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Best Famous Skate Poems

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

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Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem


 Live or die, but don't poison everything.
Well, death's been here for a long time -- it has a hell of a lot to do with hell and suspicion of the eye and the religious objects and how I mourned them when they were made obscene by my dwarf-heart's doodle.
The chief ingredient is mutilation.
And mud, day after day, mud like a ritual, and the baby on the platter, cooked but still human, cooked also with little maggots, sewn onto it maybe by somebody's mother, the damn *****! Even so, I kept right on going on, a sort of human statement, lugging myself as if I were a sawed-off body in the trunk, the steamer trunk.
This became perjury of the soul.
It became an outright lie and even though I dressed the body it was still naked, still killed.
It was caught in the first place at birth, like a fish.
But I play it, dressed it up, dressed it up like somebody's doll.
Is life something you play? And all the time wanting to get rid of it? And further, everyone yelling at you to shut up.
And no wonder! People don't like to be told that you're sick and then be forced to watch you come down with the hammer.
Today life opened inside me like an egg and there inside after considerable digging I found the answer.
What a bargain! There was the sun, her yolk moving feverishly, tumbling her prize -- and you realize she does this daily! I'd known she was a purifier but I hadn't thought she was solid, hadn't known she was an answer.
God! It's a dream, lovers sprouting in the yard like celery stalks and better, a husband straight as a redwood, two daughters, two sea urchings, picking roses off my hackles.
If I'm on fire they dance around it and cook marshmallows.
And if I'm ice they simply skate on me in little ballet costumes.
Here, all along, thinking I was a killer, anointing myself daily with my little poisons.
But no.
I'm an empress.
I wear an apron.
My typewriter writes.
It didn't break the way it warned.
Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
Even with the witches' gymnastics they trust my incalculable city, my corruptible bed.
O dearest three, I make a soft reply.
The witch comes on and you paint her pink.
I come with kisses in my hood and the sun, the smart one, rolling in my arms.
So I say Live and turn my shadow three times round to feed our puppies as they come, the eight Dalmatians we didn't drown, despite the warnings: The abort! The destroy! Despite the pails of water that waited, to drown them, to pull them down like stones, they came, each one headfirst, blowing bubbles the color of cataract-blue and fumbling for the tiny ****.
Just last week, eight Dalmatians, 3/4 of a lb.
, lined up like cord wood each like a birch tree.
I promise to love more if they come, because in spite of cruelty and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens, I am not what I expected.
Not an Eichmann.
The poison just didn't take.
So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it.
I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.

Written by Bliss Carman | Create an image from this poem

The Winter Scene

The rutted roads are all like iron; skies
Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling
In the bare woods, or the hardy bitter-sweet;
Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on;
And all the ponds are sealed with sheeted ice
That rings with stroke of skate and hockey-stick,
Or in the twilight cracks with running whoop.
Bring in the logs of oak and hickory, And make an ample blaze on the wide hearth.
Now is the time, with winter o'er the world, For books and friends and yellow candle-light, And timeless lingering by the settling fire.
While all the shuddering stars are keen with cold.
II Out from the silent portal of the hours, When frosts are come and all the hosts put on.
Their burnished gear to march across the night And o'er a darkened earth in splendor shine, Slowly above the world Orion wheels His glittering square, while on the shadowy hill And throbbing like a sea-light through the dusk, Great Sirius rises in his flashing blue.
Lord of the winter night, august and pure, Returning year on year untouched by time, To hearten faith with thine unfaltering fire, There are no hurts that beauty cannot ease, No ills that love cannot at last repair, In the victorious progress of the soul.
III Russet and white and gray is the oak wood In the great snow.
Still from the North it comes, Whispering, settling, sifting through the trees, O'erloading branch and twig.
The road is lost.
Clearing and meadow, stream and ice-bound pond Are made once more a trackless wilderness In the white hush where not a creature stirs; And the pale sun is blotted from the sky.
In that strange twilight the lone traveller halts To listen to the stealthy snowflakes fall.
And then far off toward the Stamford shore, Where through the storm the coastwise liners go, Faint and recurrent on the muffled air, A foghorn booming through the Smother--hark! IV When the day changed and the mad wind died down, The powdery drifts that all day long had blown Across the meadows and the open fields, Or whirled like diamond dust in the bright sun, Settled to rest, and for a tranquil hour The lengthening bluish shadows on the snow Stole down the orchard slope, and a rose light Flooded the earth with beauty and with peace.
Then in the west behind the cedars black The sinking sun stained red the winter dusk With sullen flare upon the snowy ridge,-- As in a masterpiece by Hokusai, Where on a background gray, with flaming breath A scarlet dragon dies in dusky gold.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Carol

 Our Lord Who did the Ox command
 To kneel to Judah's King,
He binds His frost upon the land
 To ripen it for Spring --
To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,
 According to His Word.
Which well must be as ye can see -- And who shall judge the Lord? When we poor fenmen skate the ice Or shiver on the wold, We hear the cry of a single tree That breaks her heart in the cold -- That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs, And rendeth by the board.
Which well must be as ye can see -- And who shall judge the Lord? Her wood is crazed and little worth Excepting as to burn, That we may warm and make our mirth Until the Spring return -- Until the Spring return, good sirs, When Christians walk abroad; When well must be as ye can see -- And who shall judge the Lord? God bless the master of this house, And all who sleep therein! And guard the fens from pirate folk, And keep us all from sin, To walk in honesty, good sirs, Of thought and deed ad word! Which shall befriend our latter end.
And who shall judge the Lord?
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Chicago Weather

 To-day, fair Thisbe, winsome girl!
Strays o'er the meads where daisies blow, 
Or, ling'ring where the brooklets purl, 
Laves in the cool, refreshing flow.
To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host Of amorous suitors in her train, Comes like a goddess forth to coast Or skate upon the frozen main.
To-day, sweet posies mark her track, While birds sing gayly in the trees; To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack Defies the piping polar breeze.
So Doris is to-day enthused By Thisbe's soft, responsive sighs, And on the morrow is confused By Thisbe's cold, repellent eyes.
Written by Kenneth Patchen | Create an image from this poem

Saturday Night in the Parthenon

 Tiny green birds skate over the surface of the room.
A naked girl prepares a basin with steaming water, And in the corner away from the hearth, the red wheels Of an up-ended chariot slowly turn.
After a long moment, the door to the other world opens And the golden figure of a man appears.
He stands Ruddy as a salmon beside the niche where are kept The keepsakes of the Prince of Earth; then sadly, drawing A hammer out of his side, he advances to an oaken desk, And being careful to strike in exact fury, pounds it to bits.
Another woman has by now taken her station Beside the bubbling tub.
Her legs are covered with a silken blue fur, Which in places above the knees Grows to the thickness of a lion's mane.
The upper sphere of her chest Is gathered into huge creases by two jeweled pins.
Transparent little boots reveal toes Which an angel could want.
Beneath her on the floor a beautiful cinnamon cat Plays with a bunch of yellow grapes, running Its paws in and out like a boy being a silly king.
Her voice is round and white as she says: 'Your bath is ready, darling.
Don't wait too long.
' But he has already drawn away to the window And through its circular opening looks, As a man into the pages of his death.
'Terrible horsemen are setting fire to the earth.
Houses are burning .
the people fly before The red spears of a speckled madness .
' 'Please, dear,' interrupts the original woman, 'We cannot help them .
Under the cancerous foot Of their hatred, they were born to perish - Like beasts in a well of spiders .
Come now, sweet; the water will get cold.
' A little wagon pulled by foxes lowers from the ceiling.
Three men are seated on its cushions which breathe Like purple breasts.
The head of one is tipped To the right, where on a bed of snails, a radiant child Is crowing sleepily; the heads of the other two are turned Upward, as though in contemplation Of an authority which is not easily apprehended.
Yet they act as one, lifting the baby from its rosy perch, And depositing it gently in the tub.
The water hisses over its scream .
a faint smell Of horror floats up.
Then the three withdraw With their hapless burden, and the tinny bark Of the foxes dies on the air.
'It hasn't grown cold yet,' the golden figure says, And he strokes the belly of the second woman, Running his hands over her fur like someone asleep.
They lie together under the shadow of a giant crab Which polishes its thousand vises beside the fire.
Farther back, nearly obscured by kettles and chairs, A second landscape can be seen; then a third, fourth, Fifth .
until the whole, fluted like a rose, And webbed in a miraculous workmanship, Ascends unto the seven thrones Where Tomorrow sits.
Slowly advancing down these shifting levels, The white Queen of Heaven approaches.
Stars glitter in her hair.
A tree grows Out of her side, and gazing through the foliage The eyes of the Beautiful gleam - 'Hurry, darling,' The first woman calls.
'The water is getting cold.
' But he does not hear.
The hilt of the knife is carved like a scepter And like a scepter gently sways Above his mutilated throat .
Smiling like a fashionable hat, the furry girl Walks quickly to the tub, and throwing off Her stained gown, eels into the water.
The other watches her sorrowfully; then, Without haste, as one would strangle an owl, She flicks the wheel of the chariot - around Which the black world bends .
without thrones or gates, without faith, warmth or light for any of its creatures; where even the children go mad - and As though unwound on a scroll, the picture Of Everyman's murder winks back at God.
Farther away now, nearly hidden by the human, Another landscape can be seen .
And the wan, smiling Queen of Heaven appears For a moment on the balconies of my chosen sleep.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem


Breezes blowin' middlin' brisk,
Snow-flakes thro' the air a-whisk,
Fallin' kind o' soft an' light,
Not enough to make things white,
But jest sorter siftin' down
So 's to cover up the brown
Of the dark world's rugged ways
'N' make things look like holidays.
Not smoothed over, but jest specked,
Sorter strainin' fur effect,
An' not quite a-gittin' through
What it started in to do.
Mercy sakes! it does seem *****
Christmas day is 'most nigh here.
Somehow it don't seem to me
Christmas like it used to be,—
Christmas with its ice an' snow,
Christmas of the long ago.
You could feel its stir an' hum
Weeks an' weeks before it come;
Somethin' in the atmosphere
Told you when the day was near,
Did n't need no almanacs;
That was one o' Nature's fac's.
Every cottage decked out gay—
Cedar wreaths an' holly spray—
An' the stores, how they were drest,
Tinsel tell you could n't rest;
Every winder fixed up pat,
Candy canes, an' things like that;
Noah's arks, an' guns, an' dolls,
An' all kinds o' fol-de-rols.
Then with frosty bells a-chime,
Slidin' down the hills o' time,
Right amidst the fun an' din
Christmas come a-bustlin' in,
Raised his cheery voice to call
Out a welcome to us all;[Pg 79]
Hale and hearty, strong an' bluff,
That was Christmas, sure enough.
Snow knee-deep an' coastin' fine,
Frozen mill-ponds all ashine,
Seemin' jest to lay in wait,
Beggin' you to come an' skate.
An' you 'd git your gal an' go
Stumpin' cheerily thro' the snow,
Feelin' pleased an' skeert an' warm
'Cause she had a-holt yore arm.
Why, when Christmas come in, we
Spent the whole glad day in glee,
Havin' fun an' feastin' high
An' some courtin' on the sly.
Bustin' in some neighbor's door
An' then suddenly, before
He could give his voice a lift,
Yellin' at him, "Christmas gift."
Now sich things are never heard,
"Merry Christmas" is the word.
But it's only change o' name,
An' means givin' jest the same.
There 's too many new-styled ways
Now about the holidays.
I 'd jest like once more to see
Christmas like it used to be!