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Best Famous Squid Poems

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

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Written by Les Murray | Create an image from this poem

Travels With John Hunter

 We who travel between worlds 
lose our muscle and bone.
I was wheeling a barrow of earth when agony bayoneted me.
I could not sit, or lie down, or stand, in Casualty.
Stomach-calming clay caked my lips, I turned yellow as the moon and slid inside a CAT-scan wheel in a hospital where I met no one so much was my liver now my dire preoccupation.
I was sped down a road.
of treetops and fishing-rod lightpoles towards the three persons of God and the three persons of John Hunter Hospital.
Who said We might lose this one.
Twenty days or to the heat-death of the Universe have the same duration: vaguely half a hour.
I awoke giggling over a joke about Paul Kruger in Johannesburg and missed the white court stockings I half remembered from my prone still voyage beyond flesh and bone.
I asked my friend who got new lungs How long were you crazy, coming back? Five days, he said.
Violent and mad.
Fictive Afrikaner police were at him, not unworldly Oom Paul Kruger.
Valerie, who had sat the twenty days beside me, now gently told me tales of my time-warp.
The operative canyon stretched, stapled, with dry roseate walls down my belly.
Seaweed gel plugged views of my pluck and offal.
The only poet whose liver damage hadn't been self-inflicted, grinned my agent.
A momentarily holed bowel had released flora who live in us and will eat us when we stop feeding them the earth.
I had, it did seem, rehearsed the private office of the grave, ceased excreting, made corpse gases all while liana'd in tubes and overseen by cockpit instruments that beeped or struck up Beethoven's Fifth at behests of fluid.
I also hear when I lay lipless and far away I was anointed first by a mild metaphoric church then by the Church of no metaphors.
Now I said, signing a Dutch contract in a hand I couldn't recognise, let's go and eat Chinese soup and drive to Lake Macquarie.
Was I not renewed as we are in Heaven? In fact I could hardly endure Earth gravity, and stayed weak and cranky till the soup came, squid and vegetables, pure Yang.
And was sane thereafter.
It seemed I'd also travelled in a Spring-in-Winter love-barque of cards, of flowers and phone calls and letters, concern I'd never dreamed was there when black kelp boiled in my head.
I'd awoken amid my State funeral, nevermore to eat my liver or feed it to the Black Dog, depression which the three Johns Hunter seem to have killed with their scalpels: it hasn't found its way home, where I now dodder and mend in thanks for devotion, for the ambulance this time, for the hospital fork lift, for pethidine, and this face of deity: not the foreknowledge of death but the project of seeing conscious life rescued from death defines and will atone for the human.


Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

The City Limits

 When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds' bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of **** and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.
Written by Denise Levertov | Create an image from this poem

Pleasures

 I like to find
what's not found
at once, but lies

within something of another nature,
in repose, distinct.
Gull feathers of glass, hidden in white pulp: the bones of squid which I pull out and lay blade by blade on the draining board-- tapered as if for swiftness, to pierce the heart, but fragile, substance belying design.
Or a fruit, mamey, cased in rough brown peel, the flesh rose-amber, and the seed: the seed a stone of wood, carved and polished, walnut-colored, formed like a brazilnut, but large, large enough to fill the hungry palm of a hand.
I like the juicy stem of grass that grows within the coarser leaf folded round, and the butteryellow glow in the narrow flute from which the morning-glory opens blue and cool on a hot morning.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Gigolo

 Pocket watch, I tick well.
The streets are lizardly crevices Sheer-sided, with holes where to hide.
It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors.
There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
Bright fish hooks, the smiles of women Gulp at my bulk And I, in my snazzy blacks, Mill a litter of breasts like jellyfish.
To nourish The cellos of moans I eat eggs -- Eggs and fish, the essentials, The aphrodisiac squid.
My mouth sags, The mouth of Christ When my engine reaches the end of it.
The tattle of my Gold joints, my way of turning Bitches to ripples of silver Rolls out a carpet, a hush.
And there is no end, no end of it.
I shall never grow old.
New oysters Shriek in the sea and I Glitter like Fontainebleu Gratified, All the fall of water an eye Over whose pool I tenderly Lean and see me.
Written by Matsuo Basho | Create an image from this poem

The squid sellers call

 The squid seller's call
mingles with the voice
 of the cuckoo.


Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

The New Ergonomics

 The new ergonomics were delivered 
just before lunchtime 
so we ignored them.
Without revealing the particulars let me just say that lunch was most satisfying.
Jack and Roberta went with the corned beef for a change.
Jack believes in alien abduction and Roberta does not, although she has had several lost weekends lately and one or two unexplained scars on her buttocks.
I thought I recognized someone from my childhood at a table across the room, the same teeth, the same hair, but when he stood-up, I wasn't sure, Squid with a red tie? Impossible.
I finished my quiche lorraine and returned my thoughts to Jack's new jag: "Well, I guess anything's possible.
People disappear all the time, and most of them have no explanation when and if they return.
Look at Tony's daughter and she's never been the same.
" Jack was looking as if he'd bet on the right horse now.
"And these new ergonomics, who really designed them? Does anybody know? Do they tell us anything? A name, an address? Hell no.
" Squid was paying his bill in a standard-issue blue blazer.
He looked across the room at me several times.
He looked tired, like he wanted to sleep for a long time in a barn somewhere, in Kansas.
I wanted to sleep there, too.
Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

The New Ergonomics

 The new ergonomics were delivered 
just before lunchtime 
so we ignored them.
Without revealing the particulars let me just say that lunch was most satisfying.
Jack and Roberta went with the corned beef for a change.
Jack believes in alien abduction and Roberta does not, although she has had several lost weekends lately and one or two unexplained scars on her buttocks.
I thought I recognized someone from my childhood at a table across the room, the same teeth, the same hair, but when he stood-up, I wasn't sure, Squid with a red tie? Impossible.
I finished my quiche lorraine and returned my thoughts to Jack's new jag: "Well, I guess anything's possible.
People disappear all the time, and most of them have no explanation when and if they return.
Look at Tony's daughter and she's never been the same.
" Jack was looking as if he'd bet on the right horse now.
"And these new ergonomics, who really designed them? Does anybody know? Do they tell us anything? A name, an address? Hell no.
" Squid was paying his bill in a standard-issue blue blazer.
He looked across the room at me several times.
He looked tired, like he wanted to sleep for a long time in a barn somewhere, in Kansas.
I wanted to sleep there, too.