is a very popular Israeli poet (1924-2000). In his poems, he expresses the clash between the way things seem and the way they are, and (according to World Literature Today, vol. 60, No. 2, spring 1986) "as a philosopher philosophizes, so Amichai's speaker poeticizes as his poems unfold".

The first poem - or fragment of a poem - on the right was found in Leslie Katz's article "Late Israeli poet's wisdom continues to be a blessing" in the Jewish Bulletin of Northern California. (Amichai's poetry is, by the way, considerably more universal than what appears in the article in question.)

I have become very hairy is from plagiarist.com. Read more poems by Yehuda Amichai at plagiarist.com.

Once, my head sank down, tired, on my hairy chest
and I found the smell of my father there
again, after many years.

I Have Become Very Hairy

I have become very hairy all over my body.
I'm afraid they'll start hunting me because of my fur.

My multicolored shirt has no meaning of love --
it looks like an air photo of a railway station.

At night my body is open and awake under the blanket,
like eyes under the blindfold of someone to be shot.

Restless I shall wander about;
hungry for life I'll die.

Yet I wanted to be calm, like a mound with all its cities destroyed,
and tranquil, like a full cemetery.

is a Swedish 'worker poet' (1904-78). He became an orphan at a very young age, and was auctioned away to different farms as labour force, until he was old enough to fulfil the dream that had been keeping him going so far and become a sailor.

The poem on the right is from the collection Spökskepp, 1929.
The last verse of the poem (concerning itself with an outbreak of plague in the Bengal) goes something like this:

Sail out where the storm winds blow
Freshly at hairy chests,
Out where the thundering surf
Drowns the voice of death.

I Bengalen

 Lyssnen till en Ariasång,
Arias sång om döden;
När Varûnas stjärnebarn
Se i Ganges’ flöden.

Pestens onda, mörka fé
Härjar i Bengalen.
Hjälp, o Vishnu! går ett rop
Genom djungeldalen.

Seglen ut där stormen drar
Friskt kring hårigt bröst,
Ut där bränningsåskors larm
Kväva dödens röst.

Calcutta – 1924

is a Roman poet, who lived around 40-104 A.D. 

Martialis wrote only epigrams, where dandies, doctors and coquettish dames suffered under his satire. Apparently also hairy men ...

Read more classical 'gay' poetry. 

                                             --An epigram

is a Bengali poet, writer and physician (born 1962), who has been under continual attack from religious fundamentalists in her country and throughout the world for her widespread efforts in defense of women's rights, being a daring secular feminist whose writings challenge traditional gender discrimination.

The Government of Bangladesh banned the Bengali literary magazine Desh in March 2000 for publishing Nasrin's poem My Mother's Story, from which the excerpt on the right is taken. 
Perhaps because the poem can seem a bit blasphemous to some puritans, with Muhammad's hairy chest and everything ... 
(See further below for what the Hadith says about the Prophet's hairiness.)

This is Taslima Nasrin's website (currently under construction), while the Institute for Secularisation of Islamic Society has a long interview with her (though they, as usual, have misunderstood - or are actively maintaining the misconception of - what a fatwa actually is: not 'a death sentence', even if it can be in some cases, but 'a verdict by the mullahs', the islamic religious leaders - about anything). 
Nasrin's views on the Koran and its women, as expressed in the ISIS interview, should by the critical reader be compared to articles published by 'Islamic feminists', like Sisters in Islam, who are fighting for the feminism that is within the Koran, but which the male religious leaders have denied and hidden. Not that Nasrin by any means is all that wrong in this question, but I do think that the Koran can give many different impressions, depending on how you read it.

[...]

There is, I know, no reincarnation,
no last judgment day:
heaven, bird meat, wine, pink virgins -
these are but traps set by religionists.

Mother will go to no heaven,
Will not walk in any garden with anybody.
Cunning foxes will enter her grave, will eat her flesh;
her white bones will be spread by the winds.

Still, I want to believe in heaven
over the seventh sky, or somewhere,
a fabulous, magnificent heaven
where my mother reached
crossing the impossible bridge, the Pulsirat, with ease.
And a very handsome man, the prophet Mohammed,
has welcomed her, embraced her, felt her melt on his hairy chest.
She will wish to take a shower in the fountain,
She will wish to dance, to jump with joy,
She will do all the things she has never done before.
The bird meat will arrive on a golden tray.
My mother will eat to her heart's content.
Allah Himself will come by foot into the garden to meet her,
put a red flower into her hair, kiss her passionately.

[...]                                                     --- Read the whole poem

is, as most people should know, an Indian-born Englishman (1865-1936), and has written many fine things in his lifetime. Among them is the tale of how disastrous it can be to be hairy and attract the ladies when you're a sailor staying at Fultah Fisher's boarding-house.

On the right is a piece from the poem The Ballad of Fisher's Boarding-House.

And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
Who carried on his hairy chest
The maid Ultruda's charm --
The little silver crucifix
That keeps a man from harm.

[...]                 --- Read the whole poem

is an Australian poet (1867-1922), famous from the 10-dollar note. He was born the son of a poor miner in New South Wales, and grew up to lead a generally very aimless and unhappy life, which, however, gave him plenty of inspiration for his poetry.  

On the right is an excerpt from his poem Sweeney, a story about wandering, rootlessness, hairiness and absolutism in the Australian outback.

Sweeney was found at Toronto University's Representative Poetry Online.

Very old and thin and dirty were the garments that he wore,
Just a shirt and pair of trousers, and a boot, and nothing more;
He was wringing-wet, and really in a sad and sinful plight,
And his hat was in his left hand, and a bottle in his right.

His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh,
And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache --
(His hairy chest was open to what poets call the `wined' --
And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind).

[...]                                                            --- Read the whole poem

is a chemistry student and cat person in Nottingham who writes amazing poetry. 

Reality becomes poetry at

off the shoulder

and

scraps

was a Sufi (1215?-1292), and is said to be the greatest didactic poet of Persia. He has written the Gulistan (Rose Garden) and the Bostan (Orchard), and many fine odes and lyrics.

Thsi are the first lines of a poem about God, translated by Andrew Harvey and Eryk Hanut. Read the rest of this poem, and some other Sufi poetry.

How could I ever thank my Friend?
No thanks could ever begin to be worthy.
Every hair of my body is a gift from Him;
How could I thank Him for each hair?

[...]

Григорий Медынский, Марья, Издательство "Советский Писатель", Ленинград 1950, стр. 10.

Yevgeny Zamyatin, We, Penguin Classics, New York 1993; excerpts are from pages 150 and 157 - translated by Clarence Brown (c) 1993.