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Best Famous Work Up Poems

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

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Written by Heather McHugh | Create an image from this poem


 The gh comes from rough, the o from women's,
and the ti from unmentionables--presto:
there's the perfect English instance of

with fish.
Our wish was for a better revelation: for a correspondence-- if not lexical, at least phonetic; if not with Madonna then at least with Mary Magdalene.
Instead we get the sheer opacity of things: an accident of incident, a tracery of history: the dung inside the dungarees, the jock strap for a codpiece, and the ruined patches bordering the lip.
One boot (high-heeled) could make Sorrento sorry, Capri corny, even little Italy a little ill.
Low-cased, a lover looks one over--eggs without ease, semen without oars-- and there, on board, tricked out in fur and fin, the landlubber who wound up captain.
Where's it going, this our (H)MS? More west? More forth? The quest itself is at a long and short behest: it's wound in winds.
(Take rough from seas, and women from the shore, unmentionables out of mind).
We're here for something rich, beyond appearances.
What do I mean? (What can one say?) A minute of millenium, unculminating stint, a stonishment: my god, what's utterable? Gargah, gatto, goat.
Us animals is made to seine and trawl and drag and gaff our way across the earth.
The earth, it rolls.
We dig, lay lines, book arguably perfect passages.
But earth remains untranslated, unplumbed.
A million herring run where we catch here a freckle, there a pock; the depths to which things live words only glint at.
Terns in flight work up what fond minds might call syntax.
As for that semantic antic in the distance, is it whiskered fish, finned cat? Don't settle just for two.
Some bottomographies are brooded over, and some skies swum through.

Written by George Herbert | Create an image from this poem


 As I one ev'ning sat before my cell, 
Me thoughts a star did shoot into my lap.
I rose, and shook my clothes, as knowing well, That from small fires comes oft no small mishap.
When suddenly I heard one say, -Do as thou usest, disobey, Expell good motions from thy breast, Which have the face of fire, but end in rest-.
I, who had heard of music in the spheres, But not of speech in stars, began to muse: But turning to my God, whose ministers The stars and all things are; if I refuse, Dread Lord, said I , so oft my good; Then I refuse not ev'n with blood To wash away my stubborn thought: For I will do, or suffer what I ought.
But I have also stars and shooters too, Born where thy servants both artilleries use.
My tears and prayers night and day do woo, And work up to thee; yet thou dost refuse.
Not but that I am (I must say still) Much more oblig'd to do thy will, Than thou to grant mine: but because Thy promise now hath ev'n set thee thy laws.
Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deign To enter combat with us, and contest With thine own clay.
But I would parley fain: Shun not my arrows, and behold my breast.
Yet if thou shunnest, I am thine: I must be so, if I am mine.
There is no articling with thee: I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.
Written by Les Murray | Create an image from this poem

Flowering Eucalypt In Autumn

 That slim creek out of the sky
the dried-blood western gum tree
is all stir in its high reaches:

its strung haze-blue foliage is dancing
points down in breezy mobs, swapping
pace and place in an all-over sway

retarded en masse by crimson blossom.
Bees still at work up there tack around their exploded furry likeness and the lawn underneath's a napped rug of eyelash drift, of blooms flared like a sneeze in a redhaired nostril, minute urns, pinch-sized rockets knocked down by winds, by night-creaking fig-squirting bats, or the daily parrot gang with green pocketknife wings.
Bristling food tough delicate raucous life, each flower comes as a spray in its own turned vase, a taut starbust, honeyed model of the tree's fragrance crisping in your head.
When the japanese plum tree was shedding in spring, we speculated there among the drizzling petals what kind of exquisitely precious artistic bloom might be gendered in a pure ethereal compost of petals potted as they fell.
From unpetalled gun-debris we know what is grown continually, a tower of fabulous swish tatters, a map hoisted upright, a crusted riverbed with up-country show towns.

Book: Shattered Sighs