Best Famous Vert Poems

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

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• All Famous Vert Poems

Written by Guillaume Apollinaire | Les Fenêtres Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Quand chantent les aras dans les forêts natales Abatis de pihis Il y a un poème à faire sur l'oiseau qui n'a qu'une aile Nous l'enverron en message téléphonique Truamatisme géant Il fait couler les yeux Voilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes Turinaises Le pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blanche Tu soulèveras le rideau Et maintenant voilà que s'ouvre la fenêtre Araignées quand les mains tissaient la lumière Beauté pâleur insondables violets Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos On commencera à minuit Quand on a le temps on a la liberté Bignorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l'Oursin du couchant Une vielle paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtre Tours Les Tours ce sont les rues Puits Puits ce sont les places Puits Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes Les Chabins chantent des airs à mourir Aux Chabines marrones Et l'oie oua-oua trompette au nord Où le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l'hiver O Paris Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les Antilles Le fenêtre s'ouvre comme une orange Le beau fruit de la lumière

Written by Carolyn Kizer | On a Line From Valery (Gulf War) Tout le ciel vert se meurt Le dernier arbre brûle. The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares With a great burst of supernatural rose Under a canopy of poisonous airs. Could we imagine our return to prayers To end in time before time's final throes, The green sky dying as the last tree flares? But we were young in judgment, gray in hairs Who could make peace; but it was war we chose, To spread its canopy of poisoning airs. Not all our children's pleas and women's stares Could steer us from this Hell. And now God knows His whole green sky is dying as it flares. Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares. This dreadful century staggers to its close And the sky dies for us, its poisoned heirs. All rain was dust. Its granules were our cares. Throats burst as everywhere winter arose To dye the dead sky green. The last tree bears Within its canopy ripe poisoned pears.

Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Sonnet XIII: Phoebus Was Judge Phoebus was judge between Jove, Mars, and Love, Of those three gods, whose arms the fairest were: Jove's golden shield did eagle sables bear, Whose talons held young Ganymede above: But in vert field Mars bare a golden spear, Which through a bleeding heart his point did shove: Each had his crest; Mars carried Venus' glove, Jove in his helm the thunderbolt did rear. Cupid them smiles, for on his crest there lies Stella's fair hair, her face he makes his shield, Where roses gules are borne in silver field. Phoebus drew wide the curtains of the skies To blaze these last, and sware devoutly then, The first, thus match'd, were scantly gentlemen.

Written by Barry Tebb | Without The Wherewithall To Thushari Williams Dear Thushie, the six months you spent with us Will never be forgotten, the long days you laboured In the care home, your care-worn comings home To sit with Brenda Williams, po?te maudit sang pur, Labouring together to bring to light poems buried alive And turn them into a book, the living text Proof enough of your divine gift as muse And enchantress of both word and screen. Now in far Indonesia you strive to strike a bargain With an uncaring world, webmaster with magic fingertips You engrave the words of us, careworn poets of our age, In blue and scarlet on a canvas alabaster page. Simulacrum more real than reality itself, Should reality exist in cyberspace. My Pr?vert, my Nerval, I never thought to see So handsomely orthographed, like Li Po scrolled In Chinese water by a blue pagoda. Indeed if anyone could write in troubled water It would be you, my dearest daughter. Whether this world will grant you a living Only time’s indifference and your subtle craft will tell, Artists like poets live on other’s bounty, as you know so well.