Good, obscure poems

[Schrödinger's Cat]

List some of your favorites that would qualify as "obscure poetry."

once on a yellow piece of paper,
he wrote a poem
and he called it "chops"
because that was the name of his dog.
and that's what it was about
and his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
and his mother hung it on he door
and read it to his aunts
that was the year father tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
and let them sing on the bus
that was the year his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
and his mother and father kissed a lot
and the girl around the corner sent him a
valentine signed with a row of x's
and he had to ask his father what the x's meant
and his father always tucked him in at night
and was always there to do it
once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem called "autumn"
because that was the name of the season
snd that's what it was all about
and his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
and the kids told him
that father tracy smoked cigars
and left butts on the pews
and sometimes they would burn holes
that was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
and the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see santa claus
and the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
and his father never tucked him in at night
and got mad
when he cried for him to do it
once on a piece of paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
called "innocence; a question"
because that was the question about his girl
and that's what is was all about
and his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
becaue he never showed her
that was the year that father tracy died
and he forgot how the end
of apostle's creed went
and he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
and his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
and the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
that made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
and at three a.m he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly
that's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
and he called it "absolutely nothing"
becaue that's what it was really about
and he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
and he hung it on that bathroom door
because he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen

Stephen Chbosky

[BobKKKindle$]

Children of Gaza, by Michael Rosen

In Gaza, children,
you learn that the sky kills
and that houses hurt.
You learn that your blanket is smoke
and breakfast is dirt.

You learn that cars do somersaults
clothes turn red,
friends become statues,
bakers don’t sell bread.

You learn that the night is a gun,
that toys burn
breath can stop,
it could be your turn.

You learn:
if they send you fire
they couldn’t guess:
not just the soldier dies -
it’s you and the rest.

Nowhere to run,
nowhere to go,
nowhere to hide
in the home you know.

You learn
that death isn’t life,
that air isn’t bread,
the land is for all.
You have the right to be
Not Dead.
You have the right to be
Not Dead.
You have the right to be
Not Dead.

[Random Precision]

Spain, Take this Cup From Me


Children of the world,
if Spain falls, —I say, to you I say—
if she falls
down from the sky,
catch her arm of roasting flesh
in a sling between two sheets of earth's metal,
children, how old that curved brow!
how soon in that sun what I told you of!
how quick at breast the ancient rumbles!
how aged your 2 in the school notebook!



Children of the world,
Mother Spain is here cradling her own womb;
she is our teacher with her switches,
she is our mother and teacher,
cross and wood, because she brings you
the dizzying heights and division, and sums, children.
She is self-contained, you prosecuting fathers!



If she falls, I say, to you I say,
If Spain falls, the earth tumbling down,
children, how will you stop growing!
how the year is going to punish the month!
how your mouth will not grow more than ten teeth,
your diphthongs will be switched, your medals will wail!
How the roasted lamb's hide will go on and on
tied by the paw to the great inkpot!
How are you going to descend the steps of the alphabet
until you arrive at the letter in which pain was born!



Children,
Sons of warriors, just then,
lower your voice, for at this moment Spain is dividing up
her powers between the rule of the beast,
the flowering things, the comets, and mankind.


Lower your voice, for she is
still with her severity, which is great, not knowing
what to do, and she has in her hand
the talking skull, and it talks and talks,
the skull, that one with braided hair
the skull, that one that is alive!



Lower your voice, I tell you;
lower your voice, the song of all syllables, the cry
of matter and the low babel of the pyramids,
the empty skulls' song that walks carrying two stones!
Lower your breath, and if
her arm comes down,
and if the switches swish, if it is night,
if the heavens fit into two earthly Purgatories,
if there is a racket in the doors' voices,
if I am late,
if you don't see anybody and if the unsharpened pencils
frighten you, and if your Mother
Spain falls, —I say, to you I say—
leave, children of the world. Go and find her!

- César Vallejo, 1939

[x359594]

Spain, Take this Cup From Me- César Vallejo, 1939

It's a great poem, but I don't think it qualifies as obscure, at least to people who love poetry.

[Random Precision]

True I guess. Yet it's not among his most read poems, like "The Black Heralds", "White Stone on a Black Stone", or Trilce XXVIII, etc. And a lot of people in the Anglosphere haven't even heard of Vallejo, even most people on this board I'd think.

[which doctor]

All poetry could be considered obscure to most people.

[Mujer Libre]

All poetry could be considered obscure to most people.
I'd agree.

It would probably help if the OP explained a little further what is meant by obscure.

Stylistically obscure? Or obscure in terms of content- or just plain inaccessible?

[Trystan]

This is by Pound, who is usually quite obscure, but I think this is one of his best (and influential:

'In a Station of the Metro'

The apparition of these faces in the crowd
Petals on a wet,black bough .