Best Famous Smashing Poems

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

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• All Famous Smashing Poems

Written by Charles Bukowski | We Aint Got No Money Honey But We Got Rain call it the greenhouse effect or whatever but it just doesn't rain like it used to. I particularly remember the rains of the depression era. there wasn't any money but there was plenty of rain. it wouldn't rain for just a night or a day, it would RAIN for 7 days and 7 nights and in Los Angeles the storm drains weren't built to carry off taht much water and the rain came down THICK and MEAN and STEADY and you HEARD it banging against the roofs and into the ground waterfalls of it came down from roofs and there was HAIL big ROCKS OF ICE bombing exploding smashing into things and the rain just wouldn't STOP and all the roofs leaked- dishpans, cooking pots were placed all about; they dripped loudly and had to be emptied again and again. the rain came up over the street curbings, across the lawns, climbed up the steps and entered the houses. there were mops and bathroom towels, and the rain often came up through the toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling, and all the old cars stood in the streets, cars that had problems starting on a sunny day, and the jobless men stood looking out the windows at the old machines dying like living things out there. the jobless men, failures in a failing time were imprisoned in their houses with their wives and children and their pets. the pets refused to go out and left their waste in strange places. the jobless men went mad confined with their once beautiful wives. there were terrible arguments as notices of foreclosure fell into the mailbox. rain and hail, cans of beans, bread without butter;fried eggs, boiled eggs, poached eggs; peanut butter sandwiches, and an invisible chicken in every pot. my father, never a good man at best, beat my mother when it rained as I threw myself between them, the legs, the knees, the screams until they seperated. "I'll kill you," I screamed at him. "You hit her again and I'll kill you!" "Get that son-of-a-bitching kid out of here!" "no, Henry, you stay with your mother!" all the households were under seige but I believe that ours held more terror than the average. and at night as we attempted to sleep the rains still came down and it was in bed in the dark watching the moon against the scarred window so bravely holding out most of the rain, I thought of Noah and the Ark and I thought, it has come again. we all thought that. and then, at once, it would stop. and it always seemed to stop around 5 or 6 a.m., peaceful then, but not an exact silence because things continued to drip drip drip and there was no smog then and by 8 a.m. there was a blazing yellow sunlight, Van Gogh yellow- crazy, blinding! and then the roof drains relieved of the rush of water began to expand in the warmth: PANG!PANG!PANG! and everybody got up and looked outside and there were all the lawns still soaked greener than green will ever be and there were birds on the lawn CHIRPING like mad, they hadn't eaten decently for 7 days and 7 nights and they were weary of berries and they waited as the worms rose to the top, half drowned worms. the birds plucked them up and gobbled them down;there were blackbirds and sparrows. the blackbirds tried to drive the sparrows off but the sparrows, maddened with hunger, smaller and quicker, got their due. the men stood on their porches smoking cigarettes, now knowing they'd have to go out there to look for that job that probably wasn't there, to start that car that probably wouldn't start. and the once beautiful wives stood in their bathrooms combing their hair, applying makeup, trying to put their world back together again, trying to forget that awful sadness that gripped them, wondering what they could fix for breakfast. and on the radio we were told that school was now open. and soon there I was on the way to school, massive puddles in the street, the sun like a new world, my parents back in that house, I arrived at my classroom on time. Mrs. Sorenson greeted us with, "we won't have our usual recess, the grounds are too wet." "AW!" most of the boys went. "but we are going to do something special at recess," she went on, "and it will be fun!" well, we all wondered what that would be and the two hour wait seemed a long time as Mrs.Sorenson went about teaching her lessons. I looked at the little girls, they looked so pretty and clean and alert, they sat still and straight and their hair was beautiful in the California sunshine. the the recess bells rang and we all waited for the fun. then Mrs. Sorenson told us: "now, what we are going to do is we are going to tell each other what we did during the rainstorm! we'll begin in the front row and go right around! now, Michael, you're first!. . ." well, we all began to tell our stories, Michael began and it went on and on, and soon we realized that we were all lying, not exactly lying but mostly lying and some of the boys began to snicker and some of the girls began to give them dirty looks and Mrs.Sorenson said, "all right! I demand a modicum of silence here! I am interested in what you did during the rainstorm even if you aren't!" so we had to tell our stories and they were stories. one girl said that when the rainbow first came she saw God's face at the end of it. only she didn't say which end. one boy said he stuck his fishing pole out the window and caught a little fish and fed it to his cat. almost everybody told a lie. the truth was just too awful and embarassing to tell. then the bell rang and recess was over. "thank you," said Mrs. Sorenson, "that was very nice. and tomorrow the grounds will be dry and we will put them to use again." most of the boys cheered and the little girls sat very straight and still, looking so pretty and clean and alert, their hair beautiful in a sunshine that the world might never see again. and

Written by Rg Gregory | from Proverbs of Hell (a) radical ban all fires and places where people congregate to create comfort put an end to sleep good cooking and the delectation of wine tear lovers apart piss on the sun and moon degut all heavenly harmony strike out across the bitter ice and the poisonous marshes make (if you dare) a better world (b) expect poison from standing water (iii) lake erie why not as a joke one night pick up your bed and walk to washington – sleep your damned sleep in its streets so that one bright metallic morning it can wake up to the stench and fermentation of flesh the gutrot of nerves – the blood’s green effervescence so active your skin has a job to keep it all in isn’t that what things with the palsy are supposed to do – lovely lake give the world the miracle it waits for what a laugh that would be especially if washington lost its temper and screamed christ lake erie i don’t even know what to do with my own garbage pollution is just one of those things go on lake erie do it tonight (c) drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead (i) isn't the next one easter egg i don't want to live any more in an old way yes it is to be a socialist wearing capitalism's cap a teacher in the shadow of a dead headmaster a tree using somebody else's old sap i want to build my future out of new emotions to seek more than my own in a spring surround to move amongst people keen to move outwards putting love and ideas into fresh ground who will come with me across this border not anywhere but in the bonds we make taking the old apart to find new order living ourselves boldly for each other's sake then love is if you ask me today what love is i should have to name the people i love and perhaps because it's spring and i cannot control the knife that's in me their names would surprise me as much as you for years i have assumed that love is bloody a thing locked up in house and a family tree but suddenly its ache goes out beyond me and the first love is greater for the new this year more than any other the winter has savaged my deepest roots and the easter sun is banging hard against the window the arms of my loves are flowering widely and over the fields a new definition is running even though the streets we walk cannot be altered and faces there are that will not understand we have a sun born of our mutual longings whose shine is a hard fact - love is a new land new spartans i haven't felt this young for twenty years yesterday i felt twenty years older then i had the curtains drawn over recluse fears today the sun comes in and instantly it's colder must shave and get dressed - i'm being nagged to shove my suspicions in a corner and get out what use the sun if being plagued with new life i can't throw off this centrally-heated doubt accept people with ice in their brows are the new spartans - they wait shall i go with them indoor delights that slowly breed into lies need to be dumped out of doors - and paralysis with them no leave it there's still one more the need now the need now is to chronicle new times by their own statutes not as ***-ends of the old ideas stand out bravely against the surrounding grey seeking their own order in what themselves proclaim fortresses no longer belong by right to an older day i want to gather in my hands things i believe in not to be told that other rules prevail - there is a treading forward to be done of great excitement and people to be found who by the old laws should be little more than dead this enlightment is cutting like spring into a bitter winter and there is this smashing of many concrete shells a dream with the cheek to be aggressive has assumed its own flesh and bone and will not put up with sleep as its prime condition - life out of death is exhumed it's the other side is so disappointing no thanks leave it for now (ii) there follows a brief interlude in honour of mr vasko popa (the yugoslav poet who in a short visit to this country has stayed a long time) and it will not now take place this game is called x no one else can play when the game is over we have all joined in those who have not been playing have to give in an ear if you don't have an ear use one of those lying about left over from the last time the game wasn't played this game is not to do with ears shooting must be done from the heart x sits in the middle of the ring - he has gone for a stroll up his left nostril how can he seize a left-over ear and drag it under the ground hands up if you have been shot from the heart x comes up in the middle of himself in this way the game is over before it began and everyone willy-nilly has had to go home before he could put a foot outside (d) enough! – or too much reading popa i let fly too many words i bang away at the seed but can’t break it hurt i turn to constructing castles with cards if you can’t split the atom man stop writing

Written by Yevgeny Yevtushenko | Babi Yar No monument stands over Babi Yar. A drop sheer as a crude gravestone. I am afraid. Today I am as old in years as all the Jewish people. Now I seem to be a Jew. Here I plod through ancient Egypt. Here I perish crucified, on the cross, and to this day I bear the scars of nails. I seem to be Dreyfus. The Philistine is both informer and judge. I am behind bars. Beset on every side. Hounded, spat on, slandered. Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace stick their parasols into my face. I seem to be then a young boy in Byelostok. Blood runs, spilling over the floors. The barroom rabble-rousers give off a stench of vodka and onion. A boot kicks me aside, helpless. In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies. While they jeer and shout, "Beat the Yids. Save Russia!" some grain-marketeer beats up my mother. 0 my Russian people! I know you are international to the core. But those with unclean hands have often made a jingle of your purest name. I know the goodness of my land. How vile these anti-Semites- without a qualm they pompously called themselves the Union of the Russian People! I seem to be Anne Frank transparent as a branch in April. And I love. And have no need of phrases. My need is that we gaze into each other. How little we can see or smell! We are denied the leaves, we are denied the sky. Yet we can do so much -- tenderly embrace each other in a darkened room. They're coming here? Be not afraid. Those are the booming sounds of spring: spring is coming here. Come then to me. Quick, give me your lips. Are they smashing down the door? No, it's the ice breaking ... The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar. The trees look ominous, like judges. Here all things scream silently, and, baring my head, slowly I feel myself turning gray. And I myself am one massive, soundless scream above the thousand thousand buried here. I am each old man here shot dead. I am every child here shot dead. Nothing in me shall ever forget! The "Internationale," let it thunder when the last anti-Semite on earth is buried forever. In my blood there is no Jewish blood. In their callous rage, all anti-Semites must hate me now as a Jew. For that reason I am a true Russian!

Written by Seamus Heaney | The Otter When you plunged The light of Tuscany wavered And swung through the pool From top to bottom. I loved your wet head and smashing crawl, Your fine swimmer's back and shoulders Surfacing and surfacing again This year and every year since. I sat dry-throated on the warm stones. You were beyond me. The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air Thinned and disappointed. Thank God for the slow loadening, When I hold you now We are close and deep As the atmosphere on water. My two hands are plumbed water. You are my palpable, lithe Otter of memory In the pool of the moment, Turning to swim on your back, Each silent, thigh-shaking kick Re-tilting the light, Heaving the cool at your neck. And suddenly you're out, Back again, intent as ever, Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt, Printing the stones.

Written by James Wright | To A Blossoming Pear Tree Beautiful natural blossoms, Pure delicate body, You stand without trembling. Little mist of fallen starlight, Perfect, beyond my reach, How I envy you. For if you could only listen, I would tell you something, Something human. An old man Appeared to me once In the unendurable snow. He had a singe of white Beard on his face. He paused on a street in Minneapolis And stroked my face. Give it to me, he begged. I'll pay you anything. I flinched. Both terrified, We slunk away, Each in his own way dodging The cruel darts of the cold. Beautiful natural blossoms, How could you possibly Worry or bother or care About the ashamed, hopeless Old man? He was so near death He was willing to take Any love he could get, Even at the risk Of some mocking policeman Or some cute young wiseacre Smashing his dentures, Perhaps leading him on To a dark place and there Kicking him in his dead groin Just for the fun of it. Young tree, unburdened By anything but your beautiful natural blossoms And dew, the dark Blood in my body drags me Down with my brother.

Written by Gary Snyder | Smoky the Bear Sutra Smokey the Bear Sutra Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago, the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite Void gave a Discourse to all the assembled elements and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings, the flying beings, and the sitting beings -- even grasses, to the number of thirteen billion, each one born from a seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning Enlightenment on the planet Earth. "In some future time, there will be a continent called America. It will have great centers of power called such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur, Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon The human race in that era will get into troubles all over its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature." "The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth. My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger: and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it." And he showed himself in his true form of SMOKEY THE BEAR •A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and watchful. •Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war; •His left paw in the Mudra of Comradely Display -- indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma; •Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a civilization that claims to save but often destroys; •Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the West, symbolic of the forces that guard the Wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the True Path of man on earth: all true paths lead through mountains -- •With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind; •Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her; •Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs; smashing the worms of capitalism and totalitarianism; •Indicating the Task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes; master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash. Wrathful but Calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or slander him, HE WILL PUT THEM OUT. Thus his great Mantra: Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham nam "I DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE UNIVERSAL DIAMOND BE THIS RAGING FURY DESTROYED" And he will protect those who love woods and rivers, Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children: And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television, or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR'S WAR SPELL: DROWN THEIR BUTTS CRUSH THEIR BUTTS DROWN THEIR BUTTS CRUSH THEIR BUTTS And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out with his vajra-shovel. •Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice will accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada. •Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick. •Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature. •Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts. •Will always have ripe blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at. •AND IN THE END WILL WIN HIGHEST PERFECT ENLIGHTENMENT. thus have we heard.

Written by Thomas Moore | All In a Family Way My banks are all furnished with rags, So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em; I've torn up my old money-bags, Having little or nought to put in 'em. My tradesman are smashing by dozens, But this is all nothing, they say; For bankrupts, since Adam, are cousins, So, it's all in the family way. My Debt not a penny takes from me, As sages the matter explain; -- Bob owes it to Tom and then Tommy Just owes it to Bob back again. Since all have thus taken to owing, There's nobody left that can pay; And this is the way to keep going, -- All quite in the family way. My senators vote away millions, To put in Prosperity's budget; And though it were billions or trillions, The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it. 'Tis all but a family hop, 'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay; Hands round! -- why the deuce should we stop? 'Tis all in the family way. My labourers used to eat mutton, As any great man of the State does; And now the poor devils are put on Small rations of tea and potatoes. But cheer up John, Sawney and Paddy, The King is your father, they say; So ev'n if you starve for your Daddy, 'Tis all in the family way. My rich manufacturers tumble, My poor ones have nothing to chew; And, even if themselves do not grumble, Their stomachs undoubtedly do. But coolly to fast en famille, Is as good for the soul as to pray; And famine itself is genteel, When one starves in a family way. I have found out a secret for Freddy, A secret for next Budget day; Though, perhaps he may know it already, As he, too, 's a sage in his way. When next for the Treasury scene he Announces "the Devil to pay", Let him write on the bills, "Nota bene, 'Tis all in the family way."

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | The Burning of the Peoples Variety Theatre Aberdeen 'Twas in the year of 1896, and on the 30th of September, Which many people in Aberdeen will long remember; The burning of the People's Variety Theatre, in Bridge Place Because the fire spread like lightning at a rapid pace. The fire broke out on the stage, about eight o'clock, Which gave to the audience a very fearful shock; Then a stampede ensued, and a rush was made pell-mell, And in the crush, trying to get out, many people fell. The stage flies took fire owing to the gas Not having room enough by them to pass; And with his jacket Mr. Macaulay tried to put out the flame, But oh! horrible to relate, it was all in vain. Detective Innes, who was passing at the time of the fire, Rendered help in every way the audience could desire, By helping many of them for to get out, Which was a heroic action, without any doubt. Oh! it was a pitiful and fearful sight, To see both old and young struggling with all their might, For to escape from that merciless fire, While it roared and mounted higher and higher. Oh! it was horrible to hear the cries of that surging crowd, Yelling and crying for "Help! help!" aloud; While one old woman did fret and frown Because her clothes were torn off when knocked down. A lady and gentleman of the Music Hall company, Monti & Spry, Managed to make their escape by climbing up very high To an advertisement board, and smashing the glass of the fanlight, And squeezed themselves through with a great fight. But accidents will happen both on sea and land, And the works of the Almighty is hard to understand; And thank God there's only a few has fallen victims to the fire, But I hope they are now in Heaven, amongst the Heavenly choir.

Written by Robert William Service | The Little Piou-Piou (The French "Tommy"). Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum; But now we are here with a song and a cheer To serve at the sign of the drum. They put us in trousers of scarlet, In big sloppy ulsters of blue; In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, And they call us the little piou-piou. Piou-piou. The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, The swinging and singing piou-piou; And so with a rattle we march to the battle, The weary but cheery piou-piou. Encore un petit verre de vin, Pour nous mettre en route; Encore un petit verre de vin Pour nous mettre en train. They drive us head-on for the slaughter; We haven't got much of a chance; The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad To battle and die for La France. For some must be killed, that is certain; There's only one's duty to do; So we leap to the fray in the glorious way They expect of the little piou-piou. En avant! The way of the gallant piou-piou, The dashing and smashing piou-piou; The way grim and gory that leads us to glory Is the way of the little piou-piou. Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé. To-day you would scarce recognise us, Such veterans war-wise are we; So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, So "crummy", yet gay as can be. We've finished with trousers of scarlet, They're giving us breeches of blue, With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, - Yet still we're the little piou-piou. Nous les aurons! The jesting, unresting piou-piou; The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; The dying, defying piou-piou. À la bayonette! Jusqu'a la mort! Sonnez la charge, clairons!

Written by Robert William Service | My Coffin Deeming that I was due to die I framed myself a coffin; So full of graveyard zeal was I, I set the folks a-laughing. I made it snugly to my fit, My joinering was honest; And sometimes in it I would sit, And fancy I was non est. I stored it on my cabin shelf Forever to remind me, When I was tickled with myself, That Death was close behind me. Let's be prepared, I used to say, E're in the Dark we launch us: And so with boding day by day I kept me coffin-conscious. Then came that winter dark as doom, No firing wood had I; My shack was icy as a tomb And I was set to die. But e'er the losing of my wits I saw that coffin there, S smashing the damned thing to bits I made a gorgeous flare. I never saw a flame so bright, So goldenly divine, As starred the blackness of the night That boneyard box of mine. And now I go forth coffin-shy, With no more carnal fears, For radiantly sure am I I'll stack a hundred years.