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Best Famous Under The Table Poems

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

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Written by Linda Pastan | Create an image from this poem

What We Want

 What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book and these things bear our names-- now they want us.
But what we want appears in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past, holding out our arms and in the morning our arms ache.
We don't remember the dream, but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day as an animal is there under the table, as the stars are there even in full sun.


Written by Linda Pastan | Create an image from this poem

Meditation By The Stove

 I have banked the fires
of my body
into a small but steady blaze
here in the kitchen
where the dough has a life of its own,
breathing under its damp cloth
like a sleeping child;
where the real child plays under the table,
pretending the tablecloth is a tent,
practicing departures; where a dim
brown bird dazzled by light
has flown into the windowpane
and lies stunned on the pavement--
it was never simple, even for birds,
this business of nests.
The innocent eye sees nothing, Auden says, repeating what the snake told Eve, what Eve told Adam, tired of gardens, wanting the fully lived life.
But passion happens like an accident I could let the dough spill over the rim of the bowl, neglecting to punch it down, neglecting the child who waits under the table, the mild tears already smudging her eyes.
We grow in such haphazard ways.
Today I feel wiser than the bird.
I know the window shuts me in, that when I open it the garden smells will make me restless.
And I have banked the fires of my body into a small domestic flame for others to warm their hands on for a while.
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 96: Under the table no. That last was stunning

 Under the table, no.
That last was stunning, that flagon had breasts.
Some men grow down cursed.
Why drink so, two days running? two months, O seasons, years, two decades running? I answer (smiles) my question on the cuff: Man, I been thirsty.
The brake is incomplete but white costumes threaten his rum, his cointreau, gin-&-sherry, his bourbon, bugs um all.
His go-out privilege led to odd red times, since even or especially in hospital things get hairy.
He makes it back without falling.
He sleep up a short storm.
He wolf his meals, lamb-warm.
Their packs bump on their' -blades, tan canteens swing, for them this day my dawn's old, Saturday's IT, through town toward a Scout hike.
For him too, up since two, out for a sit now in the emptiest freshest park, one sober fling before correspondence & breakfast.