Famous Tickles Poems by Famous Poets

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Let Love Go On

 LET it go on; let the love of this hour be poured out till all the answers are made, the last dollar spent and the last blood gone.

Time runs with an ax and a hammer, time slides down the hallways with a pass-key and a master-key, and time gets by, time wins.

Let the love of this hour go on;...Read more of this...

Towards The Imminent Days (Section 4)

 In my aunt's house, the milk jug's beaded crochet cover
tickles the ear. We've eaten boiled things with butter. 
Pie spiced like islands, dissolving in cream, is now
dissolving in us. We've reached the teapot of calm. 
The table we sit at is fashioned of three immense
beech boards out of England. The minute widths of the year
have been refined in the...Read more of this...

Birches

 When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks...Read more of this...

Lead Soldiers

 The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful 
little explosions
and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature 
rockets
peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala
flamed a night of victorious wars.
The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his 
head forward and back, slowly,
and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares 
into...Read more of this...

Lilys Menagerie

 [Goethe describes this much-admired Poem, which 
he wrote in honour of his love Lily, as being "designed to change 
his surrender of her into despair, by drolly-fretful images."]

THERE'S no menagerie, I vow,

Excels my Lily's at this minute;

She keeps the strangest creatures in it,
And catches them, she knows not how.

Oh, how they hop, and run, and rave,
And their clipp'd pinions...Read more of this...

The Photograph

See dis pictyah in my han'?
Dat's my gal;
Ain't she purty? goodness lan'!
Huh name Sal.
Dat's de very way she be—
Kin' o' tickles me to see
Huh a-smilin' back at me.
She sont me dis photygraph
Jes' las' week;
An' aldough hit made me laugh—
My black cheek
Felt somethin' a-runnin' *****;
Bless yo' soul, it was a tear
Jes' f'om wishin' she was here.
Often when I 's all alone
Layin'...Read more of this...

Honky Tonk in Cleveland Ohio

 IT’S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba jackass snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
 The cartoonists weep in their beer.
 Ship riveters talk with their feet
 To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
...Read more of this...

The Lover

He waits and it is not without
a great deal of trouble that he tickles
a nightingale with his guitar.

He would like to cry Andiamo!
but alas! no one has arrived
yet although the dew is perfect

for adieux. How bitterly he beats
his hairy chest! because he is
a man sitting out an indignity.

The mean moon is like a nasty
little lemon above the ubiquitous
snivelling fir trees...Read more of this...

Old Sweethearts

 Oh Maggie, do you mind the day
 We went to school together,
And as we stoppit by the way
 I rolled you in the heather?
My! but you were the bonny lass
 And we were awfu' late for class.

Your locks are now as white as snow,
 And you are ripe and wrinkled,
A grandmother ten times or so,
 Yet how your blue...Read more of this...

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love

 If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.

Shall it be male or female? say the...Read more of this...

The Land

 When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius-a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin'' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll...Read more of this...

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