10 Best Famous Trajectory Poems

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

• All Famous Trajectory Poems

When Crow cried his mother's ear 
Scorched to a stump. 

When he laughed she wept 
Blood her breasts her palms her brow all wept blood. 

He tried a step, then a step, and again a step - 
Every one scarred her face for ever. 

When he burst out in rage 
She fell back with an awful gash and a fearful cry. 

When he stopped she closed on him like a book 
On a bookmark, he had to get going. 

He jumped into the car the towrope 
Was around her neck he jumped out. 

He jumped into the plane but her body was jammed in the jet - 
There was a great row, the flight was cancelled. 

He jumped into the rocket and its trajectory 
Drilled clean through her heart he kept on 

And it was cosy in the rocket, he could not see much 
But he peered out through the portholes at Creation 

And saw the stars millions of miles away 
And saw the future and the universe 

Opening and opening 
And kept on and slept and at last 

Crashed on the moon awoke and crawled out 

Under his mother's buttocks. 

 In Sleeping Beauty's castle
the clock strikes one hundred years
and the girl in the tower returns to the world.
So do the servants in the kitchen,
who don't even rub their eyes.
The cook's right hand, lifted
an exact century ago,
completes its downward arc
to the kitchen boy's left ear;
the boy's tensed vocal cords
finally let go
the trapped, enduring whimper,
and the fly, arrested mid-plunge
above the strawberry pie
fulfills its abiding mission
and dives into the sweet, red glaze.

As a child I had a book
with a picture of that scene.
I was too young to notice
how fear persists, and how
the anger that causes fear persists,
that its trajectory can't be changed
or broken, only interrupted.
My attention was on the fly:
that this slight body
with its transparent wings
and life-span of one human day
still craved its particular share
of sweetness, a century later.

 Some nights it's bound to be your best way out,
When nightmare is the short end of the stick,
When sleep is a part of town where it's not safe
To walk at night, when waking is the only way
You have of distancing your wretched dead,
A growing crowd, and escaping out of their
Time into yours for another little while;

Then pass ghostly, a planet in the house
Never observed, among the sleeping rooms
Where children dream themselves, and thence go down
Into the empty domain where daylight reigned;
Reward yourself with drink and a book to read,
A mystery, for its elusive gift
Of reassurance against the hour of death.
Order your heart about: Stop doing that!
And get the world to be secular again.

Then, when you know who done it, turn out the light,
And quietly in darkness, in moonlight, or snowlight
Reflective, listen to the whistling earth
In its backspin trajectory around the sun
That makes the planets sometimes retrograde
And brings the cold forgiveness of the dawn
Whose light extinguishes all stars but one.

 MANY ways to spell good night.

Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.

They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit.
Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue and then go out.

Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack mushrooming a white pillar.

Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying in a baritone that crosses lowland cottonfields to a razorback hill.
It is easy to spell good night.

 Many ways to spell good night.

 LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles over our house and whistling a wolf
song under the eaves.

I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl the Browning poem, Childe
Roland to the Dark Tower Came.

And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not
understand.

A man is crossing a big prairie, says the poem, and nothing happens—and he goes on and
on—and it’s all lonesome and empty and nobody home.

And he goes on and on—and nothing happens—and he comes on a horse’s skull, dry bones of a 
dead horse—and you know more than ever it’s all lonesome and empty and nobody home.

And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows—he fixes a proud neck and forehead toward 
the empty sky and the empty land—and blows one last wonder-cry.

And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks off its results willy-nilly and 
inevitable as the snick of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimeter projectile,

I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts of Manitoba and Minnesota—in the 
sled derby run from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.

He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg—the lead dog is eaten by four team 
mates—and the man goes on and on—running while the other racers ride—running while the 
other racers sleep—

Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle of travel hour after hour—fighting 
the dogs who dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep—pushing on—running and walking 
five hundred miles to the end of the race—almost a winner—one toe frozen, feet blistered 
and frost-bitten.

And I know why a thousand young men of the Northwest meet him in the finishing miles and 
yell cheers—I know why judges of the race call him a winner and give him a special prize 
even though he is a loser.

I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding heart amid the blizzards of five 
hundred miles that one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland—and I told the six-year-old girl 
all about it.

And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles and whistling a wolf song under the 
eaves, her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not 
understand.