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Best Famous Ski Poems

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

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Written by Shel Silverstein | Create an image from this poem

Messy Room

 Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!


Written by Charles Webb | Create an image from this poem

Enthusiasm

  "Don't overdo it," Dad yelled, watching me
Play shortstop, collect stamps and shells,
Roll on the grass laughing until I peed my pants.
"Screw him," I said, and grabbed every cowry

I could find, hogged all the books I could
From Heights Library, wore out the baseball
Diamond dawn to dusk, and—parents in Duluth—
Gorged on bountiful Candy dusk to dawn.

Not until a Committee wrote of my poems,
"Enthusiasm should be tempered,"
Did I change my song. I write now
The way I live: calm and sober, steering

Toward the Golden Mean. The Committee
Was right to withhold funds. I'd have bought
A hundred box turtles with lemon-speckled shells,
Flyfished for rainbows six months straight,

Flown to the Great Barrier Reef and dived
Non-stop among pink coral and marble cones,
Living on chocolate malts, peaches, and barbecue.
I'd have turned into a ski bum, married

Ten women in ten states, written nothing
Poetry would glance at twice, instead
Of rising at 5:00 as I do now, writing
'Til noon about matters serious and deep,

Teaching 'til 6:00, eating a low-fat meal
High in fiber and cruciferous vegetables,
Then bed by 9:00, alarm clock set
Five minutes late: my one indulgence of the day.
Written by Erica Jong | Create an image from this poem

For an Earth-Landing

 the sky sinks its blue teeth
into the mountains.

Rising on pure will

(the lurch & lift-off,
the sudden swing
into wide, white snow),

I encourage the cable.

Past the wind
& crossed tips of my skis
& the mauve shadows of pines
& the spoor of bears
& deer,

I speak to my fear,

rising, riding,
finding myself

the only thing
between snow & sky,

the link
that holds it all together.

Halfway up the wire,
we stop,
slide back a little
(a whirr of pulleys).

Astronauts circle above us today
in the television blue of space.

But the thin withers of alps
are waiting to take us too,
& this might be the moon!

We move!

Friends, this is a toy
merely for reaching mountains

merely
for skiing down.

& now we're dangling
like charms on the same bracelet

or upsidedown tightrope people
(a colossal circus!)

or absurd winged walkers,
angels in animal fur,

with mittened hands waving
& fear turning

& the mountain
like a fisherman,

reeling us all in.

So we land
on the windy peak,
touch skis to snow,
are married to our purple shadows,
& ski back down
to the unimaginable valley

leaving no footprints.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Letter to S.S. from Mametz Wood

 I never dreamed we’d meet that day 
In our old haunts down Fricourt way, 
Plotting such marvellous journeys there 
For jolly old “Apr?s-la-guerre.” 

Well, when it’s over, first we’ll meet 
At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat 
In Wales, a curious little shop 
With two rooms and a roof on top, 
A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet 
That never needs a crowd to fill it.
But oh, the country round about! 
The sort of view that makes you shout 
For want of any better way 
Of praising God: there’s a blue bay 
Shining in front, and on the right
Snowden and Hebog capped with white, 
And lots of other jolly peaks 
That you could wonder at for weeks, 
With jag and spur and hump and cleft. 
There’s a grey castle on the left,
And back in the high Hinterland 
You’ll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand, 
Who slew the savage Buffaloon 
By the Nant-col one night in June, 
And won his surname from the horn
Of this prodigious unicorn. 
Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower, 
Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr, 
Close there after a four years’ chase 
From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace,
The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay 
And growled and fought and passed away. 
You’ll see where mountain conies grapple 
With prayer and creed in their rock chapel 
Which Ben and Claire once built for them;
They call it S?ar Bethlehem. 
You’ll see where in old Roman days, 
Before Revivals changed our ways, 
The Virgin ’scaped the Devil’s grab, 
Printing her foot on a stone slab
With five clear toe-marks; and you’ll find 
The fiendish thumbprint close behind. 
You’ll see where Math, Mathonwy’s son, 
Spoke with the wizard Gwydion 
And bad him from South Wales set out
To steal that creature with the snout, 
That new-discovered grunting beast 
Divinely flavoured for the feast. 
No traveller yet has hit upon 
A wilder land than Meirion,
For desolate hills and tumbling stones, 
Bogland and melody and old bones. 
Fairies and ghosts are here galore, 
And poetry most splendid, more 
Than can be written with the pen
Or understood by common men. 

In Gweithdy Bach we’ll rest awhile, 
We’ll dress our wounds and learn to smile 
With easier lips; we’ll stretch our legs, 
And live on bilberry tart and eggs,
And store up solar energy, 
Basking in sunshine by the sea, 
Until we feel a match once more 
For anything but another war. 

So then we’ll kiss our families,
And sail across the seas 
(The God of Song protecting us) 
To the great hills of Caucasus. 
Robert will learn the local bat 
For billeting and things like that,
If Siegfried learns the piccolo 
To charm the people as we go. 

The jolly peasants clad in furs 
Will greet the Welch-ski officers 
With open arms, and ere we pass
Will make us vocal with Kavasse. 
In old Bagdad we’ll call a halt 
At the S?shuns’ ancestral vault; 
We’ll catch the Persian rose-flowers’ scent, 
And understand what Omar meant.
Bitlis and Mush will know our faces, 
Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places. 
Perhaps eventually we’ll get 
Among the Tartars of Thibet. 
Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings,
And doing wild, tremendous things 
In free adventure, quest and fight, 
And God! what poetry we’ll write!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things