Madness poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best madness poems ever written. Read all poems about madness.
Cruising these residential Sunday
streets in dry August sunlight:
what offends us is
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
(You say) It is not love, it is madness
My madness may be the cause of your fame
Sever not my relationship with you
If nothing then be my enemy
Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
Away with old Hock and madeira,
Too earthly ye are for my sport;
There's a beverage brighter and clearer.
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?
Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Out of the mid-wood's twilight
Into the meadow's dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!
Unfunny uncles who insist
in trying on a lady's hat,
--oh, even if the joke falls flat,
we share your slight transvestite twist
Reubens, river of forgetfulness, garden of sloth,
Pillow of wet flesh that one cannot love,
But where life throngs and seethes without cease
Like the air in the sky and the water in the sea.
Let us have madness openly.
O men Of my generation.
Let us follow
The footsteps of this slaughtered age:
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Dusk chasing the lazy dawn
Sounds of angry skies deafening
Lightning, like a giant snapshot
Blinding your eyes to madness
At the noisy end of the cafe, head bent
over the table, an old man sits alone,
a newspaper in front of him.
With a love a madness for Shelley
and the needy-yap of my youth
has gone from ear to ear:
Your hidden jellylike fleshes irritate
My little warm brother
Embracing your inner organisms
Authenticating the friendliness
The dawn of Tigris soaks with burnt blood
Clamps every soul
Allures every moment of grilling madness
Each dropp of boiling tears
the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave,
Pity me not; but let the world be fed,
Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,
Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.
Where is the song of the birds
On this mid summer morn of madness
Where is the smell of warming earth
and the farm animals cacophony?
misty gaze in haze of maze in madness of civilization in methodlessness of human condition
There is always madness in love. There is always no reason in this madness. Love can fly from Paris to Baluch Mess Abbottabad only to have a cup of tea. Truth is that Love is blindness. Love is madness. Love is sweetness
What a perfect day to end the madness.
Make my return home on Christmas.
To finally end the torment and madness
that fills my heart and soul
I am not absolutely pessimistic
About everyone and even
Around us anytime,
Anger and madness are relatives
Anger and madness are deadly twins
Anger and madness are brothers
Anger and madness have a very close
Use of money in men's transactions has taken life's centre stage;
Stage of world men and women play their roles for all businesses;
Businesses are very many, but what can we say of terrorism business;
Business is for money making, but terrorism is destruction of all!
I don't believe in perfection.
I believe in madness.
Because I am a mortal being
The point about the madhouse is that it's virile.
The point about the madhouse is that it sticks by its beliefs.
The point about the madhouse is that sanity is bourgeois.
The point about the madhouse is that no one is acting.
The point about the madhouse is that no one gets in by simply being nice.
The point about the madhouse is that it liberates the spirit.
The point about the madhouse is that you can think just what you like there.
The point about the madhouse is that anyone can enter.
There's nothing special about the madhouse, people come and go all the time.
There's nothing threatening about the madhouse, we are all of us dying.
There's nothing terminal about the madhouse: you go along for the ride.
There's nothing sad about the madhouse: weeping and gnashing of teeth, that's nothing.
There's nothing mad about the madhouse, it is sanity by default.
We are sane by default, we are mad by design, but the mad are more admirable.
Admirable is the ape, the bulbul, the mitochondrion, the swelling of the larynx,
Admirable the orchid, the garlic, the fire inside the shut book,
Admirable the cry of the tortured, the lost voice of the nightingale, the laughter
in everything ostensibly sane but tending towards madness
such as sunlight, the slow rain, each pendulous drop, the wide road,
the brimming eye, shadows, picnics, public conveyances, thunder.
Nature is a madness with a method and all the madder for that.
Culture is a madness everyone inherits.
Science is a madness in love with numbers, the perfect amour fou.
Health is a madness that shifts from minute to minute, gesundheit!
Money is madness that fills your pockets and leaves a silver slugtrail in the garden.
The point about the madhouse is not to describe it.
The point about the madhouse is not to change it.
The point about the madhouse is to live there
to accustom yourself to its immaculate manners
to dwell in the house of the Lord for ever
with the prophet, the poet, the dwarf, the scholar, the fire.
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