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Best Famous Varicose Poems

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

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Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

 The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance.
 Quit dancing.

Get some self-respect
and a day job.

Right.
 And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of 
naked as a meat sandwich.

Selling gloves, or something.

Instead of what I do sell.

You have to have talent 
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.

Exploited, they'd say.
 Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.


I do give value.

Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile.
 Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.

I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal.
 They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.

Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love.
 Seeing the rows of heads 
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge 
to step on ants.
 I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't.
 The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.

Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
 
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.

And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.

The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.

I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.

You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
 
That's what we tell all the husbands.

There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.


Not that anyone here
but you would understand.

The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing.
 Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.

Crush out the mystery.

Wall me up alive
in my own body.
 
They'd like to see through me, 
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.

Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.

You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.

This is a torch song.

Touch me and you'll burn.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Savoir Faire

 CAST a bronze of my head and legs and put them on the king’s street.

Set the cast of me here alongside Carl XII, making two Carls for the Swedish people and the utlanders to look at between the palace and the Grand Hotel.

The summer sun will shine on both the Carls, and November drizzles wrap the two, one in tall leather boots, one in wool leggins.

Also I place it in the record: the Swedish people may name boats after me or change the name of a long street and give it one of my nicknames.

The old men who beset the soil of Sweden and own the titles to the land—the old men who enjoy a silken shimmer to their chin whiskers when they promenade the streets named after old kings—if they forget me—the old men whose varicose veins stand more and more blue on the calves of their legs when they take their morning baths attended by old women born to the bath service of old men and young—if these old men say another King Carl should have a bronze on the king’s street rather than a Fool Carl—
Then I would hurl them only another fool’s laugh—
I would remember last Sunday when I stood on a jutland of fire-born red granite watching the drop of the sun in the middle of the afternoon and the full moon shining over Stockholm four o’clock in the afternoon.

If the young men will read five lines of one of my poems I will let the kings have all the bronze—I ask only that one page of my writings be a knapsack keepsake of the young men who are the bloodkin of those who laughed nine hundred years ago: We are afraid of nothing—only—the sky may fall on us.