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Best Famous Unbreakable Poems

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

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Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

In Plaster

 I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was: she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.


Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Love Poem

 My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.

Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars—
Misfit in any space. And never on time.

A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.

Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses—
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.
Written by Derek Walcott | Create an image from this poem

R.t.s.l. (1917-1977)

 As for that other thing
which comes when the eyelid is glazed
and the wax gleam
from the unwrinkled forehead
asks no more questions
of the dry mouth,

whether they open the heart like a shirt
to release a rage of swallows,
whether the brain
is a library for worms,
on the instant of that knowledge
of the moment
when everything became so stiff,

so formal with ironical adieux,
organ and choir,
and I must borrow a black tie,
and at what moment in the oration
shall I break down and weep -
there was the startle of wings
breaking from the closing cage
of your body, your fist unclenching
these pigeons circling serenely
over the page,

and,
as the parentheses lock like a gate
1917 to 1977,
the semicircles close to form a face,
a world, a wholeness,
an unbreakable O,
and something that once had a fearful name
walks from the thing that used to wear its name,
transparent, exact representative,
so that we can see through it
churches, cars, sunlight, 
and the Boston Common,
not needing any book.
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Prisoner

 `Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?' 

`It was my master,' said the prisoner. 
`I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power, 
and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king. 
When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that was for my lord, 
and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.' 

`Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?' 

`It was I,' said the prisoner, `who forged this chain very carefully. 
I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive 
leaving me in a freedom undisturbed. 
Thus night and day I worked at the chain 
with huge fires and cruel hard strokes. 
When at last the work was done 
and the links were complete and unbreakable, 
I found that it held me in its grip.'
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Montjuich

 "Hill of Jews," says one, 
named for a cemetery 
long gone."Hill of Jove," 
says another, and maybe 
Jove stalked here 
once or rests now 
where so many lie 
who felt God swell 
the earth and burn 
along the edges 
of their breath. 
Almost seventy years 
since a troop of cavalry 
jingled up the silent road, 
dismounted, and loaded 
their rifles to deliver 
the fusillade into 
the small, soft body 
of Ferrer, who would 
not beg God's help. 
Later, two carpenters 
came, carrying his pine 
coffin on their heads, 
two men out of movies 
not yet made, and near dark 
the body was unchained 
and fell a last time 
onto the stones. 
Four soldiers carried 
the box, sweating 
and resting by turns, 
to where the fresh hole 
waited, and the world went 
back to sleep. 
The sea, still dark 
as a blind eye, 
grumbles at dusk, 
the air deepens and a chill 
suddenly runs along 
my back. I have come 
foolishly bearing red roses 
for all those whose blood 
spotted the cold floors 
of these cells. If I 
could give a measure 
of my own for each 
endless moment of pain, 
well, what good 
would that do? You 
are asleep, brothers 
and sisters, and maybe 
that was all the God 
of this old hill could 
give you. It wasn't 
he who filled your 
lungs with the power 
to raise your voices 
against stone, steel, 
animal, against 
the pain exploding 
in your own skulls, 
against the unbreakable 
walls of the State. 
No, not he. That 
was the gift only 
the dying could hand 
from one of you 
to the other, a gift 
like these roses I fling 
off into the night. 
You chose no God 
but each other, head, 
belly, groin, heart, you 
chose the lonely road 
back down these hills 
empty handed, breath 
steaming in the cold 
March night, or worse, 
the wrong roads 
that led to black earth 
and the broken seed 
of your body. The sea 
spreads below, still 
as dark and heavy 
as oil. As I 
descend step by step 
a wind picks up and hums 
through the low trees 
along the way, like 
the heavens' last groan 
or a song being born.



Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry