10 Best Famous Woolen Poems

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

• All Famous Woolen Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | All My Pretty Ones Father, this year's jinx rides us apart where you followed our mother to her cold slumber; a second shock boiling its stone to your heart, leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber you from the residence you could not afford: a gold key, your half of a woolen mill, twenty suits from Dunne's, an English Ford, the love and legal verbiage of another will, boxes of pictures of people I do not know. I touch their cardboard faces. They must go. But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album, hold me. I stop here, where a small boy waits in a ruffled dress for someone to come... for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy or for this velvet lady who cannot smile. Is this your father's father, this Commodore in a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile has made it unimportant who you are looking for. I'll never know what these faces are all about. I lock them into their book and throw them out. Tlis is the yellow scrapbook that you began the year I was born; as crackling now and wrinkly as tobacco leaves: clippings where Hoover outran the Democrats, wiggling his dry finger at me and Prohibition; news where the Hindenburg went down and recent years where you went flush on war. This year, solvent but sick, you meant to marry that pretty widow in a one-month rush. But before you had that second chance, I cried on your fat shoulder. Three days later you died. These are the snapshots of marriage, stopped in places. Side by side at the rail toward Nassau now; here, with the winner's cup at the speedboat races, here, in tails at the Cotillion, you take a bow, here, by our kennel of dogs with their pink eyes, running like show-bred pigs in their chain-link pen; here, at the horseshow where my sister wins a prize; Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator, my first lost keeper, to love or look at later. I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept for three years, telling all she does not say of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept, she writes. My God, father, each Christmas Day with your blood, will I drink down your glass of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass. Only in this hoarded span will love persevere. Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you, bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.

Written by Anne Sexton | Elegy In The Classroom In the thin classroom, where your face was noble and your words were all things, I find this boily creature in your place; find you disarranged, squatting on the window sill, irrefutably placed up there, like a hunk of some big frog watching us through the V of your woolen legs. Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane. We fidget in our plain chairs and pretend to catalogue our facts for your burly sorcery or ignore your fat blind eyes or the prince you ate yesterday who was wise, wise, wise.

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 Louise Gluck | Lullaby It is a summer evening. The yellow moths sag against the locked screens and the faded curtains suck over the window sills and from another building a goat calls in his dreams. This is the TV parlor in the best ward at Bedlam. The night nurse is passing out the evening pills. She walks on two erasers, padding by us one by one. MY sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl; it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth. I will ignore the bed. I am linen on a shelf. Let the others moan in secret; let each lost butterfly go home. Old woolen head, take me like a yellow moth while the goat calls hush- a-bye.

Written by Yves Bonnefoy | The house where I was born (06) I woke up, but I was travelling, The train had rolled throughout the night, It was now going toward huge clouds That were standing, packed together, down there, Dawn rent from time to time by forks of lightning. I watched the advent of the world In the bushes of the embankment; and all at once That other fire below a field Of stones and vines. The wind, the rain Blew its smoke back against the ground, But a red flame flared up, Taking by the handful the base of the sky. How long were you burning, wine grower’s fire, Who wanted you there, and for whom on this earth? And then it was day; and the sun Cast its thousand shafts of light On the lace that covered the blue woolen cushions In the compartment where people slept, Their heads still nodding. I did not sleep, I was still at the age when one is full of hope, I dedicated my words to the low mountains That I could see coming through the windows.

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 1: Huffy Henry hid the day Huffy Henry hid the day, unappeasable Henry sulked. I see his point,-”a trying to put things over. It was the thought that they thought they could do it made Henry wicked & away. But he should have come out and talked. All the world like a woolen lover once did seem on Henry's side. Then came a departure. Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought. I don't see how Henry, pried open for all the world to see, survived. What he has now to say is a long wonder the world can bear & be. Once in a sycamore I was glad all at the top, and I sang. Hard on the land wears the strong sea and empty grows every bed.

Written by Ellis Parker Butler | The Sheep The Sheep adorns the landscape rural And is both singular and plural— It gives grammarians the creeps To hear one say, “A flock of sheeps.” The Sheep is gentle, meek and mild, And led in herds by man or child— Being less savage than the rabbit, Sheep are gregarious by habit. The Sheep grows wool and thus promotes The making of vests, pants and coats— Vests, pants and coats and woolen cloths Provide good food for hungry moths. With vegetables added to The Sheep, we get our mutton stew— Experiments long since revealed The Sheep should first be killed and peeled. Thus, with our debt to them so deep, All men should cry “Praise be for Sheep!”— And, if we happen to be shepherds, “Praise be they’re not as fierce as leopards!”

Written by Robert William Service | Shiela When I played my penny whistle on the braes above Lochgyle The heather bloomed about us, and we heard the peewit call; As you bent above your knitting something fey was in your smile, And fine and soft and slow the rain made silver on your shawl. Your cheeks were pink like painted cheeks, your eyes a pansy blue . . . My heart was in my playing, but my music was for you. And now I play he organ in this lordly London town; I play the lovely organ with a thousand folks in view. They're wearing silk and satin, but I see a woolen gown, And my heart's not in my music, for I'm thinking, lass, of you; When you listened to a barefoot boy, who piped of ancient pain, And your ragged shawl was pearly in the sweet, shy rain. I'll play them mighty music - O I'll make them stamp and cheer; I'll give the best that's in me, but I'll give it all for you. I'll put my whole heart in it, for I feel that you are near, Not yonder, sleeping always, where the peat is white with dew. But I'll never live the rapture of the shepherd boy the while I trilled for you my whistle on the braes above Lochgyle.

Written by Omar Khayyam | Would that the tavern could always be animated by Would that the tavern could always be animated by the presence of drinkers, that fire would reach the hem of the holy robe of devotees, that their monk's frock might be torn to tatters and their blue woolen garment be trampled under the feet of the drinkers.

Written by Omar Khayyam | Leave knowledge and take the cup in thy hand. Disturb Leave knowledge and take the cup in thy hand. Disturb thyself not about Paradise or Hell, but seek rather the Koocer [the celestial river of wine]. Sell thy silken turban to buy wine and have no more fear. Rid thyself of that head-dress and envelop thy head in a simple woolen band [emblem of Sufism].