Famous Woodstove Poems by Famous Poets
These are examples of famous Woodstove poems written by some of the greatest and most-well-known modern and classical poets. PoetrySoup is a great educational poetry resource of famous woodstove poems. These examples illustrate what a famous woodstove poem looks like and its form, scheme, or style (where appropriate).
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...ng the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,
their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,
every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,
the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.
I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.
I can't see my own ...Read more of this...
by
Atwood, Margaret
...of logs
from woodshed to Glenwood and build up the fire
that keeps the coldest night outside our windows.
Sit by the woodstove, Camilla,
while I bring glasses of white,
and we'll talk, passing the time, about weather
without pretending that we can alter it:
Storms stop when they stop, no sooner,
leaving the birches glossy
with ice and bent glittering to rimy ground.
We'll avoid the programmed weatherman grinning
from the box, cheerful with tempest,
and take the day as...Read more of this...
by
Hall, Donald
...
like glasses of that famous children's drink: the good flower
wine .
I'd chop wood for her stove. She cooked on a woodstove
and heated the place during the winter with a huge wood fur-
nace that she manned like the captain of a submarine in a
dark basement ocean during the winter.
In the summer I'd throw endless cords of wood into her
basement until I was silly in the head and everything looked
like wood, even clouds in the sky and cars parked on the
stree...Read more of this...
by
Brautigan, Richard
...voured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
sp...Read more of this...
by
Jones, Richard
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