10 Best Famous Welding Poems

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

• All Famous Welding Poems

 I starred that night, I shone:
I was footwork and firework in one,

a rocket that wriggled up and shot
darkness with a parasol of brilliants
and a peewee descant on a flung bit;
I was blusters of glitter-bombs expanding
to mantle and aurora from a crown,
I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint,
para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven,
loose gold off fierce toeholds of white,
a finale red-tongued as a haka leap:
that too was a butt of all right!

As usual after any triumph, I was
of course, inconsolable.

 Oh, how I love Humanity, 
 With love so pure and pringlish, 
And how I hate the horrid French, 
 Who never will be English! 

The International Idea, 
 The largest and the clearest, 
Is welding all the nations now, 
 Except the one that's nearest. 

This compromise has long been known, 
 This scheme of partial pardons, 
In ethical societies 
 And small suburban gardens— 

The villas and the chapels where 
 I learned with little labour 
The way to love my fellow-man 
 And hate my next-door neighbour.

 In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...

Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

Prepared a sinister mate
For her -- so gaily great --
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

Alien they seemed to be;
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,

Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident 
On being anon twin halves of one august event,

Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

 I, too, saw God through mud --
 The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
 War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
 And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there --
 Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
 For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
 Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

I, too, have dropped off fear --
 Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
 And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear
 Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;

And witnessed exultation --
 Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
 Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
 Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.

I have made fellowships --
 Untold of happy lovers in old song.
 For love is not the binding of fair lips
 With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,

By Joy, whose ribbon slips, --
 But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
 Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
 Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty
 In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
 Heard music in the silentness of duty;
 Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
 With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
 Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,
 And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
 You shall not come to think them well content
 By any jest of mine. These men are worth
 Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.


November 1917.

 (Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")

 I
 In a solitude of the sea
 Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

 II

 Steel chambers, late the pyres
 Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

 III

 Over the mirrors meant
 To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls--grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

 IV

 Jewels in joy designed
 To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

 V

 Dim moon-eyed fishes near
 Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?". . .

 VI

 Well: while was fashioning
 This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

 VII

 Prepared a sinister mate
 For her--so gaily great--
A Shape of Ice, for the time fat and dissociate.

 VIII

 And as the smart ship grew
 In stature, grace, and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

 IX

 Alien they seemed to be:
 No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history.

 X

 Or sign that they were bent
 By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one August event,

 XI

 Till the Spinner of the Years
 Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

in the sky above you morning shatters into millions of colored shoelaces;
you could take this as a promise, as the eroticism of space
ablaze high above your head, it would be too much but

otherwise the textile light of the welding torch
would wrap in a package what remains mine
not including the workers by the tramline gesturing obscenely at the women riding

that, too, would be a poem or even
a morning
you’ll never see again
like a final explosion, thanks be to God,
all the objects we stuff with our intent of closeness

(translated from the Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin with the poet, Marco Polo Quarterly, Fall 2010 Issue #2)