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Best Famous Starfish Poems

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

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Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Division Of Parts

Mother, my Mary Gray, once resident of Gloucester and Essex County, a photostat of your will arrived in the mail today.
This is the division of money.
I am one third of your daughters counting my bounty or I am a queen alone in the parlor still, eating the bread and honey.
It is Good Friday.
Black birds pick at my window sill.
Your coat in my closet, your bright stones on my hand, the gaudy fur animals I do not know how to use, settle on me like a debt.
A week ago, while the hard March gales beat on your house, we sorted your things: obstacles of letters, family silver, eyeglasses and shoes.
Like some unseasoned Christmas, its scales rigged and reset, I bundled out gifts I did not choose.
Now the houts of The Cross rewind.
In Boston, the devout work their cold knees toward that sweet martyrdom that Christ planned.
My timely loss is too customary to note; and yet I planned to suffer and I cannot.
It does not please my yankee bones to watch where the dying is done in its usly hours.
Black birds peck at my window glass and Easter will take its ragged son.
The clutter of worship that you taught me, Mary Gray, is old.
I imitate a memory of belief that I do not own.
I trip on your death and jesus, my stranger floats up over my Christian home, wearing his straight thorn tree.
I have cast my lot and am one third thief of you.
Time, that rearranger of estates, equips me with your garments, but not with grief.
This winter when cancer began its ugliness I grieved with you each day for three months and found you in your private nook of the medicinal palace for New England Women and never once forgot how long it took.
I read to you from The New Yorker, ate suppers you wouldn't eat, fussed with your flowers, joked with your nurses, as if I were the balm among lepers, as if I could undo a life in hours if I never said goodbye.
But you turned old, all your fifty-eight years sliding like masks from your skull; and at the end I packed your nightgowns in suitcases, paid the nurses, came riding home as if I'd been told I could pretend people live in places.
Since then I have pretended ease, loved with the trickeries of need, but not enough to shed my daughterhood or sweeten him as a man.
I drink the five o' clock martinis and poke at this dry page like a rough goat.
Fool! I fumble my lost childhood for a mother and lounge in sad stuff with love to catch and catch as catch can.
And Christ still waits.
I have tried to exorcise the memory of each event and remain still, a mixed child, heavy with cloths of you.
Sweet witch, you are my worried guide.
Such dangerous angels walk through Lent.
Their walls creak Anne! Convert! Convert! My desk moves.
Its cavr murmurs Boo and I am taken and beguiled.
Or wrong.
For all the way I've come I'll have to go again.
Instead, I must convert to love as reasonable as Latin, as sold as earthenware: an equilibrium I never knew.
And Lent will keep its hurt for someone else.
Christ knows enough staunch guys have hitched him in trouble.
thinking his sticks were badges to wear.
Spring rusts on its skinny branch and last summer's lawn is soggy and brown.
Yesterday is just a number.
All of its winters avalanche out of sight.
What was, is gone.
Mother, last night I slept in your Bonwit Teller nightgown.
Divided, you climbed into my head.
There in my jabbering dream I heard my own angry cries and I cursed you, Dame keep out of my slumber.
My good Dame, you are dead.
And Mother, three stones slipped from your glittering eyes.
Now it's Friday's noon and I would still curse you with my rhyming words and bring you flapping back, old love, old circus knitting, god-in-her-moon, all fairest in my lang syne verse, the gauzy bride among the children, the fancy amid the absurd and awkward, that horn for hounds that skipper homeward, that museum keeper of stiff starfish, that blaze within the pilgrim woman, a clown mender, a dove's cheek among the stones, my Lady of first words, this is the division of ways.
And now, while Christ stays fastened to his Crucifix so that love may praise his sacrifice and not the grotesque metaphor, you come, a brave ghost, to fix in my mind without praise or paradise to make me your inheritor.

Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

from Asphodel That Greeny Flower

 Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
 like a buttercup
 upon its branching stem-
save that it's green and wooden-
 I come, my sweet,
 to sing to you.
We lived long together a life filled, if you will, with flowers.
So that I was cheered when I came first to know that there were flowers also in hell.
Today I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers that we both loved, even to this poor colorless thing- I saw it when I was a child- little prized among the living but the dead see, asking among themselves: What do I remember that was shaped as this thing is shaped? while our eyes fill with tears.
Of love, abiding love it will be telling though too weak a wash of crimson colors it to make it wholly credible.
There is something something urgent I have to say to you and you alone but it must wait while I drink in the joy of your approach, perhaps for the last time.
And so with fear in my heart I drag it out and keep on talking for I dare not stop.
Listen while I talk on against time.
It will not be for long.
I have forgot and yet I see clearly enough something central to the sky which ranges round it.
An odor springs from it! A sweetest odor! Honeysuckle! And now there comes the buzzing of a bee! and a whole flood of sister memories! Only give me time, time to recall them before I shall speak out.
Give me time, time.
When I was a boy I kept a book to which, from time to time, I added pressed flowers until, after a time, I had a good collection.
The asphodel, forebodingly, among them.
I bring you, reawakened, a memory of those flowers.
They were sweet when I pressed them and retained something of their sweetness a long time.
It is a curious odor, a moral odor, that brings me near to you.
The color was the first to go.
There had come to me a challenge, your dear self, mortal as I was, the lily's throat to the hummingbird! Endless wealth, I thought, held out its arms to me.
A thousand tropics in an apple blossom.
The generous earth itself gave us lief.
The whole world became my garden! But the sea which no one tends is also a garden when the sun strikes it and the waves are wakened.
I have seen it and so have you when it puts all flowers to shame.
Too, there are the starfish stiffened by the sun and other sea wrack and weeds.
We knew that along with the rest of it for we were born by the sea, knew its rose hedges to the very water's brink.
There the pink mallow grows and in their season strawberries and there, later, we went to gather the wild plum.
I cannot say that I have gone to hell for your love but often found myself there in your pursuit.
I do not like it and wanted to be in heaven.
Hear me out.
Do not turn away.
I have learned much in my life from books and out of them about love.
Death is not the end of it.
There is a hierarchy which can be attained, I think, in its service.
Its guerdon is a fairy flower; a cat of twenty lives.
If no one came to try it the world would be the loser.
It has been for you and me as one who watches a storm come in over the water.
We have stood from year to year before the spectacle of our lives with joined hands.
The storm unfolds.
Lightning plays about the edges of the clouds.
The sky to the north is placid, blue in the afterglow as the storm piles up.
It is a flower that will soon reach the apex of its bloom.
We danced, in our minds, and read a book together.
You remember? It was a serious book.
And so books entered our lives.
The sea! The sea! Always when I think of the sea there comes to mind the Iliad and Helen's public fault that bred it.
Were it not for that there would have been no poem but the world if we had remembered, those crimson petals spilled among the stones, would have called it simply murder.
The sexual orchid that bloomed then sending so many disinterested men to their graves has left its memory to a race of fools or heroes if silence is a virtue.
The sea alone with its multiplicity holds any hope.
The storm has proven abortive but we remain after the thoughts it roused to re-cement our lives.
It is the mind the mind that must be cured short of death's intervention, and the will becomes again a garden.
The poem is complex and the place made in our lives for the poem.
Silence can be complex too, but you do not get far with silence.
Begin again.
It is like Homer's catalogue of ships: it fills up the time.
I speak in figures, well enough, the dresses you wear are figures also, we could not meet otherwise.
When I speak of flowers it is to recall that at one time we were young.
All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
My sweet, you have it also, therefore I love you and could not love you otherwise.
Imagine you saw a field made up of women all silver-white.
What should you do but love them? The storm bursts or fades! it is not the end of the world.
Love is something else, or so I thought it, a garden which expands, though I knew you as a woman and never thought otherwise, until the whole sea has been taken up and all its gardens.
It was the love of love, the love that swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of nature, of people, of animals, a love engendering gentleness and goodness that moved me and that I saw in you.
I should have known, though I did not, that the lily-of-the-valley is a flower makes many ill who whiff it.
We had our children, rivals in the general onslaught.
I put them aside though I cared for them.
as well as any man could care for his children according to my lights.
You understand I had to meet you after the event and have still to meet you.
Love to which you too shall bow along with me- a flower a weakest flower shall be our trust and not because we are too feeble to do otherwise but because at the height of my power I risked what I had to do, therefore to prove that we love each other while my very bones sweated that I could not cry to you in the act.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, I come, my sweet, to sing to you! My heart rouses thinking to bring you news of something that concerns you and concerns many men.
Look at what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in despised poems.
It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
Hear me out for I too am concerned and every man who wants to die at peace in his bed besides.
Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Authors Prologue

 This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin, and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my swan, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips, And the dumb swans drub blue My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack This rumpus of shapes For you to know How I, a spining man, Glory also this star, bird Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark: I trumpet the place, From fish to jumping hill! Look: I build my bellowing ark To the best of my love As the flood begins, Out of the fountainhead Of fear, rage read, manalive, Molten and mountainous to stream Over the wound asleep Sheep white hollow farms To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep, You king singsong owls, who moonbeam The flickering runs and dive The dingle furred deer dead! Huloo, on plumbed bryns, O my ruffled ring dove in the hooting, nearly dark With Welsh and reverent rook, Coo rooning the woods' praise, who moons her blue notes from her nest Down to the curlew herd! Ho, hullaballoing clan Agape, with woe In your beaks, on the gabbing capes! Heigh, on horseback hill, jack Whisking hare! who Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's Clangour as I hew and smite (A clash of anvils for my Hubbub and fiddle, this tune On atounged puffball) But animals thick as theives On God's rough tumbling grounds (Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin, Hist, in hogback woods! The haystacked Hollow farms ina throng Of waters cluck and cling, And barnroofs cockcrow war! O kingdom of neighbors finned Felled and quilled, flash to my patch Work ark and the moonshine Drinking Noah of the bay, With pelt, and scale, and fleece: Only the drowned deep bells Of sheep and churches noise Poor peace as the sun sets And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone then, Under the stars of Wales, Cry, Multiudes of arks! Across The water lidded lands, Manned with their loves they'll move Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute! Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox, Tom tit and Dai mouse! My ark sings in the sun At God speeded summer's end And the flood flowers now.
Written by Czeslaw Milosz | Create an image from this poem

Campo di Fiori

 In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles With rose-pink fish; Armfuls of dark grapes Heaped on peach-down.
On this same square They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died The taverns were full again, Baskets of olives and lemons Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei Fiori In Warsaw by the sky-carousel One clear spring evening To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned The salvos from the ghetto wall, And couples were flying High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the burning Would driff dark kites along And riders on the carousel Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind Blew open the skirts of the girls And the crowds were laughing On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as moral That the people of Rome or Warsaw Haggle, laugh, make love As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read Of the passing of things human, Of the oblivion Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought only Of the loneliness of the dying, Of how, when Giordano Climbed to his burning There were no words In any human tongue To be left for mankind, Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their wine Or peddled their white starfish, Baskets of olives and lemons They had shouldered to the fair, And he already distanced As if centuries had passed While they paused just a moment For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the lonely Forgotten by the world, Our tongue becomes for them The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend And many years have passed, On a great Campo dci Fiori Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

In the Matter of One Compass

 When, foot to wheel and back to wind,
The helmsman dare not look behind,
But hears beyond his compass-light,
The blind bow thunder through the night,
And, like a harpstring ere it snaps,
The rigging sing beneath the caps;
 Above the shriek of storm in sail
 Or rattle of the blocks blown free,
 Set for the peace beyond the gale,
 This song the Needle sings the Sea;

Oh, drunken Wave! Oh, driving Cloud!
 Rage of the Deep and sterile Rain,
By love upheld, by God allowed,
 We go, but we return again!

When leagued about the 'wildered boat
The rainbow Jellies fill and float,
And, lilting where the laver lingers,
The Starfish trips on all her fingers;
Where, 'neath his myriad spines ashock,
The Sea-egg ripples down the rock,
An orange wonder dimly guessed
From darkness where the Cuttles rest,
Moored o'er the darker deeps that hide
The blind white Sea-snake and his bride,
Who, drowsing, nose the long-lost Ships
Let down through darkness to their lips --
Safe-swung above the glassy death,
Hear what the constant Needle saith:

Oh, lisping Reef! Oh, listless Cloud,
 In slumber on a pulseless main!
By Love upheld, by God allowed,
 We go, but we return again!

E'en so through Tropic and through Trade,
 Awed by the shadow of new skies,
As we shall watch old planets fade
 And mark the stranger stars arise,
So, surely, back through Sun and Cloud,
 So, surely, from the outward main
By Love recalled, by God allowed,
 Shall we return -- return again!
 Yea, we return -- return again!

Written by Jack Spicer | Create an image from this poem

For Mac

 A dead starfish on a beach
He has five branches
Representing the five senses
Representing the jokes we did not tell each other
Call the earth flat
Call other people human 
But let this creature lie
Flat upon our senses
Like a love
Prefigured in the sea
That died.
And went to water All the oceans Of emotion.
All the oceans of emotion are full of such ffish Why Is this dead one of such importance?