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Best Famous Weds Poems

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

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Written by Weldon Kees | Create an image from this poem

A Pastiche For Eve

 Unmanageable as history: these
Followers of Tammuz to the land
That offered no return, where dust
Grew thick on every bolt and door.
And so the world Chilled, and the women wept, tore at their hair.
Yet, in the skies, a goddess governed Sirius, the Dog, Who shines alike on mothers, lesbians, and whores.
What are we governed by? Dido and Carrie Chapman Catt arrange themselves as statues near The playground and the Tivoli.
While warming up the beans, Miss Sanders broods on the Rhamnusian, the whole earth worshipping Her godhead.
Later, vegetables in Athens.
Chaste in the dungeon, swooning with voluptuousness, The Lady of the Castle weds pure Christ, the feudal groom.
Their bowels almost drove Swift mad.
"Sad stem, Sweet evil, stretching out a lion's jaws," wrote Marbode.
Now we cling together in our caves.
That not impossible she That rots and wrinkles in the sun, the shadow Of all men, man's counterpart, sweet rois Of vertew and of gentilness.
.
.
The brothel and the crib endure.
Past reason hunted.
How we die! Their pain, their blood, are ours.


Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

JAMES SIMMONS R.I.P

 You were the one I wanted most to know

So like yet unlike, like fire and snow,

The casual voice, the sharp invective,

The barbed wit, the lapsed Irish Protestant

Who never gave a ****, crossed the palms

Of the great and good with coins hot with contempt

For the fakers and the tricksters whose poetry

Deftly bent to fashion’s latest slant.
You wrote from the heart, feelings on your sleeve, But feelings are all a master poet needs: You broke all the taboos, whores and fags and booze, While I sighed over books and began to snooze Until your voice broke through the haze Of a quarter century’s sleep.
“Wake up you git And bloody write!” I did and never stopped And like you told the truth about how bad poetry Rots the soul and slapped a New Gen face or two And kicked some arses in painful places, And so like you, got omitted from the posh anthologies Where Penguin and Picador fill the pages With the boring poetasters you went for in your rages, Ex-friends like Harrison who missed you out.
You never could see the envy in their enmity.
Longley was the worst, a hypocrite to boot, All you said about him never did come out; I’ve tried myself to nail others of that ilk Hither and thither they slide and slither And crawl out of the muck white as brides’ Fat with OBE’s, sinecures and sighs And Collected Poems no one buys.
Yet ‘Mainstrem’, your last but one collection, I had to wait months for, the last borrower Kept it for two years and likely I’ll do the same Your poetry’s like no other, no one could tame Your roaring fury or your searing pain.
You bared your soul in a most unfashionable way But everything in me says your verse will stay, Your love for your fourth and final wife, The last chance marriage that went right The children you loved so much but knew You wouldn’t live to see grown up, so caught Their growing pains and joys with a painter’s eye And lyric skill as fine as Wordsworth’s best they drank her welcome to his heritage of grey, grey-green, wet earth and shapes of stone.
Who weds a landscape will not die alone.
Those you castigated never forgave.
Omitted you as casually as passing an unmarked grave, Armitage, I name you, a blackguard and a knave, Who knows no more of poetry than McGonagall the brave, Yet tops the list of Faber’s ‘Best Poets of Our Age’.
Longley gave you just ten lines in ‘Irish Poets Now’ Most missed you out entirely for the troubles you gave Accusing like Zola those poetic whores Who sold themselves to fashion when time after time Your passions brought you to your knees, lashing At those poetasters when their puffed-up slime Won the medals and the prizes time after time And got them all the limelight while your books Were quietly ignored, the better you wrote, The fewer got bought.
Belatedly I found a poem of yours ‘Leeds 2’ In ‘Flashpoint’, a paint-stained worn out School anthology from 1962.
Out of the blue I wrote to you but the letter came back ‘Gone away N.
F.
A.
’ then I tried again and had a marvellous letter back Full of stories of the great and good and all their private sins, You knew where the bodies were buried.
Who put the knife in, who slept with who For what reward.
They never could shut you up Or put you in a pen or pay you off and then came Morley, Hulse and Kennedy’s ‘New Poetry’ Which did more damage to the course of poetry Than anything I’ve read - poets unembarrassed By the need to know more than what’s politically White as snow.
Constantine and Jackie Kay And Hoffman with the right connections.
Sweeney and O’Brien bleeding in all the politically Sensitive places, Peter Reading lifting Horror headlines from the Sun to make a splash.
Sansom and Maxwell, Jamie and Greenlaw.
Proving lack of talent is no barrier to fame If you lick the right arses and say how nice they taste.
Crawling up the ladder, declaring **** is grace.
A talented drunken public servant Has the world’s ear and hates me.
He ought to be in prison for misuse Of public funds and bigotry; But there’s some sparkle in his poetry.
You never flinched in the attack But gave the devils their due: The ‘Honest Ulsterman’ you founded Lost its honesty the day you withdrew But floundered on, publicly sighed and Ungraciously expired as soon as you died.
You went with fallen women, smoked and sang and boozed, Loved your many children, wrote poetry As good as Yeats but the ignominy you had to bear Bred an immortality impossible to share.
You showed us your own peccadilloes, Your early lust for fame, but you learned The cost of suffering, love and talent winning through, Your best books your last, just two, like the letters You wrote before your life was through.
The meeting you wanted could never happen: I didn’t know about the stroke That stilled your tongue and pen But if you passed your mantle on to me I’ll try and take up where you left off, Give praise where praise is due And blast the living daylights from those writers who Betray the sacred art of making poetry true To suffering and love, to passion and remorse And try to steer a flimsy world upon a saner course.
Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Create an image from this poem

Lady Clare

IT was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in scorn- Lovers long-betroth'd were they: They too will wed the morrow morn: God's blessing on the day! 'He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,' said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, 'Who was this that went from thee?' 'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, 'To-morrow he weds vith me.
' 'O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse, ' That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.
' 'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' Said Lady Clare, 'that ye speak so wild?' 'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse, ' I speak the truth: you are my child.
'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.
' 'Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,' she said, 'if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.
' 'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 'But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.
' ' If I'm a beggar born,' she said, 'I will speak out, for I dare not lie.
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.
' 'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 'But keep the secret all ye can.
' She said, 'Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.
' 'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice the nurse, 'The man will cleave unto his right.
' 'And he shall have it,' the lady replied, 'Tho' I should die to-night.
' 'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.
' 'O mother, mother, mother,' she said, 'So strange it seems to me.
'Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.
' She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?' 'If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,' she said, 'And not the Lady Clare.
' 'Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 'For I am yours in word and in deed.
Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 'Your riddle is hard to read.
' O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: 'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, 'the next in blood-- 'If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, 'the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.
'
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Guinevere at Her Fireside

 A nobler king had never breath-
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death And wedded stays in Heaven.
Amen.
(And oh, the shirts of linen-lawn, And all the armor, tagged and tied, And church on Sundays, dusk and dawn.
And bed a thing to kneel beside!) The bravest one stood tall above The rest, and watched me as a light.
I heard and heard them talk of love; I'd naught to do but think, at night.
The bravest man has littlest brains; That chalky fool from Astolat With all her dying and her pains!- Thank God, I helped him over that.
I found him not unfair to see- I like a man with peppered hair! And thus it came about.
Ah, me, Tristram was busied otherwhere.
.
.
.
A nobler king had never breath- I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death And wedded stays in Heaven.
Amen.

Book: Shattered Sighs