Famous Short Write Poems
Famous Short Write Poems. Short Write Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Write short poems
by
Shel Silverstein
Tell me who can
Catch a toucan?
Lou can.
Just how few can
Ride the toucan?
Two can.
What kind of goo can
Stick you to the toucan?
Glue can.
Who can write some
More about the toucan?
You can!
by
Ben Jonson
IX.
? TO ALL TO WHOM I WRITE.
May none whose scatter'd names honor my book,
For strict degrees of rank or title look :
'Tis 'gainst the manners of an epigram ;
And I a poet here, no herald am.
by
Erica Jong
The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears
as husband, lover
analyst & muse,
as father, son
& maybe even God
& surely death.
All this is true.
The man you turn to
in the dark
is many men.
This is an open secret
women share
& yet agree to hide
as if
they might then
hide it from themselves.
I will not hide.
I write in the nude.
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor's name is Love.
by
Dorothy Parker
And let her loves, when she is dead,
Write this above her bones:
"No more she lives to give us bread
Who asked her only stones.
"
by
Matsuo Basho
When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there's nothing to write about
but radishes.
by
Richard Brautigan
At 1:30 in the morning a fart
smells like a marriage between
an avocado and a fish head.
I have to get out of bed
to write this down without
my glasses on.
by
Oscar Wilde
I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.
by
George (Lord) Byron
I would to heaven that I were so much clay,
As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling -
Because at least the past were passed away -
And for the future - (but I write this reeling,
Having got drunk exceedingly today,
So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling)
I say - the future is a serious matter -
And so - for God's sake - hock and soda water!
by
Godfrey Mutiso Gorry
And then they pretend like owls
With marble eyes and wizened stupidity
I do not know why they cannot perceive
True art
But I will write
Until sand evaporates
And the moon consumes the sun
I will write
Even for the sake of art
For myself and for those who feel
Reading could lift them
Into other spheres of fancy
Where thoughts are much clearer
And deeds best described
As a vintage of the self
And society.
by
George Herbert
Since, Lord, to thee
A narrow way and little gate
Is all the passage, on my infancy
Thou didst lay hold, and antedate
My faith in me.
O let me still
Write thee great God, and me a child:
Let me be soft and supple to thy will,
Small to my self, to others mild,
Behither ill.
Although by stealth
My flesh get on, yet let her sister
My soul bid nothing, but preserve her wealth:
The growth of flesh is but a blister;
Childhood is health.
by
Charles Bukowski
it
takes
a lot of
desperation
dissatisfaction
and
disillusion
to
write
a
few
good
poems.
it's not
for
everybody
either to
write
it
or even to
read
it.
by
Ruth Stone
For me the great truths are laced with hysteria.
How many Einsteins can we tolerate?
I leap into the uncertainty principle.
After so many smears, you want to wash it off with a laugh.
Ha ha, you say.
So what if it's a meltdown?
Last lines to poems I will write immediately.
by
Jane Austen
Miss Lloyd has now sent to Miss Green,
As, on opening the box, may be seen,
Some years of a Black Ploughman's Gauze,
To be made up directly, because
Miss Lloyd must in mourning appear
For the death of a Relative dear--
Miss Lloyd must expect to receive
This license to mourn and to grieve,
Complete, ere the end of the week--
It is better to write than to speak
by
Walter Savage Landor
Well I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand .
.
.
"O! what a child!
You think you're writing upon stone!"
I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide
And find Ianthe's name again.
by
Emily Dickinson
Who never lost, are unprepared
A Coronet to find!
Who never thirsted
Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!
Who never climbed the weary league --
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro's shore?
How many Legions overcome --
The Emperor will say?
How many Colors taken
On Revolution Day?
How many Bullets bearest?
Hast Thou the Royal scar?
Angels! Write "Promoted"
On this Soldier's brow!
by
Sir Walter Raleigh
To Griggs, that learned man, in many a bygone session,
His kids were his delight, and physics his profession;
Now Griggs, grown old and glum, and less intent on knowledge,
Physics himself at home, and sends his kids to college.
by
Ezra Pound
I have tried to write Paradise
Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise.
Let the Gods forgive what I
have made
Let those I love try to forgive
what I have made.
by
Ted Hughes
'The child is father to the man.
'
How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can:
'The child is father to the man.
'
No; what the poet did write ran,
'The man is father to the child.
'
'The child is father to the man!'
How can he be? The words are wild.
by
Anne Sexton
Busy, with an idea for a code, I write
signals hurrying from left to right,
or right to left, by obscure routes,
for my own reasons; taking a word like writes
down tiers of tries until its secret rites
make sense; or until, suddenly, RATS
can amazingly and funnily become STAR
and right to left that small star
is mine, for my own liking, to stare
its five lucky pins inside out, to store
forever kindly, as if it were a star
I touched and a miracle I really wrote.
by
Suheir Hammad
it is written
the act of writing is
holy words are
sacred and your breath
brings out the
god in them
i write these words
quickly repeat them
softly to myself
this talisman for you
fold this prayer
around your neck fortify
your back with these
whispers
may you walk ever
loved and in love
know the sun
for warmth the moon
for direction
may these words always
remind you your breath
is sacred words
bring out the god
in you
by
James Wright
Along the sprawled body of the derailed Great Northern freight car,
I strike a match slowly and lift it slowly.
No wind.
Beyond town, three heavy white horses
Wade all the way to their shoulders
In a silo shadow.
Suddenly the freight car lurches.
The door slams back, a man with a flashlight
Calls me good evening.
I nod as I write good evening, lonely
And sick for home.
by
Vachel Lindsay
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sat gossiping with Robert.
(She was really a raving beauty in her day.
With Mary Pickford curls in clouds and whirls.
)
She was trying to think of something nice to say,
So she pointed to a page by her fellow star and sage,
And said: "I wish that I could write that way!"
by
Stephen Crane
Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page,
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.
by
William Strode
Loving Sister: every line
Of your last letter was so fine
With the best mettle, that the grayne
Of Scrivener's pindust were but vayne:
The touch of Gold did sure instill
Some vertue more than did the Quill.
And since you write noe cleanly hand
Your token bids mee understand
Mine eyes have here a remedy
Wherby to reade more easily.
I doe but jeast: your love alone
Is my interpretation:
My words I will recant, and sweare
I know your hand is wondrous faire.
by
Carl Sandburg
BILBEA, I was in Babylon on Saturday night.
I saw nothing of you anywhere.
I was at the old place and the other girls were there, but no Bilbea.
Have you gone to another house? or city?
Why don’t you write?
I was sorry.
I walked home half-sick.
Tell me how it goes.
Send me some kind of a letter.
And take care of yourself.