Best Famous Unexplained Poems

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

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• All Famous Unexplained Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | Consorting With Angels I was tired of being a woman, tired of the spoons and the post, tired of my mouth and my breasts, tired of the cosmetics and the silks. There were still men who sat at my table, circled around the bowl I offered up. The bowl was filled with purple grapes and the flies hovered in for the scent and even my father came with his white bone. But I was tired of the gender things. Last night I had a dream and I said to it... "You are the answer. You will outlive my husband and my father." In that dream there was a city made of chains where Joan was put to death in man's clothes and the nature of the angels went unexplained, no two made in the same species, one with a nose, one with an ear in its hand, one chewing a star and recording its orbit, each one like a poem obeying itself, performing God's functions, a people apart. "You are the answer," I said, and entered, lying down on the gates of the city. Then the chains were fastened around me and I lost my common gender and my final aspect. Adam was on the left of me and Eve was on the right of me, both thoroughly inconsistent with the world of reason. We wove our arms together and rode under the sun. I was not a woman anymore, not one thing or the other. O daughters of Jerusalem, the king has brought me into his chamber. I am black and I am beautiful. I've been opened and undressed. I have no arms or legs. I'm all one skin like a fish. I'm no more a woman than Christ was a man.

Written by Stephen Crane | Do not weep maiden for war is kind Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because the lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind. Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom - A field wher a thousand corpses lie. Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind. Swift blazing flag of the regiment, Eagle with crest of red and gold, These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of slaughter, Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a field where a thousand corpses lie. Mother whose heart hung humble as a button On the bright splendid shroud of your son, Do not weep. War is kind.

Written by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz | My Lady My Lady (Español) Perdite, señora, quiero de mi silencio perdón, si lo que ha sido atención le hace parecer grosero. Y no me podrás culpar si hasta aquí mi proceder, por ocuparse en querer, se ha olvidado de explicar. Que en mi amorosa pasión no fue desuido, ni mengua, quitar el uso a la lengua por dárselo al corazón. Ni de explicarme dejaba: que, como la pasión mía acá en el alma te vía, acá en el alma te hablaba. Y en esta idea notable dichosamenta vivía, porque en mi mano tenia el fingirte favorable. Con traza tan peregrina vivió mi esperanza vana, pues te pudo hacer humana concibiéndote divina. ¡Oh, cuán loca llegué a verme en tus dichosos amores, que, aun fingidos, tus favroes pudieron enloquecerme! ¡Oh, cómo, en tu sol hermoso mi ardiente afecto encendido, por cebarse en lo lucido, olvidó lo peligroso! Perdona, si atrevimiento fue atreverme a tu ardor puro; que no hay sagrado seguro de culpas de pensamiento. De esta manera engañaba la loca esperanza mía, y dentro de mí tenía todo el bien que deseaba. Mas ya tu precepto grave rompe mi silencio mudo; que él solamente ser pudo de mi respeto la llave. Y aunque el amar tu belleza es delito sin disculpa castígueseme la culpa primero que la tibieza. No quieras, pues, rigurosa, que, estando ya declarada, sea de veras desdichada quien fue de burlas dichosa. Si culpas mi desacato, culpa también tu licencia; que si es mala mi obediencia, no fue justo tu mandato Y si es culpable mi intento, será mi afecto precito, porque es amarte un delito de que nunca me arrepiento. Esto en mis afectos hallo, y más, que explicar no sé; mas tú, de lo que callé, inferirás lo que callo. Top of page My Lady (English) My lady, I must implore forgiveness for keeping still, if what I meant as tribute ran contrary to your will. Please do not reproach me if the course I have maintained in the eagerness of my love left my silence unexplained. I love you with so much passion, neither rudeness nor neglect can explain why I tied my tongue, yet left my heart unchecked. The matter to me was simple: love for you was so strong, I could see you in my soul and talk to you all day long. With this idea in mind, I lived in utter delight, pretending my subterfuge found favor in your sight. In this strange, ingenious fashion, I allowed the hope to be mine that I still might see as human what I really conceived as divine. Oh, how mad I became in my blissful love of you, for even though feigned, your favor made all my madness seem true! How unwisely my ardent love, which your glorious sun inflamed, sought to feed upon your brightness, though the risk of your fire was plain! Forgive me if, thus emboldened, I made bold with that sacred fire: there's no sanctuary secure when thought's transgressions conspire. Thus it was I kept indulging these foolhardy hopes of mine, enjoying within myself a happiness sublime. But now, at your solemn bidding, this silence I herewith suspend, for your summons unlocks in me a respect no time can end. And, although loving your beauty is a crime beyond repair, rather the crime be chastised than my fervor cease to dare. With this confession in hand, I pray, be less stern with me. Do not condemn to distress one who fancied bliss so free. If you blame me for disrespect, remember, you gave me leave; thus, if obedience was wrong, your commanding must be my reprieve. Let my love be ever doomed if guilty in its intent, for loving you is a crime of which I will never repent. This much I descry in my feelings-- and more that I cannot explain; but you, from what I've not said, may infer what words won't contain.

Written by Anne Sexton | Crossing The Atlantic We sail out of season into on oyster-gray wind, over a terrible hardness. Where Dickens crossed with mal de mer in twenty weeks or twenty days I cross toward him in five. Wraped in robes-- not like Caesar but like liver with bacon-- I rest on the stern burning my mouth with a wind-hot ash, watching my ship bypass the swells as easily as an old woman reads a palm. I think; as I look North, that a field of mules lay down to die. The ship is 27 hours out. I have entered her. She might be a whale, sleeping 2000 and ship's company, the last 40¢ martini and steel staterooms where night goes on forever. Being inside them is, I think, the way one would dig into a planet and forget the word light. I have walked cities, miles of mole alleys with carpets. Inside I have been ten girls who speak French. They languish everywhere like bedsheets. Oh my Atlantic of the cracked shores, those blemished gates of Rockport and Boothbay, those harbor smells like the innards of animals! Old childish Queen, where did you go, you bayer at wharfs and Victorian houses? I have read each page of my mother's voyage. I have read each page of her mother's voyage. I have learned their words as they learned Dickens'. I have swallowed these words like bullets. But I have forgotten the last guest--terror. Unlike them, I cannot toss in the cabin as in childbirth. Now always leaving me in the West is the wake, a ragged bridal veil, unexplained, seductive, always rushing down the stairs, never detained, never enough. The ship goes on as though nothing else were happening. Generation after generation, I go her way. She will run East, knot by knot, over an old bloodstream, stripping it clear, each hour ripping it, pounding, pounding, forcing through as through a virgin. Oh she is so quick! This dead street never stops!

Written by James Tate | The New Ergonomics The new ergonomics were delivered just before lunchtime so we ignored them. Without revealing the particulars let me just say that lunch was most satisfying. Jack and Roberta went with the corned beef for a change. Jack believes in alien abduction and Roberta does not, although she has had several lost weekends lately and one or two unexplained scars on her buttocks. I thought I recognized someone from my childhood at a table across the room, the same teeth, the same hair, but when he stood-up, I wasn't sure, Squid with a red tie? Impossible. I finished my quiche lorraine and returned my thoughts to Jack's new jag: "Well, I guess anything's possible. People disappear all the time, and most of them have no explanation when and if they return. Look at Tony's daughter and she's never been the same." Jack was looking as if he'd bet on the right horse now. "And these new ergonomics, who really designed them? Does anybody know? Do they tell us anything? A name, an address? Hell no." Squid was paying his bill in a standard-issue blue blazer. He looked across the room at me several times. He looked tired, like he wanted to sleep for a long time in a barn somewhere, in Kansas. I wanted to sleep there, too.

Written by Wallace Stevens | The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain. He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table. It reminded him how he had needed A place to go to in his own direction, How he had recomposed the pines, Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds, For the outlook that would be right, Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion: The exact rock where his inexactness Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged, Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea, Recognize his unique and solitary home.

Written by Edward Taylor | The New Ergonomics The new ergonomics were delivered just before lunchtime so we ignored them. Without revealing the particulars let me just say that lunch was most satisfying. Jack and Roberta went with the corned beef for a change. Jack believes in alien abduction and Roberta does not, although she has had several lost weekends lately and one or two unexplained scars on her buttocks. I thought I recognized someone from my childhood at a table across the room, the same teeth, the same hair, but when he stood-up, I wasn't sure, Squid with a red tie? Impossible. I finished my quiche lorraine and returned my thoughts to Jack's new jag: "Well, I guess anything's possible. People disappear all the time, and most of them have no explanation when and if they return. Look at Tony's daughter and she's never been the same." Jack was looking as if he'd bet on the right horse now. "And these new ergonomics, who really designed them? Does anybody know? Do they tell us anything? A name, an address? Hell no." Squid was paying his bill in a standard-issue blue blazer. He looked across the room at me several times. He looked tired, like he wanted to sleep for a long time in a barn somewhere, in Kansas. I wanted to sleep there, too.

Written by Omar Khayyam | No one has had access behind the curtain of destiny; No one has had access behind the curtain of destiny; no one has knowledge of the secrets of Providence. For seventy-two years I have reflected day and night, I have learned nothing anywhere, and the enigma remains unexplained.