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Best Famous Seawater Poems

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

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Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

Romance Moderne

 Tracks of rain and light linger in
the spongy greens of a nature whose 
flickering mountain—bulging nearer, 
ebbing back into the sun 
hollowing itself away to hold a lake,— 
or brown stream rising and falling at the roadside, turning about, 
churning itself white, drawing 
green in over it,—plunging glassy funnels 
fall— 
And—the other world— 
the windshield a blunt barrier: 
Talk to me. Sh! they would hear us. 
—the backs of their heads facing us— 
The stream continues its motion of 
a hound running over rough ground. 

Trees vanish—reappear—vanish: 
detached dance of gnomes—as a talk 
dodging remarks, glows and fades. 
—The unseen power of words— 
And now that a few of the moves 
are clear the first desire is 
to fling oneself out at the side into 
the other dance, to other music. 

Peer Gynt. Rip Van Winkle. Diana. 
If I were young I would try a new alignment— 
alight nimbly from the car, Good-bye!— 
Childhood companions linked two and two 
criss-cross: four, three, two, one. 
Back into self, tentacles withdrawn. 
Feel about in warm self-flesh. 
Since childhood, since childhood! 
Childhood is a toad in the garden, a 
happy toad. All toads are happy 
and belong in gardens. A toad to Diana! 

Lean forward. Punch the steerman 
behind the ear. Twirl the wheel! 
Over the edge! Screams! Crash! 
The end. I sit above my head— 
a little removed—or 
a thin wash of rain on the roadway 
—I am never afraid when he is driving,— 
interposes new direction, 
rides us sidewise, unforseen 
into the ditch! All threads cut! 
Death! Black. The end. The very end—

I would sit separate weighing a 
small red handful: the dirt of these parts, 
sliding mists sheeting the alders 
against the touch of fingers creeping 
to mine. All stuff of the blind emotions. 
But—stirred, the eye seizes 
for the first time—The eye awake!— 
anything, a dirt bank with green stars 
of scrawny weed flattened upon it under 
a weight of air—For the first time!— 
or a yawning depth: Big! 
Swim around in it, through it—
all directions and find 
vitreous seawater stuff— 
God how I love you!—or, as I say, 
a plunge into the ditch. The End. I sit
examining my red handful. Balancing 
—this—in and out—agh. 

Love you? It's 
a fire in the blood, willy-nilly! 
It's the sun coming up in the morning.
Ha, but it's the grey moon too, already up
in the morning. You are slow. 
Men are not friends where it concerns 
a woman? Fighters. Playfellows. 
White round thighs! Youth! Sighs—! 
It's the fillip of novelty. It's— 

Mountains. Elephants humping along
against the sky—indifferent to 
light withdrawing its tattered shreds, 
worn out with embraces. It's 
the fillip of novelty. It's a fire in the blood. 

Oh get a flannel shirt], white flannel 
or pongee. You'd look so well! 
I married you because I liked your nose.
I wanted you! I wanted you 
in spite of all they'd say— 

Rain and light, mountain and rain,
rain and river. Will you love me always? 
—A car overturned and two crushed bodies 
under it.—Always! Always! 
And the white moon already up. 
White. Clean. All the colors. 
A good head, backed by the eye—awake!
backed by the emotions—blind— 
River and mountain, light and rain—or
rain, rock, light, trees—divided: 
rain-light counter rocks-trees or 
trees counter rain-light-rocks or— 

Myriads of counter processions 
crossing and recrossing, regaining 
the advantage, buying here, selling there
—You are sold cheap everywhere in town!— 
lingering, touching fingers, withdrawing 
gathering forces into blares, hummocks, 
peaks and rivers—rivers meeting rock 
—I wish that you were lying there dead 
and I sitting here beside you.— 
It's the grey moon—over and over. 
It's the clay of these parts.


Written by Rossy Evelin Lima | Create an image from this poem

With the Storm

I carve mockingbirds and quetzals,
my saliva sends the tones to its wings.
Seawater sprouts from my throat,
the orange sun, the green jade;
I hand them over
after chewing them for five centuries.
Once carved I let them free,
                                            astray
in this errant world.
I leave my cry in every one of them,
and the animals that don’t walk
                turn to muck
                              with the storm.
Written by Louise Gluck | Create an image from this poem

The Wild Iris

 At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Holding On

 Green fingers 
holding the hillside, 
mustard whipping in 
the sea winds, one blood-bright 
poppy breathing in 
and out. The odor 
of Spanish earth comes 
up to me, yellowed 
with my own piss. 
 40 miles from Málaga 
half the world away 
from home, I am home and 
nowhere, a man who envies 
grass. 
 Two oxen browse 
yoked together in the green clearing 
below. Their bells cough. When 
the darkness and the wet roll in 
at dusk they gather 
their great slow bodies toward 
the stalls. 
 If my spirit 
descended now, it would be 
a lost gull flaring against 
a deepening hillside, or an angel 
who cries too easily, or a single 
glass of seawater, no longer blue 
or mysterious, and still salty.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry