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Best Famous Very Hurtful Poems

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

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Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Restless Leg Syndrome

 After the burial 
we returned to our units 
and assumed our poses. 
Our posture was the new posture 
and not the old sick posture. 
When we left our stations 
it was just to prove we could, 
not a serious departure 
or a search for yet another beginning. 
We were done with all that.
We were settled in, as they say, 
though it might have been otherwise. 
What a story!
After the burial we returned to our units 
and here is where I am experiencing 
that lag kicking syndrome thing. 
My leg, for no apparent reason,
flies around the room kicking stuff, 
well, whatever is in its way, 
like a screen or a watering can.
Those are just two examples
and indeed I could give many more.
I could construct a catalogue 
of the things it kicks, 
perhaps I will do that later.
We'll just have to see if it's really wanted. 
Or I could do a little now 
and then return to listing later.
It kicked the scrimshaw collection, 
yes it did. It kicked the ocelot, 
which was rude and uncalled for,
and yes hurtful. It kicked 
the guacamole right out of its bowl, 
which made for a grubby 
and potentially dangerous workplace. 
I was out testing the new speed bump 
when it kicked the Viscountess, 
which she probably deserved, 
and I was happy, needless to say, 
to not be a witness.
The kicking subsided for a while, 
nobody was keeping track of time 
at that time so it is impossible 
to fill out the forms accurately. 
Suffice it to say we remained
at our units on constant alert.
And then it kicked over the little cow town
we had set up for punching and that sort of thing, 
a covered wagon filled with cover girls.
But now it was kicked over 
and we had a moment of silence, 
but it was clear to me 
that many of our minions 
were getting tetchy 
and some of them were getting tetchier.
And then it kicked a particularly treasured snuff box 
which, legend has it, once belonged to somebody 
named Bob Mackey, so we were understandably 
saddened and returned to our units rather weary. 
No one seemed to think I was in the least bit culpable. 
It was my leg, of course, that was doing the actual kicking, 
of that I am almost certain.
At any rate, we decided to bury it.
After the burial we returned to our units 
and assumed our poses.
A little bit of time passed, not much, 
and then John's leg started acting suspicious. 
It looked like it wanted to kick the replica 
of the White House we keep on hand 
just for situations such as this.
And then, sure enough, it did.


Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Loneliness

 I pause midway in the in the whirl,
Of deadlines, things undone,
And average the sadness and joys -
There remains only loneliness,
Of which I see no cure,
No bitter palliatives, no anodyne.

We remain in life’s journey,
Like loners sitting depressed,
On solitary park benches, or,
Standing in balconies, staring,
Loneliness gnawing at our minds,
As hungry ants at a grain of food.
Often in life’s vicious lanes,
In lonesome moments,
It’s our failures we ponder,
Not trasient joys and victories,
We do not remember other's courage,
Only their faults, and habits.

When in each passing lonely moment,
I count the millions of joyous seconds,
I was alive to witness this world, and,
Hurtful mimetic thoughts that passed me by,
My loneliness vanishes, I scream,
“I live; I am alive this lonely moment.”
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

The Mantra-Yoga

 I

How should I seek to make a song for thee
When all my music is to moan thy name?
That long sad monotone - the same - the same -
Matching the mute insatiable sea
That throbs with life's bewitching agony,
Too long to measure and too fierce to tame!
An hurtful joy, a fascinating shame
Is this great ache that grips the heart of me.

Even as a cancer, so this passion gnaws
Away my soul, and will not ease its jaws
Till I am dead. Then let me die! Who knows
But that this corpse committed to the earth
May be the occasion of some happier birth?
Spring's earliest snowdrop? Summer's latest rose?

II

Thou knowest what asp hath fixed its lethal tooth
In the white breast that trembled like a flower
At thy name whispered. thou hast marked how hour
By hour its poison hath dissolved my youth, 
Half skilled to agonise, half skilled to soothe
This passion ineluctable, this power
Slave to its single end, to storm the tower
That holdeth thee, who art Authentic Truth.

O golden hawk! O lidless eye! Behold
How the grey creeps upon the shuddering gold!
Still I will strive! That thou mayst sweep
Swift on the dead from thine all-seeing steep -
And the unutterable word by spoken.
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

Genesis

 In the outer world that was before this earth,
That was before all shape or space was born,
Before the blind first hour of time had birth,
Before night knew the moonlight or the morn;

Yea, before any world had any light,
Or anything called God or man drew breath,
Slowly the strong sides of the heaving night
Moved, and brought forth the strength of life and death.

And the sad shapeless horror increate
That was all things and one thing, without fruit,
Limit, or law; where love was none, nor hate,
Where no leaf came to blossom from no root;

The very darkness that time knew not of,
Nor God laid hand on, nor was man found there,
Ceased, and was cloven in several shapes; above
Light, and night under, and fire, earth, water, and air.

Sunbeams and starbeams, and all coloured things,
All forms and all similitudes began;
And death, the shadow cast by life's wide wings,
And God, the shade cast by the soul of man.

Then between shadow and substance, night and light,
Then between birth and death, and deeds and days,
The illimitable embrace and the amorous fight
That of itself begets, bears, rears, and slays,

The immortal war of mortal things that is
Labour and life and growth and good and ill,
The mild antiphonies that melt and kiss,
The violent symphonies that meet and kill,

All nature of all things began to be.
But chiefliest in the spirit (beast or man,
Planet of heaven or blossom of earth or sea)
The divine contraries of life began.

For the great labour of growth, being many, is one;
One thing the white death and the ruddy birth;
The invisible air and the all-beholden sun,
And barren water and many-childed earth.

And these things are made manifest in men
From the beginning forth unto this day:
Time writes and life records them, and again
Death seals them lest the record pass away.

For if death were not, then should growth not be,
Change, nor the life of good nor evil things;
Nor were there night at all nor light to see,
Nor water of sweet nor water of bitter springs.

For in each man and each year that is born
Are sown the twin seeds of the strong twin powers;
The white seed of the fruitful helpful morn,
The black seed of the barren hurtful hours.

And he that of the black seed eateth fruit,
To him the savour as honey shall be sweet;
And he in whom the white seed hath struck root,
He shall have sorrow and trouble and tears for meat.

And him whose lips the sweet fruit hath made red
In the end men loathe and make his name a rod;
And him whose mouth on the unsweet fruit hath fed
In the end men follow and know for very God.

And of these twain, the black seed and the white,
All things come forth, endured of men and done;
And still the day is great with child of night,
And still the black night labours with the sun.

And each man and each year that lives on earth
Turns hither or thither, and hence or thence is fed;
And as a man before was from his birth,
So shall a man be after among the dead.
Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Restless Leg Syndrome

 After the burial 
we returned to our units 
and assumed our poses. 
Our posture was the new posture 
and not the old sick posture. 
When we left our stations 
it was just to prove we could, 
not a serious departure 
or a search for yet another beginning. 
We were done with all that.
We were settled in, as they say, 
though it might have been otherwise. 
What a story!
After the burial we returned to our units 
and here is where I am experiencing 
that lag kicking syndrome thing. 
My leg, for no apparent reason,
flies around the room kicking stuff, 
well, whatever is in its way, 
like a screen or a watering can.
Those are just two examples
and indeed I could give many more.
I could construct a catalogue 
of the things it kicks, 
perhaps I will do that later.
We'll just have to see if it's really wanted. 
Or I could do a little now 
and then return to listing later.
It kicked the scrimshaw collection, 
yes it did. It kicked the ocelot, 
which was rude and uncalled for,
and yes hurtful. It kicked 
the guacamole right out of its bowl, 
which made for a grubby 
and potentially dangerous workplace. 
I was out testing the new speed bump 
when it kicked the Viscountess, 
which she probably deserved, 
and I was happy, needless to say, 
to not be a witness.
The kicking subsided for a while, 
nobody was keeping track of time 
at that time so it is impossible 
to fill out the forms accurately. 
Suffice it to say we remained
at our units on constant alert.
And then it kicked over the little cow town
we had set up for punching and that sort of thing, 
a covered wagon filled with cover girls.
But now it was kicked over 
and we had a moment of silence, 
but it was clear to me 
that many of our minions 
were getting tetchy 
and some of them were getting tetchier.
And then it kicked a particularly treasured snuff box 
which, legend has it, once belonged to somebody 
named Bob Mackey, so we were understandably 
saddened and returned to our units rather weary. 
No one seemed to think I was in the least bit culpable. 
It was my leg, of course, that was doing the actual kicking, 
of that I am almost certain.
At any rate, we decided to bury it.
After the burial we returned to our units 
and assumed our poses.
A little bit of time passed, not much, 
and then John's leg started acting suspicious. 
It looked like it wanted to kick the replica 
of the White House we keep on hand 
just for situations such as this.
And then, sure enough, it did.


Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet LXXIV

SONNET LXXIV.

Così potess' io ben chiuder in versi.

HE COMPLAINS THAT TO HIM ALONE IS FAITH HURTFUL.

Could I, in melting verse, my thoughts but throw,As in my heart their living load I bear,No soul so cruel in the world was e'erThat would not at the tale with pity glow.But ye, blest eyes, which dealt me the sore blow,'Gainst which nor helm nor shield avail'd to spareWithin, without, behold me poor and bare,Though never in laments is breathed my woe.But since on me your bright glance ever shines,E'en as a sunbeam through transparent glass,Suffice then the desire without the lines.Faith Peter bless'd and Mary, but, alas!It proves an enemy to me alone,Whose spirit save by you to none is known.
Macgregor.
Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Hymn 51

 Persevering grace.

Jude 1:24,25. 

To God the only wise,
Our Savior and our King,
Let all the saints below the skies
Their humble praises bring.

'Tis his almighty love,
His counsel, and' his care,
Preserves us safe from sin and death,
And every hurtful snare.

He will present our souls,
Unblemished and complete,
Before the glory of his face,
With joys divinely great.

Then all the chosen seed
Shall meet around the throne,
Shall bless the conduct of his grace,
And make his wonders known.

To our Redeemer, God,
Wisdom and power belongs,
Immortal crowns of majesty,
And everlasting songs.
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

The Old Wives Prayer

 Holy-Rood, come forth and shield
Us i' th' city and the field;
Safely guard us, now and aye,
From the blast that burns by day;
And those sounds that us affright
In the dead of dampish night;
Drive all hurtful fiends us fro,
By the time the cocks first crow.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry