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Best Famous Sunglasses Poems

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

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Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Sex With A Famous Poet

 I had sex with a famous poet last night 
and when I rolled over and found myself beside him I shuddered 
because I was married to someone else, 
because I wasn't supposed to have been drinking,
because I was in fancy hotel room
I didn't recognize.
I would have told you right off this was a dream, but recently a friend told me, write about a dream, lose a reader and I didn't want to lose you right away.
I wanted you to hear that I didn't even like the poet in the dream, that he has four kids, the youngest one my age, and I find him rather unattractive, that I only met him once, that is, in real life, and that was in a large group in which I barely spoke up.
He disgusted me with his disparaging remarks about women.
He even used the word "Jap" which I took as a direct insult to my husband who's Asian.
When we were first dating, I told him "You were talking in your sleep last night and I listened, just to make sure you didn't call out anyone else's name.
" My future-husband said that he couldn't be held responsible for his subconscious, which worried me, which made me think his dreams were full of blond vixens in rabbit-fur bikinis.
but he said no, he dreamt mostly about boulders and the ocean and volcanoes, dangerous weather he witnessed but could do nothing to stop.
And I said, "I dream only of you," which was romantic and silly and untrue.
But I never thought I'd dream of another man-- my husband and I hadn't even had a fight, my head tucked sweetly in his armpit, my arm around his belly, which lifted up and down all night, gently like water in a lake.
If I passed that famous poet on the street, he would walk by, famous in his sunglasses and blazer with the suede patches at the elbows, without so much as a glance in my direction.
I know you're probably curious about who the poet is, so I should tell you the clues I've left aren't accurate, that I've disguised his identity, that you shouldn't guess I bet it's him.
because you'll never guess correctly and even if you do, I won't tell you that you have.
I wouldn't want to embarrass a stranger who is, after all, probably a nice person, who was probably just having a bad day when I met him, who is probably growing a little tired of his fame-- which my husband and I perceive as enormous, but how much fame can an American poet really have, let's say, compared to a rock star or film director of equal talent? Not that much, and the famous poet knows it, knows that he's not truly given his due.
Knows that many of these young poets tugging on his sleeve are only pretending to have read all his books.
But he smiles anyway, tries to be helpful.
I mean, this poet has to have some redeeming qualities, right? For instance, he writes a mean iambic.
Otherwise, what was I doing in his arms.

Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

When A Woman Loves A Man

 When she says Margarita she means Daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again," she means, "Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window.
" He's supposed to know that.
When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading, or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he is raking leaves in Ithaca or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate at the window overlooking the bay where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.
When a woman loves a man it is one-ten in the morning, she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels drinking lemonade and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed where she remains asleep and very warm.
When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now," he stops talking.
Her best friend comes over and says, "Did somebody die?" When a woman loves a man, they have gone to swim naked in the stream on a glorious July day with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle of water ruching over smooth rocks, and there is nothing alien in the universe.
Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat? When he says, "Ours is a transitional era.
" "That's very original of you," she replies, dry as the Martini he is sipping.
They fight all the time It's fun What do I owe you? Let's start with an apology Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter.
" It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says, "and you can quote me on that," which sounds great in an English accent.
One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it another nine times.
When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there.
He doesn't complain that she's two hours late and there's nothing in the refrigerator.
When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.
When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking: as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.
Written by David St John | Create an image from this poem

Los Angeles 1954

 It was in the old days,
When she used to hang out at a place
Called Club Zombie,
A black cabaret that the police liked
To raid now and then.
As she Stepped through the door, the light Would hit her platinum hair, And believe me, heads would turn.
Maestro Loved it; he'd have her by The arm as he led us through the packed crowd To a private corner Where her secluded oak table always waited.
She'd say, Jordan.
And I'd order her usual, A champagne cocktail with a tall shot of bourbon On the side.
She'd let her eyes Trail the length of the sleek neck Of the old stand-up bass, as The bass player knocked out the bottom line, His forehead glowing, glossy With sweat in the blue lights; Her own face, smooth and shining, as The liquor slowly blanketed the pills She'd slipped beneath her tongue.
Maestro'd kick the **** out of anybody Who tried to sneak up for an autograph; He'd say, Jordan, just let me know if Somebody gets too close.
Then he'd turn to her and whisper, Here's Where you get to be Miss Nobody.
And she'd smile as she let him Kiss her hand.
For a while, there was a singer At the club, a guy named Louis-- But Maestro'd change his name to "Michael Champion"; Well, when this guy leaned forward, Cradling the microphone in his huge hands, All the legs went weak Underneath the ladies.
He'd look over at her, letting his eyelids Droop real low, singing, Oh Baby I.
Oh Baby I Love.
I Love You.
And she'd be gone, those little mermaid tears Running down her cheeks.
Maestro Was always cool.
He'd let them use his room upstairs, Sometimes, because they couldn't go out-- Black and white couldn't mix like that then.
I mean, think about it-- This kid star and a cool beauty who made King Cole Sound raw? No, they had to keep it To the club; though sometimes, Near the end, he'd come out to her place At the beach, always taking the iced whisky I brought to him with a sly, sweet smile.
Once, sweeping his arm out in a slow Half-circle, the way at the club he'd Show the audience how far his endless love Had grown, he marked The circumference of the glare whitening the patio Where her friends all sat, sunglasses Masking their eyes.
And he said to me, Jordan, why do White people love the sun so?-- God's spotlight, my man? Leaning back, he looked over to where she Stood at one end of the patio, watching The breakers flatten along the beach below, Her body reflected and mirrored Perfectly in the bedroom's sliding black glass Door.
He stared at her Reflection for a while, then looked up at me And said, Jordan, I think that I must be Like a pool of water in a cave that sometimes She steps into.
Later, as I drove him back into the city, He hummed a Bessie Smith tune he'd sing For her, but he didn't say a word until We stopped at last back at the club.
He stepped slowly out of the back Of the Cadillac, and reaching to shake my hand Through the open driver's window, said, My man, Jordan.
Written by David Berman | Create an image from this poem

The Charm Of 5:30

 It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England.
We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun, the sky is blueberries and cream, and the wind is as warm as air from a tire.
Even the headstones in the graveyard Seem to stand up and say "Hello! My name is.
" It's enough to be sitting here on my porch, thinking about Kermit Roosevelt, following the course of an ant, or walking out into the yard with a cordless phone to find out she is going to be there tonight On a day like today, what looks like bad news in the distance turns out to be something on my contact, carports and white courtesy phones are spontaneously reappreciated and random "okay"s ring through the backyards.
This morning I discovered the red tints in cola when I held a glass of it up to the light and found an expensive flashlight in the pocket of a winter coat I was packing away for summer.
It all reminds me of that moment when you take off your sunglasses after a long drive and realize it's earlier and lighter out than you had accounted for.
You know what I'm talking about, and that's the kind of fellowship that's taking place in town, out in the public spaces.
You won't overhear anyone using the words "dramaturgy" or "state inspection today.
We're too busy getting along.
It occurs to me that the laws are in the regions and the regions are in the laws, and it feels good to say this, something that I'm almost sure is true, outside under the sun.
Then to say it again, around friends, in the resonant voice of a nineteenth-century senator, just for a lark.
There's a shy looking fellow on the courthouse steps, holding up a placard that says "But, I kinda liked Reagan.
" His head turns slowly as a beautiful girl walks by, holding a refrigerated bottle up against her flushed cheek.
She smiles at me and I allow myself to imagine her walking into town to buy lotion at a brick pharmacy.
When she gets home she'll apply it with great lingering care before moving into her parlor to play 78 records and drink gin-and-tonics beside her homemade altar to James Madison.
In a town of this size, it's certainly possible that I'll be invited over one night.
In fact I'll bet you something.
Somewhere in the future I am remembering today.
I'll bet you I'm remembering how I walked into the park at five thirty, my favorite time of day, and how I found two cold pitchers of just poured beer, sitting there on the bench.
I am remembering how my friend Chip showed up with a catcher's mask hanging from his belt and how I said great to see you, sit down, have a beer, how are you, and how he turned to me with the sunset reflecting off his contacts and said, wonderful, how are you.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

The Simple Truth

 I bought a dollar and a half's worth of small red potatoes,
took them home, boiled them in their jackets
and ate them for dinner with a little butter and salt.
Then I walked through the dried fields on the edge of town.
In middle June the light hung on in the dark furrows at my feet, and in the mountain oaks overhead the birds were gathering for the night, the jays and mockers squawking back and forth, the finches still darting into the dusty light.
The woman who sold me the potatoes was from Poland; she was someone out of my childhood in a pink spangled sweater and sunglasses praising the perfection of all her fruits and vegetables at the road-side stand and urging me to taste even the pale, raw sweet corn trucked all the way, she swore, from New Jersey.
"Eat, eat" she said, "Even if you don't I'll say you did.
" Some things you know all your life.
They are so simple and true they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme, they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker, the glass of water, the absence of light gathering in the shadows of picture frames, they must be naked and alone, they must stand for themselves.
My friend Henri and I arrived at this together in 1965 before I went away, before he began to kill himself, and the two of us to betray our love.
Can you taste what I'm saying? It is onions or potatoes, a pinch of simple salt, the wealth of melting butter, it is obvious, it stays in the back of your throat like a truth you never uttered because the time was always wrong, it stays there for the rest of your life, unspoken, made of that dirt we call earth, the metal we call salt, in a form we have no words for, and you live on it.
Written by Erica Jong | Create an image from this poem

Narcissus Photographer

a frozen memory, like any photo, where nothing is missing, not even, and especially, nothingness.
" -- Julio Cortázar, "Blow Up" Mirror-mad, he photographed reflections: sunstorms in puddles, cities in canals, double portraits framed in sunglasses, the fat phantoms who dance on the flanks of cars.
Nothing caught his eye unless it bent or glistered over something else.
He trapped clouds in bottles the way kids trap grasshoppers.
Then one misty day he was stopped by the windshield.
Behind him, an avenue of trees, before him, the mirror of that scene.
He seemed to enter what, in fact, he left.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Something Has Fallen

 Something has fallen wordlessly 
and holds still on the black driveway.
You find it, like a jewel, among the empty bottles and cans where the dogs toppled the garbage.
You pick it up, not sure if it is stone or wood or some new plastic made to replace them both.
When you raise your sunglasses to see exactly what you have you see it is only a shadow that has darkened your fingers, a black ink or oil, and your hand suddenly smells of c1assrooms when the rain pounded the windows and you shuddered thinking of the cold and the walk back to an empty house.
You smell all of your childhood, the damp bed you struggled from to dress in half-light and go out into a world that never tired.
Later, your hand thickened and flat slid out of a rubber glove, as you stood, your mask raised, to light a cigarette and rest while the acid tanks that were yours to dean went on bathing the arteries of broken sinks.
Remember, you were afraid of the great hissing jugs.
There were stories of burnings, of flesh shredded to lace.
On other nights men spoke of rats as big as dogs.
Women spoke of men who trapped them in corners.
Always there was grease that hid the faces of worn faucets, grease that had to be eaten one finger-print at a time, there was oil, paint, blood, your own blood sliding across your nose and running over your lips with that bright, certain taste that was neither earth or air, and there was air, the darkest element of all, falling all night into the bruised river you slept beside, falling into the glass of water you filled two times for breakfast and the eyes you turned upward to see what time it was.
Air that stained everything with its millions of small deaths, that turned all five fingers to grease or black ink or ashes.