Best Famous Sensed Poems

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

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• All Famous Sensed Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | Suicide Note "You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is a matter of my life" - Artaud "At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers to my daughters and their daughters" - Anonymous Better, despite the worms talking to the mare's hoof in the field; better, despite the season of young girls dropping their blood; better somehow to drop myself quickly into an old room. Better (someone said) not to be born and far better not to be born twice at thirteen where the boardinghouse, each year a bedroom, caught fire. Dear friend, I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell. I will be a light thing. I will enter death like someone's lost optical lens. Life is half enlarged. The fish and owls are fierce today. Life tilts backward and forward. Even the wasps cannot find my eyes. Yes, eyes that were immediate once. Eyes that have been truly awake, eyes that told the whole story— poor dumb animals. Eyes that were pierced, little nail heads, light blue gunshots. And once with a mouth like a cup, clay colored or blood colored, open like the breakwater for the lost ocean and open like the noose for the first head. Once upon a time my hunger was for Jesus. O my hunger! My hunger! Before he grew old he rode calmly into Jerusalem in search of death. This time I certainly do not ask for understanding and yet I hope everyone else will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps on the surface of Echo Lake; when moonlight, its bass note turned up loud, hurts some building in Boston, when the truly beautiful lie together. I think of this, surely, and would think of it far longer if I were not… if I were not at that old fire. I could admit that I am only a coward crying me me me and not mention the little gnats, the moths, forced by circumstance to suck on the electric bulb. But surely you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him. So I will go now without old age or disease, wildly but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, “Where are we going?” We were riding (if I'd only known) to this. Dear friend, please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone. I do not even expect my mother's mouth. I know that I have died before— once in November, once in June. How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies. Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice. New York City will not mind. At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day.

Written by Margaret Atwood | In The Secular Night In the secular night you wander around alone in your house. It's two-thirty. Everyone has deserted you, or this is your story; you remember it from being sixteen, when the others were out somewhere, having a good time, or so you suspected, and you had to baby-sit. You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream and filled up the glass with grapejuice and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller with his big-band sound, and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney, and cried for a while because you were not dancing, and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple. Now, forty years later, things have changed, and it's baby lima beans. It's necessary to reserve a secret vice. This is what comes from forgetting to eat at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully, drain, add cream and pepper, and amble up and down the stairs, scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl, talking to yourself out loud. You'd be surprised if you got an answer, but that part will come later. There is so much silence between the words, you say. You say, The sensed absence of God and the sensed presence amount to much the same thing, only in reverse. You say, I have too much white clothing. You start to hum. Several hundred years ago this could have been mysticism or heresy. It isn't now. Outside there are sirens. Someone's been run over. The century grinds on.

Written by Dejan Stojanovic | A Star Deep In the Mind I see a new star on the horizon; It's not the Morning Star; It's a star without light. This star without the light is the brightest Because its light stays within. The biggest star doesn't take any space; It lives within, Feeds all other stars, all other matter. Without space, there is no time, Without time, there is no aging, Without aging, there is no death. A star without light never dies; It cannot be seen in the outer space; It can only be sensed in the mind.

Written by Charles Bukowski | Death Wants More Death death wants more death, and its webs are full: I remember my father's garage, how child-like I would brush the corpses of flies from the windows they thought were escape- their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass only to spin and flit in that second larger than hell or heaven onto the edge of the ledge, and then the spider from his dank hole nervous and exposed the puff of body swelling hanging there not really quite knowing, and then knowing- something sending it down its string, the wet web, toward the weak shield of buzzing, the pulsing; a last desperate moving hair-leg there against the glass there alive in the sun, spun in white; and almost like love: the closing over, the first hushed spider-sucking: filling its sack upon this thing that lived; crouching there upon its back drawing its certain blood as the world goes by outside and my temples scream and I hurl the broom against them: the spider dull with spider-anger still thinking of its prey and waving an amazed broken leg; the fly very still, a dirty speck stranded to straw; I shake the killer loose and he walks lame and peeved towards some dark corner but I intercept his dawdling his crawling like some broken hero, and the straws smash his legs now waving above his head and looking looking for the enemy and somewhat valiant, dying without apparent pain simply crawling backward piece by piece leaving nothing there until at last the red gut sack splashes its secrets, and I run child-like with God's anger a step behind, back to simple sunlight, wondering as the world goes by with curled smile if anyone else saw or sensed my crime

Written by W. E. B. Du Bois | Ghana Calls I was a little boy, at home with strangers. I liked my playmates, and knew well, Whence all their parents came; From England, Scotland, royal France From Germany and oft by chance The humble Emerald Isle. But my brown skin and close-curled hair Was alien, and how it grew, none knew; Few tried to say, some dropped a wonderful word or stray; Some laughed and stared. And then it came: I dreamed. I placed together all I knew All hints and slurs together drew. I dreamed. I made one picture of what nothing seemed I shuddered in dumb terror In silence screamed, For now it seemed this I had dreamed; How up from Hell, a land had leaped A wretched land, all scorched and seamed Covered with ashes, chained with pain Streaming with blood, in horror lain Its very air a shriek of death And agony of hurt. Anon I woke, but in one corner of my soul I stayed asleep. Forget I could not, But never would I remember That hell-hoist ghost Of slavery and woe. I lived and grew, I worked and hoped I planned and wandered, gripped and coped With every doubt but one that slept Yet clamoured to awaken. I became old; old, worn and gray; Along my hard and weary way Rolled war and pestilence, war again; I looked on Poverty and foul Disease I walked with Death and yet I knew There stirred a doubt: Were all dreams true? And what in truth was Africa? One cloud-swept day a Seer appeared, All closed and veiled as me he hailed And bid me make three journeys to the world Seeking all through their lengthened links The endless Riddle of the Sphinx. I went to Moscow; Ignorance grown wise taught me Wisdom; I went to Peking: Poverty grown rich Showed me the wealth of Work I came to Accra. Here at last, I looked back on my Dream; I heard the Voice that loosed The Long-looked dungeons of my soul I sensed that Africa had come Not up from Hell, but from the sum of Heaven’s glory. I lifted up mine eyes to Ghana And swept the hills with high Hosanna; Above the sun my sight took flight Till from that pinnacle of light I saw dropped down this earth of crimson, green and gold Roaring with color, drums and song. Happy with dreams and deeds worth more than doing Around me velvet faces loomed Burnt by the kiss of everlasting suns Under great stars of midnight glory Trees danced, and foliage sang; The lilies hallelujah rang Where robed with rule on Golden Stool The gold-crowned Priests with duty done Pour high libations to the sun And danced to gods. Red blood flowed rare ’neath close-clung hair While subtle perfume filled the air And whirls and whirls of tiny curls Crowned heads. Yet Ghana shows its might and power Not in its color nor its flower But in its wondrous breadth of soul Its Joy of Life Its selfless role Of giving. School and clinic, home and hall Road and garden bloom and call Socialism blossoms bold On Communism centuries old. I lifted my last voice and cried I cried to heaven as I died: O turn me to the Golden Horde Summon all western nations Toward the Rising Sun. From reeking West whose day is done, Who stink and stagger in their dung Toward Africa, China, India’s strand Where Kenya and Himalaya stand And Nile and Yang-tze roll: Turn every yearning face of man. Come with us, dark America: The scum of Europe battened here And drowned a dream Made fetid swamp a refuge seem: Enslaved the Black and killed the Red And armed the Rich to loot the Dead; Worshipped the whores of Hollywood Where once the Virgin Mary stood And lynched the Christ. Awake, awake, O sleeping world Honor the sun; Worship the stars, those vaster suns Who rule the night Where black is bright And all unselfish work is right And Greed is Sin. And Africa leads on: Pan Africa!

Written by Barry Tebb | THE DAYS GO BY for Daniel Weissbort Some poems meant only for my eyes About a grief I can’t let go But I want to, want to throw It away like an old worn-out cloak Or screw up like a ball of over-written Trash and toss into the corner bin. I said it must come up or out I don't know which but either way Will do, I know I can't write in the vein Of ‘Bridge’ this time, it takes an optimistic view, Bright day stuff, sunlight on Roundhay Park's Childrens’ Day Or just wandering round the streets With Margaret, occasionally stopping To whisper or to kiss. Now over sixty I wonder How and where to go from here Daniel your rolled out verse Unending Kaddish gave me hints But what can you or anyone say About our son, the other one, who from Such a bright childhood came to such A death-in-life? Dreamless sleep is better than the consciousness Of bitter days; I sit in silent prayer and read Of Job, the Prodigal, the Sermon on the Mount. I read and think and sigh aloud to my silent, Silent self. I write him letters long or short About the weather or a book I've read and hope His studies are kept up. I can’t say ‘How much Do you drink? Is it more or less or just the same?’ Its your own life But then its partly one we shared for years From birth along a road I thought we went Along as one. Some years ago I sensed a change, An invisible glass wall between us, between It seemed you and everyone, the way friends Hurried past, patting your shoulder in passing, A joke in the pub, the Leeds boy who'd made good Then threw it all away for drink. Your boxed-up books, texts in five languages Or six, the well-thumbed classics worn cassettes Of Bach, Tippett’s ‘Knot Garden’, invitation Cards, the total waste, my own and your’s and her’s. Love does not seem an answer That you want to know, The hours, the years of waiting Gather loss on loss until My hopes are brief as days That rush and go like speeding trains That never stop. You drink, I pay, You ramble through an odd text-book And go and eat and drink and talk And lose your way, then phone ‘To set things straight’ but nothing’s Ever straight with you, the binges Start and stop, a local train that Locals know will never go beyond The halt where only you get off.

Written by W. E. B. Du Bois | Children of the Moon I am dead; Yet somehow, somewhere, In Time's weird contradiction, I May tell of that dread deed, wherewith I brought to Children of the Moon Freedom and vast salvation. I was a woman born, And trod the streaming street, That ebbs and flows from Harlem's hills, Through caves and cañons limned in light, Down to the twisting sea. That night of nights, I stood alone and at the End, Until the sudden highway to the moon, Golden in splendor, Became too real to doubt. Dimly I set foot upon the air, I fled, I flew, through the thrills of light, With all about, above, below, the whirring Of almighty wings. I found a twilight land, Where, hardly hid, the sun Sent softly-saddened rays of Red and brown to burn the iron soil And bathe the snow-white peaks In mighty splendor. Black were the men, Hard-haired and silent-slow, Moving as shadows, Bending with face of fear to earthward; And women there were none. "Woman, woman, woman!" I cried in mounting terror. "Woman and Child!" And the cry sang back Through heaven, with the Whirring of almighty wings. Wings, wings, endless wings,— Heaven and earth are wings; Wings that flutter, furl, and fold, Always folding and unfolding, Ever folding yet again; Wings, veiling some vast And veiléd face, In blazing blackness, Behind the folding and unfolding, The rolling and unrolling of Almighty wings! I saw the black men huddle, Fumed in fear, falling face downward; Vainly I clutched and clawed, Dumbly they cringed and cowered, Moaning in mournful monotone: O Freedom, O Freedom, O Freedom over me; Before I'll be a slave, I'll be buried in my grave, And go home to my God, And be free. It was angel-music From the dead, And ever, as they sang, Some wingéd thing of wings, filling all heaven, Folding and unfolding, and folding yet again, Tore out their blood and entrails, 'Til I screamed in utter terror; And a silence came— A silence and the wailing of a babe. Then, at last, I saw and shamed; I knew how these dumb, dark, and dusky things Had given blood and life, To fend the caves of underground, The great black caves of utter night, Where earth lay full of mothers And their babes. Little children sobbing in darkness, Little children crying in silent pain, Little mothers rocking and groping and struggling, Digging and delving and groveling, Amid the dying-dead and dead-in-life And drip and dripping of warm, wet blood, Far, far beneath the wings,— The folding and unfolding of almighty wings. I bent with tears and pitying hands, Above these dusky star-eyed children,— Crinkly-haired, with sweet-sad baby voices, Pleading low for light and love and living— And I crooned: "Little children weeping there, God shall find your faces fair; Guerdon for your deep distress, He shall send His tenderness; For the tripping of your feet Make a mystic music sweet In the darkness of your hair; Light and laughter in the air— Little children weeping there, God shall find your faces fair!" I strode above the stricken, bleeding men, The rampart 'ranged against the skies, And shouted: "Up, I say, build and slay; Fight face foremost, force a way, Unloose, unfetter, and unbind; Be men and free!" Dumbly they shrank, Muttering they pointed toward that peak, Than vastness vaster, Whereon a darkness brooded, "Who shall look and live," they sighed; And I sensed The folding and unfolding of almighty wings. Yet did we build of iron, bricks, and blood; We built a day, a year, a thousand years, Blood was the mortar,—blood and tears, And, ah, the Thing, the Thing of wings, The wingéd, folding Wing of Things Did furnish much mad mortar For that tower. Slow and ever slower rose the towering task, And with it rose the sun, Until at last on one wild day, Wind-whirled, cloud-swept and terrible I stood beneath the burning shadow Of the peak, Beneath the whirring of almighty wings, While downward from my feet Streamed the long line of dusky faces And the wail of little children sobbing under earth. Alone, aloft, I saw through firmaments on high The drama of Almighty God, With all its flaming suns and stars. "Freedom!" I cried. "Freedom!" cried heaven, earth, and stars; And a Voice near-far, Amid the folding and unfolding of almighty wings, Answered, "I am Freedom— Who sees my face is free— He and his." I dared not look; Downward I glanced on deep-bowed heads and closed eyes, Outward I gazed on flecked and flaming blue— But ever onward, upward flew The sobbing of small voices,— Down, down, far down into the night. Slowly I lifted livid limbs aloft; Upward I strove: the face! the face! Onward I reeled: the face! the face! To beauty wonderful as sudden death, Or horror horrible as endless life— Up! Up! the blood-built way; (Shadow grow vaster! Terror come faster!) Up! Up! to the blazing blackness Of one veiléd face. And endless folding and unfolding, Rolling and unrolling of almighty wings. The last step stood! The last dim cry of pain Fluttered across the stars, And then— Wings, wings, triumphant wings, Lifting and lowering, waxing and waning, Swinging and swaying, twirling and whirling, Whispering and screaming, streaming and gleaming, Spreading and sweeping and shading and flaming— Wings, wings, eternal wings, 'Til the hot, red blood, Flood fleeing flood, Thundered through heaven and mine ears, While all across a purple sky, The last vast pinion. Trembled to unfold. I rose upon the Mountain of the Moon,— I felt the blazing glory of the Sun; I heard the Song of Children crying, "Free!" I saw the face of Freedom— And I died.

Written by Robert Hayden | The Prisoners Steel doors – guillotine gates – of the doorless house closed massively. We were locked in with loss. Guards frisked us, marked our wrists, then let us into the drab Rec Hall – splotched green walls, high windows barred – where the dispossessed awaited us. Hands intimate with knife and pistol, hands that had cruelly grasped and throttled clasped ours in welcome. I sensed the plea of men denied: Believe us human like yourselves, who but for Grace . . . We shared reprieving Hidden Words revealed by the Godlike imprisoned One, whose crime was truth. And I read poems I hoped were true. It's like you been there, brother, been there, the scarred young lifer said.

Written by Denise Duhamel | On Being Born The Same Exact Day Of The Same Exact Year As Boy George We must have clamored for the same mother, hurried for the same womb. I know it now as I read that my birthday is his. Since the first time I saw his picture, I sensed something— and with a fierce bonding and animosity began following his career. Look where I am and look where he is! There is a book documenting his every haircut while all my image-building attempts go unnoticed, even by my friends. I'm too wimpy to just dye my curls red or get them straightened. I, sickeningly moral, talked about chemicals when I should have been hanging out with George's pal, Marilyn. He would have set me right: Stop your whining and put on this feather tuxedo. Look, do you want to be famous or not? In the latest articles, Boy George is claiming he's not really happy. Hmm, I think, just like me. When he comes to New York and stays in hotels in Gramercy Park maybe he feels a pull to the Lower East Side, wanders towards places where I am, but not knowing me, doesn't know why. One interviewer asks if he wishes he were a woman. Aha! I read on with passion: and a poet?—I bet you'd like that— You wouldn't have to sing anymore, do those tiring tours. George, we could switch. You could come live at my place, have some privacy, regain your sense of self. So I begin my letter. Dear Boy George, Do you ever sit and wonder what's gone wrong? If there's been some initial mistake? Well, don't be alarmed, but there has been.

Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Knowledge If we had true insight We would be scared to death, We would not be able to see anything, We would see everything and see nothing. Senses empower limitations, Senses expand vision within borders, Senses promote understanding through pleasure. Without pleasure there is no sight or measure. Total knowledge is annihilation Of the desire to see, to touch, to feel The world sensed only through senses And immune to the knowledge without feeling.