10 Best Famous Willingness Poems

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

• All Famous Willingness Poems

Written by Muhammad Ali | He took a few cups of love He took a few cups of love. He took one tablespoon of patience, One teaspoon of generosity, One pint of kindness. He took one quart of laughter, One pinch of concern. And then, he mixed willingness with happiness. He added lots of faith, And he stirred it up well. Then he spread it over a span of a lifetime, And he served it to each and every deserving person he met.

Written by Galway Kinnell | Oatmeal I eat oatmeal for breakfast. I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it. I eat it alone. I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone. Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health if somebody eats it with you. That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have breakfast with. Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary companion. Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge, as he called it with John Keats. Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him: due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime, and unsual willingness to disintigrate, oatmeal should not be eaten alone. He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John Milton. Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something from it. Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the "Ode to a Nightingale." He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through his porridge. He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his pocket, but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas, and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if they got it right. An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket through a hole in his pocket. He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas, and the way here and there a line will go into the configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up and peer about, and then lay itself down slightly off the mark, causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble. He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse. I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal alone. When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn." He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet. He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there is much of one. But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field go thim started on it, and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours," came to him while eating oatmeal alone. I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering furrows, muttering. Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters. For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch. I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneaously gummy and crumbly, and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh to join me.

Written by Belinda Subraman | My Indian In-laws I remember India: palm trees, monkey families, fresh lime juice in the streets, the sensual inundation of sights and smells and excess in everything. I was exotic and believable there. I was walking through dirt in my sari, to temples of the deities following the lead of my Indian in-laws. I was scooping up fire with my hands, glancing at idols that held no meaning for me, being marked by the ash. They smiled at the Western woman, acting religious, knowing it was my way of showing respect. It was an adventure for me but an arm around their culture for them. To me it was living a dream I knew I could wake up from. To them it was the willingness to be Indian that pleased. We were holding hands across a cultural cosmos, knowing there were no differences hearts could not soothe. They accepted me as I accepted them, baffled but in love with our wedded mystery.

Written by Philip Larkin | Ignorance Strange to know nothing, never to be sure Of what is true or right or real, But forced to qualify or so I feel, Or Well, it does seem so: Someone must know. Strange to be ignorant of the way things work: Their skill at finding what they need, Their sense of shape, and punctual spread of seed, And willingness to change; Yes, it is strange, Even to wear such knowledge - for our flesh Surrounds us with its own decisions - And yet spend all our life on imprecisions, That when we start to die Have no idea why.

Written by Jorie Graham | Le Manteau De Pascal I have put on my great coat it is cold. It is an outer garment. Coarse, woolen. Of unknown origin. * It has a fine inner lining but it is as an exterior that you see it — a grace. * I have a coat I am wearing. It is a fine admixture. The woman who threw the threads in the two directions has made, skillfully, something dark-true, as the evening calls the bird up into the branches of the shaven hedgerows, to twitter bodily a makeshift coat — the boxelder cut back stringently by the owner that more might grow next year, and thicker, you know — the birds tucked gestures on the inner branches — and space in the heart, not shade-giving, not chronological...Oh transformer, logic, where are you here in this fold, my name being called-out now but back, behind, in the upper world.... * I have a coat I am wearing I was told to wear it. Someone knelt down each morning to button it up. I looked at their face, down low, near me. What is longing? what is a star? Watched each button a peapod getting tucked back in. Watched harm with its planeloads folded up in the sleeves. Watched grappling hooks trawl through the late-night waters. Watched bands of stations scan unable to ascertain. There are fingers, friend, that never grow sluggish. They crawl up the coat and don't miss an eyehole. Glinting in kitchenlight. Supervised by the traffic god. Hissed at by grassblades that wire-up outside their stirring rhetoric — this is your land, this is my my — * You do understanding, don't you, by looking? The coat, which is itself a ramification, a city, floats vulnerably above another city, ours, the city on the hill (only with hill gone), floats in illustration of what once was believed, and thus was visible — (all things believed are visible) — floats a Jacob's ladder with hovering empty arms, an open throat, a place where a heart might beat if it wishes, pockets that hang awaiting the sandy whirr of a small secret, folds where the legs could be, with their kneeling mechanism, the floating fatigue of an after-dinner herald, not guilty of any treason towards life except fatigue, a skillfully cut coat, without chronology, filled with the sensation of being suddenly completed — as then it is, abruptly, the last stitch laid in, the knot bit off — hung there in Gravity, as if its innermost desire, numberless the awaitings flickering around it, the other created things also floating but not of the same order, no, not like this form, built so perfectly to mantle the body, the neck like a vase awaiting its cut flower, a skirting barely visible where the tucks indicate the mild loss of bearing in the small of the back, the grammar, so strict, of the two exact shoulders — and the law of the shouldering — and the chill allowed to skitter up through, and those crucial spots where the fit cannot be perfect — oh skirted loosening aswarm with lessenings, with the mild pallors of unaccomplishment, flaps night-air collects in, folds... But the night does not annul its belief in, the night preserves its love for, this one narrowing of infinity, that floats up into the royal starpocked blue its ripped, distracted supervisor — this coat awaiting recollection, this coat awaiting the fleeting moment, the true moment, the hill,the vision of the hill, and then the moment when the prize is lost, and the erotic tinglings of the dream of reason are left to linger mildly in the weave of the fabric according to the rules, the wool gabardine mix, with its grammatical weave, never never destined to lose its elasticity, its openness to abandonment, its willingness to be disturbed. * July 11 ... Oaks: the organization of this tree is difficult. Speaking generally no doubt the determining planes are concentric, a system of brief contiguous and continuous tangents, whereas those of the cedar wd. roughly be called horizontals and those of the beech radiating but modified by droop and by a screw-set towards jutting points. But beyond this since the normal growth of the boughs is radiating there is a system of spoke-wise clubs of green — sleeve-pieces. And since the end shoots curl and carry young scanty leaf-stars these clubs are tapered, and I have seen also pieces in profile with chiseled outlines, the blocks thus made detached and lessening towards the end. However the knot-star is the chief thing: it is whorled, worked round, and this is what keeps up the illusion of the tree. Oaks differ much, and much turns on the broadness of the leaves, the narrower giving the crisped and starry and catharine-wheel forms, the broader the flat-pieced mailed or chard-covered ones, in wh. it is possible to see composition in dips, etc. But I shall study them further. It was this night I believe but possibly the next that I saw clearly the impossibility of staying in the Church of England. * How many coats do you think it will take? The coat was a great-coat. The Emperor's coat was. How many coats do you think it will take? The undercoat is dry. What we now want is? The sky can analyse the coat because of the rips in it. The sky shivers through the coat because of the rips in it. The rips in the sky ripen through the rips in the coat. There is no quarrel. * I take off my coat and carry it. * There is no emergency. * I only made that up. * Behind everything the sound of something dripping The sound of something: I will vanish, others will come here, what is that? The canvas flapping in the wind like the first notes of our absence An origin is not an action though it occurs at the very start Desire goes travelling into the total dark of another's soul looking for where it breaks off I was a hard thing to undo * The life of a customer What came on the paper plate overheard nearby an impermanence of structure watching the lip-reading had loved but couldn't now recognize * What are the objects, then, that man should consider most important? What sort of a question is that he asks them. The eye only discovers the visible slowly. It floats before us asking to be worn, offering "we must think about objects at the very moment when all their meaning is abandoning them" and "the title provides a protection from significance" and "we are responsible for the universe." * I have put on my doubting, my wager, it is cold. It is an outer garment, or, conversely a natural covering, so coarse and woolen, also of unknown origin, a barely apprehensible dilution of evening into an outer garment, or, conversely a natural covering, to twitter bodily a makeshift coat, that more might grow next year, and thicker, you know, not shade-giving, not chronological, my name being called out now but from out back, behind, an outer garment, so coarse and woolen, also of unknown origin, not shade-giving, not chronological, each harm with its planeloads folded up in the sleeves, you do understand, don't you, by looking? the jacob's ladder with its floating arms its open throat, that more might grow next year, and thicker, you know, filled with the sensation of being suddenly completed, the other created things also floating but not of the same order, not shade-giving, not chronological, you do understand, don't you, by looking? a neck like a vase awaiting its cut flower, filled with the sensation of being suddenly completed, the moment the prize is lost, the erotic tingling, the wool-gabardine mix, its grammatical weave — you do understand, don't you, by looking? — never never destined to lose its elasticity, it was this night I believe but possibly the next I saw clearly the impossibility of staying filled with the sensation of being suddenly completed, also of unknown origin, not shade-giving, not chronological since the normal growth of boughs is radiating a system of spoke-wise clubs of green — sleeve pieces — never never destined to lose its elasticity my name being called out now but back, behind, hissing how many coats do you think it will take "or try with eyesight to divide" (there is no quarrel) behind everything the sound of something dripping a system of spoke-wise clubs of green — sleeve pieces filled with the sensation of suddenly being completed the wool gabardine mix, the grammatical weave, the never-never-to-lose-its-elasticity: my name flapping in the wind like the first note of my absence hissing how many coats do you think it will take are you a test case is it an emergency flapping in the wind the first note of something overheard nearby an impermanence of structure watching the lip-reading, there is no quarrel, I will vanish, others will come here, what is that, never never to lose the sensation of suddenly being completed in the wind — the first note of our quarrel — it was this night I believe or possibly the next filled with the sensation of being suddenly completed, I will vanish, others will come here, what is that now floating in the air before us with stars a test case that I saw clearly the impossibility of staying

Written by Friedrich von Schiller | The Four Ages Of The World The goblet is sparkling with purpled-tinged wine, Bright glistens the eye of each guest, When into the hall comes the Minstrel divine, To the good he now brings what is best; For when from Elysium is absent the lyre, No joy can the banquet of nectar inspire. He is blessed by the gods, with an intellect clear, That mirrors the world as it glides; He has seen all that ever has taken place here, And all that the future still hides. He sat in the god's secret councils of old And heard the command for each thing to unfold. He opens in splendor, with gladness and mirth, That life which was hid from our eyes; Adorns as a temple the dwelling of earth, That the Muse has bestowed as his prize, No roof is so humble, no hut is so low, But he with divinities bids it o'erflow. And as the inventive descendant of Zeus, On the unadorned round of the shield, With knowledge divine could, reflected, produce Earth, sea, and the star's shining field,-- So he, on the moments, as onward they roll, The image can stamp of the infinite whole. From the earliest age of the world he has come, When nations rejoiced in their prime; A wanderer glad, he has still found a home With every race through all time. Four ages of man in his lifetime have died, And the place they once held by the fifth is supplied. Saturnus first governed, with fatherly smile, Each day then resembled the last; Then flourished the shepherds, a race without guile Their bliss by no care was o'ercast, They loved,--and no other employment they had, And earth gave her treasures with willingness glad. Then labor came next, and the conflict began With monsters and beasts famed in song; And heroes upstarted, as rulers of man, And the weak sought the aid of the strong. And strife o'er the field of Scamander now reigned, But beauty the god of the world still remained. At length from the conflict bright victory sprang, And gentleness blossomed from might; In heavenly chorus the Muses then sang, And figures divine saw the light;-- The age that acknowledged sweet phantasy's sway Can never return, it has fleeted away. The gods from their seats in the heavens were hurled, And their pillars of glory o'erthrown; And the Son of the Virgin appeared in the world For the sins of mankind to atone. The fugitive lusts of the sense were suppressed, And man now first grappled with thought in his breast. Each vain and voluptuous charm vanished now, Wherein the young world took delight; The monk and the nun made of penance a vow, And the tourney was sought by the knight. Though the aspect of life was now dreary and wild, Yet love remained ever both lovely and mild. An altar of holiness, free from all stain, The Muses in silence upreared; And all that was noble and worthy, again In woman's chaste bosom appeared; The bright flame of song was soon kindled anew By the minstrel's soft lays, and his love pure and true. And so, in a gentle and ne'er-changing band, Let woman and minstrel unite; They weave and they fashion, with hand joined to hand, The girdle of beauty and right. When love blends with music, in unison sweet, The lustre of life's youthful days ne'er can fleet.

Written by Amy Lowell | Diya {original title is Greek Delta-iota-psi-alpha} Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night! See where it casts the shadow of that tree Far out upon the grass. And every gust Of light night wind comes laden with the scent Of opening flowers which never bloom by day: Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and that Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk, The evening primrose, comrade of the stars. It seems as though the garden which you love Were like a swinging censer, its incense Floating before us as a reverent act To sanctify and bless our night of love. Tell me once more you love me, that 't is you Yes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand; And tell me it is by your own free will That you are here, and that you like to be Just here, with me, under this sailing pine. I need to hear it often for my heart Doubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust. Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so, And yet I would not have it goodness, rather Excess of selfishness in you to need Me through and through, as flowers need the sun. I wonder can it really be that you And I are here alone, and that the night Is full of hours, and all the world asleep, And none can call to you to come away; For you have given all yourself to me Making me gentle by your willingness. Has your life too been waiting for this time, Not only mine the sharpness of this joy? Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as though I were a priest before a holy shrine. I'm glad that you are beautiful, although Were you not lovely still I needs must love; But you are all things, it must have been so For otherwise it were not you. Come, close; When you are in the circle of my arm Faith grows a mountain and I take my stand Upon its utmost top. Yes, yes, once more Kiss me, and let me feel you very near Wanting me wholly, even as I want you. Have years behind been dark? Will those to come Bring unguessed sorrows into our two lives? What does it matter, we have had to-night! To-night will make us strong, for we believe Each in the other, this is a sacrament. Beloved, is it true?

Written by Russell Edson | The Sad Message The Captain becomes moody at sea. He's afraid of water; such bully amounts that prove the seas. . . A glass of water is one thing. A man easily downs it, capturing its menace in his bladder; pissing it away. A few drops of rain do little harm, save to remind of how grief looks upon the cheek. One day the water is willing to bear your ship upon its back like a liquid elephant. The next day the elephant doesn't want you on its back, and says, I have no more willingness to have you there; get off. At sea this is a sad message. The Captain sits in his cabin wearing a parachute, listening to what the sea might say. . .