Guilt poems have the theme of expressing feelings of guilt. Guilt, a feeling that can eat away at our insides, makes us feel unworthy. It is a complex process.
Guilt arises when a person believes they have violated their moral code and ethical standards. In these types of poems, people talk about the weight of guilt they carry and their desire for forgiveness.
Guilt poems give us hope and healing while struggling with guilt. They tell us that it is possible to move on from past mistakes and gain freedom from those complex feelings.
So if you’re the one looking for a way to get out of this,. These guilt poems can be a great place to start.
In this poetry collection, we have gathered some of the best guilt poems. Read them and share them with others.
By Robert Frost
The clock is frozen in the tower,
The thickening fog with sooty smell
Has blanketed the motor power
Which turns the London streets to hell;
And footsteps with their lonely sound
Intensify the silence round.
I haven’t hope. I haven’t faith.
I live two lives and sometimes three.
The lives I live make life a death
For those who have to live with me.
Knowing the virtues that I lack,
I pat myself upon the back.
With breastplate of self-righteousness
And shoes of smugness on my feet,
Before the urge in me grows less
I hurry off to make retreat.
For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light
To lead me out into the night.
It glitters icy, thin and plain,
And leads me down to Waterloo-
Into a warm electric train
Which travels sorry Surrey through
And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine
Stand deadly still beside the line.
By Carol Rumens
The children are at the loom of another world.
Their braids are oiled and black, their dresses bright.
Their assorted heights would make a melodious chime.
From The Complaints of Poverty
By Nicholas James
MAY poverty, without offence, approach
The splendid equipage, the gilded coach?
May it with freedom all its wants make known?
And will not wealth and pow’r assume a frown?
A Hymn to God the Father
By John Donne
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
An Afternoon nap
By Arthur Yap
the ambitious mother across the road
is at it again. proclaming her goodness
she beats the boy. shouting out his wrongs, with raps
she begins with his mediocre report-book grades.
Eating Fried Chicken
By Linh Dinh
I hate to admit this, brother, but there are times
When I’m eating fried chicken
When I think about nothing else but eating fried chicken,
By Gwendolyn Brooks
Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
Ode to Dirt
By Sharon Olds
Dear dirt, I am sorry I slighted you,
I thought that you were only the background
for the leading characters—the plants
and animals and human animals.
Words of Absolution
By Carol Ann Duffy
She clings to life by a rosary,
ninety years old. Who made you?
God made me. Pearl died a bairn
and him blacklisted. Listen
I Can Wade Grief-
I can wade Grief—
Whole Pools of it—
I’m used to that—
Anthem For Doomed Youth
By Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
Out Of The Deep
By Christina Rossetti
Have mercy, Thou my God; mercy, my God;
For I can hardly bear life day by day:
Be I here or there I fret myself away:
Lo for Thy staff I have but felt Thy rod
By Ellis Parker Butler
So great my debt to thee, I know my life
Is all too short to pay the least I owe,
And though I live it all in that sweet strife,
Still shall I be insolvent when I go.
Bid, then, thy Bailiff Cupid come to me
And bind and lead me wheresoe’er thou art,
And let me live in sweet captivity
Within the debtor’s prison of thy heart.
By Friedrich Schiller
Monument of our own age’s shame,
On thy country casting endless blame,
Rousseau’s grave, how dear thou art to me
Calm repose be to thy ashes blest!
In thy life thou vainly sought’st for rest,
But at length ’twas here obtained by thee!
When will ancient wounds be covered o’er?
Wise men died in heathen days of yore;
Now ’tis lighter yet they die again.
Socrates was killed by sophists vile,
Rousseau meets his death through Christians’ wile,
Rousseau who would fain make Christians men!
Being branded with shame
While it still boils in my blood
Leaves me with cold fingers
And vice-gripped lungs.
By John McCrae
I saw a city filled with lust and shame,
Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light;
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
And speaking, fell before that brutish race
Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,
While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face
Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.
“Speak not of God! In centuries that word
Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we.”
And God stretched forth his finger as He heard
And o’er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
“Oxford, May 30, 1820”
Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow
Such transport, though but for a moment’s space;
Not while, to aid the spirit of the place
The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow
The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough;
But in plain daylight: She, too, at my side,
Who, with her heart’s experience satisfied,
Maintains inviolate its slightest vow!
Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive;
Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim;
Take from ‘her’ brow the withering flowers of eve,
And to that brow life’s morning wreath restore;
Let ‘her’ be comprehended in the frame
Of these illusions, or they please no more.
There Is A Shame Of Nobleness
By Emily Dickinson
There is a shame of nobleness
Confronting sudden pelf,—
A finer shame of ecstasy
Convicted of itself.
A best disgrace a brave man feels,
Acknowledged of the brave,—
One more “Ye Blessed” to be told;
But this involves the grave.
By Henry Kendall
Sometimes we feel so spent for want of rest,
We have no thought beyond. I know to-day,
When tired of bitter lips and dull delay
With faithless words, I cast mine eyes upon
The shadows of a distant mountain-crest,
And said “That hill must hide within its breast
Some secret glen secluded from the sun.
Oh, mother Nature! would that I could run
Outside to thee; and, like a wearied guest,
Half blind with lamps, and sick of feasting, lay
An aching head on thee. Then down the streams
The moon might swim, and I should feel her grace,
While soft winds blew the sorrows from my face,
So quiet in the fellowship of dreams.”
This is all about the guilt poems.