10 Best Famous Webs Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Webs poems. This is a select list of the best famous Webs poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Webs poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of webs poems.

• All Famous Webs Poems

Written by A R Ammons | Identity 1) An individual spider web identifies a species: an order of instinct prevails through all accidents of circumstance, though possibility is high along the peripheries of spider webs: you can go all around the fringing attachments and find disorder ripe, entropy rich, high levels of random, numerous occasions of accident: 2) the possible settings of a web are infinite: how does the spider keep identity while creating the web in a particular place? how and to what extent and by what modes of chemistry and control? it is wonderful how things work: I will tell you about it because it is interesting and because whatever is moves in weeds and stars and spider webs and known is loved: in that love, each of us knowing it, I love you, for it moves within and beyond us, sizzles in to winter grasses, darts and hangs with bumblebees by summer windowsills: I will show you the underlying that takes no image to itself, cannot be shown or said, but weaves in and out of moons and bladderweeds, is all and beyond destruction because created fully in no particular form: if the web were perfectly pre-set, the spider could never find a perfect place to set it in: and if the web were perfectly adaptable, if freedom and possibility were without limit, the web would lose its special identity: the row-strung garden web keeps order at the center where space is freest (intersecting that the freest "medium" should accept the firmest order) and that order diminishes toward the periphery allowing at the points of contact entropy equal to entropy.

Written by Wole Soyinka | In The Small Hours Blue diaphane, tobacco smoke Serpentine on wet film and wood glaze, Mutes chrome, wreathes velvet drapes, Dims the cave of mirrors. Ghost fingers Comb seaweed hair, stroke acquamarine veins Of marooned mariners, captives Of Circe's sultry notes. The barman Dispenses igneous potions ? Somnabulist, the band plays on. Cocktail mixer, silvery fish Dances for limpet clients. Applause is steeped in lassitude, Tangled in webs of lovers' whispers And artful eyelash of the androgynous. The hovering notes caress the night Mellowed deep indigo ?still they play. Departures linger. Absences do not Deplete the tavern. They hang over the haze As exhalations from receded shores. Soon, Night repossesses the silence, but till dawn The notes hold sway, smoky Epiphanies, possessive of the hours. This music's plaint forgives, redeems The deafness of the world. Night turns Homewards, sheathed in notes of solace, pleats The broken silence of the heart.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Smoke and Steel SMOKE of the fields in spring is one, Smoke of the leaves in autumn another. Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel, They all go up in a line with a smokestack, Or they twist … in the slow twist … of the wind. If the north wind comes they run to the south. If the west wind comes they run to the east. By this sign all smokes know each other. Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn, Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue, By the oath of work they swear: “I know you.” Hunted and hissed from the center Deep down long ago when God made us over, Deep down are the cinders we came from— You and I and our heads of smoke. Some of the smokes God dropped on the job Cross on the sky and count our years And sing in the secrets of our numbers; Sing their dawns and sing their evenings, Sing an old log-fire song: You may put the damper up, You may put the damper down, The smoke goes up the chimney just the same. Smoke of a city sunset skyline, Smoke of a country dusk horizon— They cross on the sky and count our years. Smoke of a brick-red dust Winds on a spiral Out of the stacks For a hidden and glimpsing moon. This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill, This is the slang of coal and steel. The day-gang hands it to the night-gang, The night-gang hands it back. Stammer at the slang of this— Let us understand half of it. In the rolling mills and sheet mills, In the harr and boom of the blast fires, The smoke changes its shadow And men change their shadow; A ******, a wop, a bohunk changes. A bar of steel—it is only Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man. A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else, And left—smoke and the blood of a man And the finished steel, chilled and blue. So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again, And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel, A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky; And always dark in the heart and through it, Smoke and the blood of a man. Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary—they make their steel with men. In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys The smoke nights write their oaths: Smoke into steel and blood into steel; Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men. Smoke and blood is the mix of steel. The birdmen drone in the blue; it is steel a motor sings and zooms. Steel barb-wire around The Works. Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works. Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged by arms of steel, sung on its way by the clanking clam-shells. The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they hoist their automatic knuckles from job to job; they are steel making steel. Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle; the clinkers are dumped: Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel in the sky. Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end up— Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the street together; it is all the same to us; you Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell together, in hell or heaven. Smoke nights now, Steve. Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday; Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today. Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always. Smoke nights now. To-morrow something else. Luck moons come and go: Five men swim in a pot of red steel. Their bones are kneaded into the bread of steel: Their bones are knocked into coils and anvils And the sucking plungers of sea-fighting turbines. Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station. So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors. Peepers, skulkers—they shadow-dance in laughing tombs. They are always there and they never answer. One of them said: “I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a wonderful country.” One: “Jesus, my bones ache; the company is a liar; this is a free country, like hell.” One: “I got a girl, a peach; we save up and go on a farm and raise pigs and be the boss ourselves.” And the others were roughneck singers a long ways from home. Look for them back of a steel vault door. They laugh at the cost. They lift the birdmen into the blue. It is steel a motor sings and zooms. In the subway plugs and drums, In the slow hydraulic drills, in gumbo or gravel, Under dynamo shafts in the webs of armature spiders, They shadow-dance and laugh at the cost. The ovens light a red dome. Spools of fire wind and wind. Quadrangles of crimson sputter. The lashes of dying maroon let down. Fire and wind wash out the slag. Forever the slag gets washed in fire and wind. The anthem learned by the steel is: Do this or go hungry. Look for our rust on a plow. Listen to us in a threshing-engine razz. Look at our job in the running wagon wheat. Fire and wind wash at the slag. Box-cars, clocks, steam-shovels, churns, pistons, boilers, scissors— Oh, the sleeping slag from the mountains, the slag-heavy pig-iron will go down many roads. Men will stab and shoot with it, and make butter and tunnel rivers, and mow hay in swaths, and slit hogs and skin beeves, and steer airplanes across North America, Europe, Asia, round the world. Hacked from a hard rock country, broken and baked in mills and smelters, the rusty dust waits Till the clean hard weave of its atoms cripples and blunts the drills chewing a hole in it. The steel of its plinths and flanges is reckoned, O God, in one-millionth of an inch. Once when I saw the curves of fire, the rough scarf women dancing, Dancing out of the flues and smoke-stacks—flying hair of fire, flying feet upside down; Buckets and baskets of fire exploding and chortling, fire running wild out of the steady and fastened ovens; Sparks cracking a harr-harr-huff from a solar-plexus of rock-ribs of the earth taking a laugh for themselves; Ears and noses of fire, gibbering gorilla arms of fire, gold mud-pies, gold bird-wings, red jackets riding purple mules, scarlet autocrats tumbling from the humps of camels, assassinated czars straddling vermillion balloons; I saw then the fires flash one by one: good-by: then smoke, smoke; And in the screens the great sisters of night and cool stars, sitting women arranging their hair, Waiting in the sky, waiting with slow easy eyes, waiting and half-murmuring: “Since you know all and I know nothing, tell me what I dreamed last night.” Pearl cobwebs in the windy rain, in only a flicker of wind, are caught and lost and never known again. A pool of moonshine comes and waits, but never waits long: the wind picks up loose gold like this and is gone. A bar of steel sleeps and looks slant-eyed on the pearl cobwebs, the pools of moonshine; sleeps slant-eyed a million years, sleeps with a coat of rust, a vest of moths, a shirt of gathering sod and loam. The wind never bothers … a bar of steel. The wind picks only .. pearl cobwebs .. pools of moonshine.

Written by Henry David Thoreau | On Fields Oer Which the Reapers Hand has Passed On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun, My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind And of such fineness as October airs, There after harvest could I glean my life A richer harvest reaping without toil, And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will In subtler webs than finest summer haze.

Written by Charles Bukowski | Death Wants More Death death wants more death, and its webs are full: I remember my father's garage, how child-like I would brush the corpses of flies from the windows they thought were escape- their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass only to spin and flit in that second larger than hell or heaven onto the edge of the ledge, and then the spider from his dank hole nervous and exposed the puff of body swelling hanging there not really quite knowing, and then knowing- something sending it down its string, the wet web, toward the weak shield of buzzing, the pulsing; a last desperate moving hair-leg there against the glass there alive in the sun, spun in white; and almost like love: the closing over, the first hushed spider-sucking: filling its sack upon this thing that lived; crouching there upon its back drawing its certain blood as the world goes by outside and my temples scream and I hurl the broom against them: the spider dull with spider-anger still thinking of its prey and waving an amazed broken leg; the fly very still, a dirty speck stranded to straw; I shake the killer loose and he walks lame and peeved towards some dark corner but I intercept his dawdling his crawling like some broken hero, and the straws smash his legs now waving above his head and looking looking for the enemy and somewhat valiant, dying without apparent pain simply crawling backward piece by piece leaving nothing there until at last the red gut sack splashes its secrets, and I run child-like with God's anger a step behind, back to simple sunlight, wondering as the world goes by with curled smile if anyone else saw or sensed my crime

Written by Carolyn Kizer | The Intruder My mother-- preferring the strange to the tame: Dove-note, bone marrow, deer dung, Frog's belly distended with finny young, Leaf-mould wilderness, hare-bell, toadstool, Odd, small snakes loving through the leaves, Metallic beetles rambling over stones: all Wild and natural -flashed out her instinctive love, and quick, she Picked up the fluttering. bleeding bat the cat laid at her feet, And held the little horror to the mirror, where He gazed on himself and shrieked like an old screen door far off. Depended from her pinched thumb, each wing Came clattering down like a small black shutter. Still tranquil, she began, "It's rather sweet..." The soft mouse body, the hard feral glint In the caught eyes. Then we saw And recoiled: lice, pallid, yellow, Nested within the wing-pits, cozily sucked and snoozed, The thing dropped from her hands, and with its thud, Swiftly, the cat with a clean careful mouth Closed on the soiled webs, growling, took them out to the back stoop. But still, dark blood, a sticky puddle on the floor Remained, of all my my mother's tender, wounding passion For a whole wild, lost, betrayed and secret life Among its dens and burrows, its clean stones, Whose denizens can turn upon the world With spitting tongue, an odor, talon, claw To sting or soil benevolence, alien As our clumsy traps, our random scatter of shot, She swept to the kitchen. Turning on the tap, She washed and washed the pity from her hands.

Written by Aleister Crowley | The Garden of Janus I The cloud my bed is tinged with blood and foam. The vault yet blazes with the sun Writhing above the West, brave hippodrome Whose gladiators shock and shun As the blue night devours them, crested comb Of sleep's dead sea That eats the shores of life, rings round eternity! II So, he is gone whose giant sword shed flame Into my bowels; my blood's bewitched; My brain's afloat with ecstasy of shame. That tearing pain is gone, enriched By his life-spasm; but he being gone, the same Myself is gone Sucked by the dragon down below death's horizon. III I woke from this. I lay upon the lawn; They had thrown roses on the moss With all their thorns; we came there at the dawn, My lord and I; God sailed across The sky in's galleon of amber, drawn By singing winds While we wove garlands of the flowers of our minds. IV All day my lover deigned to murder me, Linking his kisses in a chain About my neck; demon-embroidery! Bruises like far-ff mountains stain The valley of my body of ivory! Then last came sleep. I wake, and he is gone; what should I do but weep? V Nay, for I wept enough --- more sacred tears! --- When first he pinned me, gripped My flesh, and as a stallion that rears, Sprang, hero-thewed and satyr-lipped; Crushed, as a grape between his teeth, my fears; Sucked out my life And stamped me with the shame, the monstrous word of wife. VI I will not weep; nay, I will follow him Perchance he is not far, Bathing his limbs in some delicious dim Depth, where the evening star May kiss his mouth, or by the black sky's rim He makes his prayer To the great serpent that is coiled in rapture there. VII I rose to seek him. First my footsteps faint Pressed the starred moss; but soon I wandered, like some sweet sequestered saint, Into the wood, my mind. The moon Was staggered by the trees; with fierce constraint Hardly one ray Pierced to the ragged earth about their roots that lay. VIII I wandered, crying on my Lord. I wandered Eagerly seeking everywhere. The stories of life that on my lips he squandered Grew into shrill cries of despair, Until the dryads frightened and dumfoundered Fled into space --- Like to a demon-king's was grown my maiden face! XI At last I came unto the well, my soul In that still glass, I saw no sign Of him, and yet --- what visions there uproll To cloud that mirror-soul of mine? Above my head there screams a flying scroll Whose word burnt through My being as when stars drop in black disastrous dew. X For in that scroll was written how the globe Of space became; of how the light Broke in that space and wrapped it in a robe Of glory; of how One most white Withdrew that Whole, and hid it in the lobe Of his right Ear, So that the Universe one dewdrop did appear. IX Yea! and the end revealed a word, a spell, An incantation, a device Whereby the Eye of the Most Terrible Wakes from its wilderness of ice To flame, whereby the very core of hell Bursts from its rind, Sweeping the world away into the blank of mind. XII So then I saw my fault; I plunged within The well, and brake the images That I had made, as I must make - Men spin The webs that snare them - while the knee Bend to the tyrant God - or unto Sin The lecher sunder! Ah! came that undulant light from over or from under? XIII It matters not. Come, change! come, Woe! Come, mask! Drive Light, Life, Love into the deep! In vain we labour at the loathsome task Not knowing if we wake or sleep; But in the end we lift the plumed casque Of the dead warrior; Find no chaste corpse therein, but a soft-smiling whore. XIV Then I returned into myself, and took All in my arms, God's universe: Crushed its black juice out, while His anger shook His dumbness pregnant with a curse. I made me ink, and in a little book I wrote one word That God himself, the adder of Thought, had never heard. XV It detonated. Nature, God, mankind Like sulphur, nitre, charcoal, once Blended, in one annihilation blind Were rent into a myriad of suns. Yea! all the mighty fabric of a Mind Stood in the abyss, Belching a Law for "That" more awful than for "This." XVI Vain was the toil. So then I left the wood And came unto the still black sea, That oily monster of beatitude! ('Hath "Thee" for "Me," and "Me" for "Thee!") There as I stood, a mask of solitude Hiding a face Wried as a satyr's, rolled that ocean into space. XVII Then did I build an altar on the shore Of oyster-shells, and ringed it round With star-fish. Thither a green flame I bore Of phosphor foam, and strewed the ground With dew-drops, children of my wand, whose core Was trembling steel Electric that made spin the universal Wheel. XVIII With that a goat came running from the cave That lurked below the tall white cliff. Thy name! cried I. The answer that gave Was but one tempest-whisper - "If!" Ah, then! his tongue to his black palate clave; For on soul's curtain Is written this one certainty that naught is certain! XIX So then I caught that goat up in a kiss. And cried Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan! Then all this body's wealth of ambergris, (Narcissus-scented flesh of man!) I burnt before him in the sacrifice; For he was sure - Being the Doubt of Things, the one thing to endure! XX Wherefore, when madness took him at the end, He, doubt-goat, slew the goat of doubt; And that which inward did for ever tend Came at the last to have come out; And I who had the World and God to friend Found all three foes! Drowned in that sea of changes, vacancies, and woes! XXI Yet all that Sea was swallowed up therein; So they were not, and it was not. As who should sweat his soul out through the skin And find (sad fool!) he had begot All that without him that he had left in, And in himself All he had taken out thereof, a mocking elf! XXII But now that all was gone, great Pan appeared. Him then I strove to woo, to win, Kissing his curled lips, playing with his beard, Setting his brain a-shake, a-spin, By that strong wand, and muttering of the weird That only I Knew of all souls alive or dead beneath the sky. XXIII So still I conquered, and the vision passed. Yet still was beaten, for I knew Myself was He, Himself, the first and last; And as an unicorn drinks dew From under oak-leaves, so my strength was cast Into the mire; For all I did was dream, and all I dreamt desire. XXIV More; in this journey I had clean forgotten The quest, my lover. But the tomb Of all these thoughts, the rancid and the rotten, Proved in the end to be my womb Wherein my Lord and lover had begotten A little child To drive me, laughing lion, into the wanton wild! XXV This child hath not one hair upon his head, But he hath wings instead of ears. No eyes hath he, but all his light is shed Within him on the ordered sphere Of nature that he hideth; and in stead Of mouth he hath One minute point of jet; silence, the lightning path! XXVI Also his nostrils are shut up; for he Hath not the need of any breath; Nor can the curtain of eternity Cover that head with life or death. So all his body, a slim almond-tree, Knoweth no bough Nor branch nor twig nor bud, from never until now. XXVII This thought I bred within my bowels, I am. I am in him, as he in me; And like a satyr ravishing a lamb So either seems, or as the sea Swallows the whale that swallows it, the ram Beats its own head Upon the city walls, that fall as it falls dead. XXVIII Come, let me back unto the lilied lawn! Pile me the roses and the thorns, Upon this bed from which he hath withdrawn! He may return. A million morns May follow that first dire daemonic dawn When he did split My spirit with his lightnings and enveloped it! XXIX So I am stretched out naked to the knife, My whole soul twitching with the stress Of the expected yet surprising strife, A martyrdom of blessedness. Though Death came, I could kiss him into life; Though Life came, I Could kiss him into death, and yet nor live nor die! *** Yet I that am the babe, the sire, the dam, Am also none of these at all; For now that cosmic chaos of I AM Bursts like a bubble. Mystical The night comes down, a soaring wedge of flame Woven therein To be a sign to them who yet have never been. XXXI The universe I measured with my rod. The blacks were balanced with the whites; Satan dropped down even as up soared God; Whores prayed and danced with anchorites. So in my book the even matched the odd: No word I wrote Therein, but sealed it with the signet of the goat. XXXII This also I seal up. Read thou herein Whose eyes are blind! Thou may'st behold Within the wheel (that alway seems to spin All ways) a point of static gold. Then may'st thou out therewith, and fit it in That extreme spher Whose boundless farness makes it infinitely near.

Written by Louise Gluck | Midnight The stars are soft as flowers, and as near; The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun; No separate leaf or single blade is here- All blend to one. No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light Rolls lazily. and slips again to rest. There is no edged thing in all this night, Save in my breast.

Written by Delmore Schwartz | Spiders Is the spider a monster in miniature? His web is a cruel stair, to be sure, Designed artfully, cunningly placed, A delicate trap, carefully spun To bind the fly (innocent or unaware) In a net as strong as a chain or a gun. There are far more spiders than the man in the street supposes And the philosopher-king imagines, let alone knows! There are six hundred kinds of spiders and each one Differs in kind and in unkindness. In variety of behavior spiders are unrivalled: The fat garden spider sits motionless, amidst or at the heart Of the orb of its web: other kinds run, Scuttling across the floor, falling into bathtubs, Trapped in the path of its own wrath, by overconfidence drowned and undone. Other kinds - more and more kinds under the stars and the sun - Are carnivores: all are relentless, ruthless Enemies of insects. Their methods of getting food Are unconventional, numerous, various and sometimes hilarious: Some spiders spin webs as beautiful As Japanese drawings, intricate as clocks, strong as rocks: Others construct traps which consist only Of two sticky and tricky threads. Yet this ambush is enough To bind and chain a crawling ant for long enough: The famished spider feels the vibration Which transforms patience into sensation and satiation. The handsome wolf spider moves suddenly freely and relies Upon lightning suddenness, stealth and surprise, Possessing accurate eyes, pouncing upon his victim with the speed of surmise. Courtship is dangerous: there are just as many elaborate and endless techniques and varieties As characterize the wooing of more analytic, more introspective beings: Sometimes the male Arrives with the gift of a freshly caught fly. Sometimes he ties down the female, when she is frail, With deft strokes and quick maneuvres and threads of silk: But courtship and wooing, whatever their form, are informed By extreme caution, prudence, and calculation, For the female spider, lazier and fiercer than the male suitor, May make a meal of him if she does not feel in the same mood, or if her appetite Consumes her far more than the revelation of love's consummation. Here among spiders, as in the higher forms of nature, The male runs a terrifying risk when he goes seeking for the bounty of beautiful Alma Magna Mater: Yet clearly and truly he must seek and find his mate and match like every other living creature!

Written by Adrienne Rich | Planetarium Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750-1848), astronomer, sister of William; and others. A woman in the shape of a monster a monster in the shape of a woman the skies are full of them a woman 'in the snow among the Clocks and instruments or measuring the ground with poles' in her 98 years to discover 8 comets She whom the moon ruled like us levitating into the night sky riding the polished lenses Galaxies of women, there doing penance for impetuousness ribs chilled in those spaces of the mind An eye, 'virile, precise and absolutely certain' from the mad webs of Uranusborg encountering the NOVA every impulse of light exploding from the core as life flies out of us Tycho whispering at last 'Let me not seem to have lived in vain' What we see, we see and seeing is changing the light that shrivels a mountain and leaves a man alive Heartbeat of the pulsar heart sweating through my body The radio impulse pouring in from Taurus I am bombarded yet I stand I have been standing all my life in the direct path of a battery of signals the most accurately transmitted most untranslatable language in the universe I am a galactic cloud so deep so invo- luted that a light wave could take 15 years to travel through me And has taken I am an instrument in the shape of a woman trying to translate pulsations into images for the relief of the body and the reconstruction of the mind.