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Best Famous Unattractive Poems

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

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Written by Imamu Amiri Baraka | Create an image from this poem

In Memory of Radio

Who has ever stopped to think of the divinity of Lamont Cranston?
(Only jack Kerouac, that I know of: & me.
The rest of you probably had on WCBS and Kate Smith,
Or something equally unattractive.)

What can I say?
It is better to haved loved and lost
Than to put linoleum in your living rooms?

Am I a sage or something?
Mandrake's hypnotic gesture of the week?
(Remember, I do not have the healing powers of Oral Roberts...
I cannot, like F. J. Sheen, tell you how to get saved & rich!
I cannot even order you to the gaschamber satori like Hitler or Goddy Knight)

& love is an evil word.
Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean?
An evol word. & besides
who understands it?
I certainly wouldn't like to go out on that kind of limb.

Saturday mornings we listened to the Red Lantern & his undersea folk.
At 11, Let's Pretend
& we did
& I, the poet, still do. Thank God!

What was it he used to say (after the transformation when he was safe
& invisible & the unbelievers couldn't throw stones?) "Heh, heh, heh.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows."

O, yes he does
O, yes he does
An evil word it is,
This Love.


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 Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Souls of the Slain

 I 

 The thick lids of Night closed upon me 
 Alone at the Bill 
 Of the Isle by the Race {1} - 
 Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face - 
And with darkness and silence the spirit was on me 
 To brood and be still. 

II 

 No wind fanned the flats of the ocean, 
 Or promontory sides, 
 Or the ooze by the strand, 
 Or the bent-bearded slope of the land, 
Whose base took its rest amid everlong motion 
 Of criss-crossing tides. 

III 

 Soon from out of the Southward seemed nearing 
 A whirr, as of wings 
 Waved by mighty-vanned flies, 
 Or by night-moths of measureless size, 
And in softness and smoothness well-nigh beyond hearing 
 Of corporal things. 

IV 

 And they bore to the bluff, and alighted - 
 A dim-discerned train 
 Of sprites without mould, 
 Frameless souls none might touch or might hold - 
On the ledge by the turreted lantern, farsighted 
 By men of the main. 

V 

 And I heard them say "Home!" and I knew them 
 For souls of the felled 
 On the earth's nether bord 
 Under Capricorn, whither they'd warred, 
And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to them 
 With breathings inheld. 

VI 

 Then, it seemed, there approached from the northward 
 A senior soul-flame 
 Of the like filmy hue: 
 And he met them and spake: "Is it you, 
O my men?" Said they, "Aye! We bear homeward and hearthward 
 To list to our fame!" 

VII 

 "I've flown there before you," he said then: 
 "Your households are well; 
 But--your kin linger less 
 On your glory arid war-mightiness 
Than on dearer things."--"Dearer?" cried these from the dead then, 
 "Of what do they tell?" 

VIII 

 "Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur 
 Your doings as boys - 
 Recall the quaint ways 
 Of your babyhood's innocent days. 
Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer, 
 And higher your joys. 

IX 

 "A father broods: 'Would I had set him 
 To some humble trade, 
 And so slacked his high fire, 
 And his passionate martial desire; 
Had told him no stories to woo him and whet him 
 To this due crusade!" 

X 

 "And, General, how hold out our sweethearts, 
 Sworn loyal as doves?" 
 --"Many mourn; many think 
 It is not unattractive to prink 
Them in sables for heroes. Some fickle and fleet hearts 
 Have found them new loves." 

XI 

 "And our wives?" quoth another resignedly, 
 "Dwell they on our deeds?" 
 --"Deeds of home; that live yet 
 Fresh as new--deeds of fondness or fret; 
Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly, 
 These, these have their heeds." 

XII 

 --"Alas! then it seems that our glory 
 Weighs less in their thought 
 Than our old homely acts, 
 And the long-ago commonplace facts 
Of our lives--held by us as scarce part of our story, 
 And rated as nought!" 

XIII 

 Then bitterly some: "Was it wise now 
 To raise the tomb-door 
 For such knowledge? Away!" 
 But the rest: "Fame we prized till to-day; 
Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now 
 A thousand times more!" 

XIV 

 Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions 
 Began to disband 
 And resolve them in two: 
 Those whose record was lovely and true 
Bore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions 
 Again left the land, 

XV 

 And, towering to seaward in legions, 
 They paused at a spot 
 Overbending the Race - 
 That engulphing, ghast, sinister place - 
Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions 
 Of myriads forgot. 

XVI 

 And the spirits of those who were homing 
 Passed on, rushingly, 
 Like the Pentecost Wind; 
 And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned 
And surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming 
 Sea-mutterings and me.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry