10 Best Famous Thirty Five Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Thirty Five poems. This is a select list of the best famous Thirty Five poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Thirty Five poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of thirty five poems.

• All Famous Thirty Five Poems

Written by Dylan Thomas | Poem On His Birthday In the mustardseed sun, By full tilt river and switchback sea Where the cormorants scud, In his house on stilts high among beaks And palavers of birds This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave He celebrates and spurns His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age; Herons spire and spear. Under and round him go Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails, Doing what they are told, Curlews aloud in the congered waves Work at their ways to death, And the rhymer in the long tongued room, Who tolls his birthday bell, Toils towards the ambush of his wounds; Herons, steeple stemmed, bless. In the thistledown fall, He sings towards anguish; finches fly In the claw tracks of hawks On a seizing sky; small fishes glide Through wynds and shells of drowned Ship towns to pastures of otters. He In his slant, racking house And the hewn coils of his trade perceives Herons walk in their shroud, The livelong river's robe Of minnows wreathing around their prayer; And far at sea he knows, Who slaves to his crouched, eternal end Under a serpent cloud, Dolphins dive in their turnturtle dust, The rippled seals streak down To kill and their own tide daubing blood Slides good in the sleek mouth. In a cavernous, swung Wave's silence, wept white angelus knells. Thirty-five bells sing struck On skull and scar where his loves lie wrecked, Steered by the falling stars. And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage Terror will rage apart Before chains break to a hammer flame And love unbolts the dark And freely he goes lost In the unknown, famous light of great And fabulous, dear God. Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true, And, in that brambled void, Plenty as blackberries in the woods The dead grow for His joy. There he might wander bare With the spirits of the horseshoe bay Or the stars' seashore dead, Marrow of eagles, the roots of whales And wishbones of wild geese, With blessed, unborn God and His Ghost, And every soul His priest, Gulled and chanter in young Heaven's fold Be at cloud quaking peace, But dark is a long way. He, on the earth of the night, alone With all the living, prays, Who knows the rocketing wind will blow The bones out of the hills, And the scythed boulders bleed, and the last Rage shattered waters kick Masts and fishes to the still quick starts, Faithlessly unto Him Who is the light of old And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild As horses in the foam: Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined And druid herons' vows The voyage to ruin I must run, Dawn ships clouted aground, Yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue, Count my blessings aloud: Four elements and five Senses, and man a spirit in love Tangling through this spun slime To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come And the lost, moonshine domes, And the sea that hides his secret selves Deep in its black, base bones, Lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh, And this last blessing most, That the closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults; And every wave of the way And gale I tackle, the whole world then, With more triumphant faith That ever was since the world was said, Spins its morning of praise, I hear the bouncing hills Grow larked and greener at berry brown Fall and the dew larks sing Taller this thunderclap spring, and how More spanned with angles ride The mansouled fiery islands! Oh, Holier then their eyes, And my shining men no more alone As I sail out to die.

Written by James Tate | Loyalty This is the hardest part: When I came back to life I was a good family dog and not too friendly to strangers. I got a thirty-five dollar raise in salary, and through the pea-soup fogs I drove the General, and introduced him at rallies. I had a totalitarian approach and was a massive boost to his popularity. I did my best to reduce the number of people. The local bourgeoisie did not exist. One of them was a mystic and walked right over me as if I were a bed of hot coals. This is par for the course- I will be employing sundry golf metaphors henceforth, because a dog, best friend and chief advisor to the General, should. While dining with the General I said, "Let's play the back nine in a sacred rage. Let's tee-off over the foredoomed community and putt ourselves thunderously, touching bottom." He drank it all in, rugged and dusky. I think I know what he was thinking. He held his automatic to my little head and recited a poem about my many weaknesses, for which I loved him so.

Written by Anne Sexton | Christmas Eve Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods-- that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady, your portrait flickered all night by the bulbs of the tree. Your face as calm as the moon over a mannered sea, presided at the family reunion, the twelve grandchildren you used to wear on your wrist, a three-months-old baby, a fat check you never wrote, the red-haired toddler who danced the twist, your aging daughters, each one a wife, each one talking to the family cook, each one avoiding your portrait, each one aping your life. Later, after the party, after the house went to bed, I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, watching your picture, letting the tree move in and out of focus. The bulbs vibrated. They were a halo over your forehead. Then they were a beehive, blue, yellow, green, red; each with its own juice, each hot and alive stinging your face. But you did not move. I continued to watch, forcing myself, waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five. I wanted your eyes, like the shadows of two small birds, to change. But they did not age. The smile that gathered me in, all wit, all charm, was invincible. Hour after hour I looked at your face but I could not pull the roots out of it. Then I watched how the sun hit your red sweater, your withered neck, your badly painted flesh-pink skin. You who led me by the nose, I saw you as you were. Then I thought of your body as one thinks of murder-- Then I said Mary-- Mary, Mary, forgive me and then I touched a present for the child, the last I bred before your death; and then I touched my breast and then I touched the floor and then my breast again as if, somehow, it were one of yours.

Written by Dorothy Parker | Ballade at Thirty-five This, no song of an ingénue, This, no ballad of innocence; This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever her natural bents. This, a solo of sapience, This, a chantey of sophistry, This, the sum of experiments, -- I loved them until they loved me. Decked in garments of sable hue, Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents, Wearing shower bouquets of rue, Walk I ever in penitence. Oft I roam, as my heart repents, Through God's acre of memory, Marking stones, in my reverence, "I loved them until they loved me." Pictures pass me in long review,-- Marching columns of dead events. I was tender, and, often, true; Ever a prey to coincidence. Always knew I the consequence; Always saw what the end would be. We're as Nature has made us -- hence I loved them until they loved me.

Written by Lucille Clifton | sisters me and you be sisters. we be the same. me and you coming from the same place. me and you be greasing our legs touching up our edges. me and you be scared of rats be stepping on roaches. me and you come running high down purdy street one time and mama laugh and shake her head at me and you. me and you got babies got thirty-five got black let our hair go back be loving ourselves be loving ourselves be sisters. only where you sing, I poet. Credit: Copyright © 1987 by Lucille Clifton. Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., www.boaeditions.org.

Written by Edward Taylor | Loyalty This is the hardest part: When I came back to life I was a good family dog and not too friendly to strangers. I got a thirty-five dollar raise in salary, and through the pea-soup fogs I drove the General, and introduced him at rallies. I had a totalitarian approach and was a massive boost to his popularity. I did my best to reduce the number of people. The local bourgeoisie did not exist. One of them was a mystic and walked right over me as if I were a bed of hot coals. This is par for the course- I will be employing sundry golf metaphors henceforth, because a dog, best friend and chief advisor to the General, should. While dining with the General I said, "Let's play the back nine in a sacred rage. Let's tee-off over the foredoomed community and putt ourselves thunderously, touching bottom." He drank it all in, rugged and dusky. I think I know what he was thinking. He held his automatic to my little head and recited a poem about my many weaknesses, for which I loved him so.

Written by Ted Kooser | After Years Today, from a distance, I saw you walking away, and without a sound the glittering face of a glacier slid into the sea. An ancient oak fell in the Cumberlands, holding only a handful of leaves, and an old woman scattering corn to her chickens looked up for an instant. At the other side of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times the size of our own sun exploded and vanished, leaving a small green spot on the astronomer's retina as he stood on the great open dome of my heart with no one to tell.

Written by Robert William Service | No Neck-Tie Party A prisoner speaks: Majority of twenty-three, I face the Judge with joy and glee; For am I not a lucky chap - No more hanging, no more cap; A "lifer," yes, but well I know In fifteen years they'll let me go; For I'll be pious in my prison, Sing with gusto: Christ Is Risen; Serve the hymn-books out on Sunday, Sweep the chapel clean on Monday: Such a model lag I'll be In fifteen years they'll set me free. Majority of twenty three, You've helped me cheat the gallows tree. I'm twenty now, at thirty-five How I will laugh to be alive! To leap into the world again And bless the fools miscalled "humane," Who say the gibbet's wrong and so At thirty-five they let me go, Tat I may sail the across the sea A killer unsuspect and free, To change my name, to darkly thrive By hook or crook at thirty-five. O silent dark and beastly wood Where with my bloodied hands I stood! O piteous child I raped and slew! Had she been yours, would you and you Have pardoned me and set me free, Majority of twenty-three? Yet by your solemn vote you willed I shall not die though I have killed; Although I did no mercy show, In mercy you will let me go. . . . That he who kills and does not pay May live to kill another day. *By a majority of twenty-three the House of Commons voted the abolition of the death penalty.

Written by Louise Bogan | The Dream O God, in the dream the terrible horse began To paw at the air, and make for me with his blows, Fear kept for thirty-five years poured through his mane, And retribution equally old, or nearly, breathed through his nose. Coward complete, I lay and wept on the ground When some strong creature appeared, and leapt for the rein. Another woman, as I lay half in a swound Leapt in the air, and clutched at the leather and chain. Give him, she said, something of yours as a charm. Throw him, she said, some poor thing you alone claim. No, no, I cried, he hates me; he is out for harm, And whether I yield or not, it is all the same. But, like a lion in a legend, when I flung the glove Pulled from my sweating, my cold right hand; The terrible beast, that no one may understand, Came to my side, and put down his head in love.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Isa Nutter Doc Meyers said I had satyriasis, And Doc Hill called it leucaemia -- But I know what brought me here: I was sixty-four but strong as a man Of thirty-five or forty. And it wasn't writing a letter a day, And it wasn't late hours seven nights a week, And it wasn't the strain of thinking of Minnie, And it wasn't fear or a jealous dread, Or the endless task of trying to fathom Her wonderful mind, or sympathy For the wretched life she led With her first and second husband -- It was none of these that laid me low -- But the clamor of daughters and threats of sons, And the sneers and curses of all my kin Right up to the day I sneaked to Peoria And married Minnie in spite of them -- And why do you wonder my will was made For the best and purest of women?