limbs Heavy with sleep reach eagerly up around you And you make love until your soul brims up And burns free out of you and shifts and spills Down over into that other body, and you Forget the life you had and begin again On the same crossing--maybe as a child who passes Through the same place.
But never the same way twice.
Here in the daylight, the catbird in the willows, The new café, with a terrace and a landing, Frogs in the cattails where the swing-bridge was-- Here's where you might have slipped across the water When you were only a presence, at Pleasure Bay.