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Famous Short London Poems. Short London Poetry by Famous Poets

Famous Short London Poems. Short London Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best London short poems

See also: Best Famous Short Poems | Short Member Poems | Best Short Member Poems | Top 100 Famous Short Poems

 
by Hilaire Belloc

The Telephone

 To-night in million-voiced London I 
Was lonely as the million-pointed sky 
Until your single voice.
Ah! So the sun Peoples all heaven, although he be but one.


by Mother Goose

The Merchants Of London


Hey diddle dinkety poppety pet,
The merchants of London they wear scarlet,
Silk in the collar and gold in the hem,
So merrily march the merchant men.


by Spike Milligan

Porridge

 Why is there no monument
To Porridge in our land?
It it's good enough to eat,
It's good enough to stand!

On a plinth in London
A statue we should see
Of Porridge made in Scotland
Signed, "Oatmeal, O.
B.
E.
" (By a young dog of three)


by Carl Sandburg

Jack London and O. Henry

 BOTH were jailbirds; no speechmakers at all; speaking best with one foot on a brass rail; a beer glass in the left hand and the right hand employed for gestures.
And both were lights snuffed out … no warning … no lingering: Who knew the hearts of these boozefighters?


by Mother Goose

Pussy-Cat And Queen


"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat,
    Where have you been?"
"I've been to London
    To look at the Queen.
"
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat,
    What did you there?"
"I frightened a little mouse
    Under the chair.
"


by David Lehman

The Lift

 The wonderful thing
about being with
you in this hotel
lift in London full
of people is that none
of them knows what you
and I are about to do
in bed or possibly
on the floor in fact not
even you realize yet
how much you're going
to enjoy this act for
which we have no name
not clinical or hideous, just
a double digit number, perfect
as a skater's figure eight


by Amy Levy

Straw in the Street

 Straw in the street where I pass to-day
Dulls the sound of the wheels and feet.
'Tis for a failing life they lay Straw in the street.
Here, where the pulses of London beat, Someone strives with the Presence grey; Ah, is it victory or defeat? The hurrying people go their way, Pause and jostle and pass and greet; For life, for death, are they treading, say Straw in the street?


by Amy Levy

Out of Town

 Out of town the sky was bright and blue,
Never fog-cloud, lowering, thick, was seen to frown;
Nature dons a garb of gayer hue,
Out of town.
Spotless lay the snow on field and down, Pure and keen the air above it blew; All wore peace and beauty for a crown.
London sky, marred by smoke, veiled from view, London snow, trodden thin, dingy brown, Whence that strange unrest at thoughts of you Out of town?


by William Blake

Jerusalem: England! awake! awake! awake!

 England! awake! awake! awake! 
Jerusalem thy Sister calls!
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death
And close her from thy ancient walls?

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet
Gently upon their bosoms move:
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways:
Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again: Our souls exult, and London's towers Receive the Lamb of God to dwell In England's green and pleasant bowers.


by William Blake

England! awake! awake! awake!

 England! awake! awake! awake! 
Jerusalem thy Sister calls! 
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death 
And close her from thy ancient walls? 

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet 
Gently upon their bosoms move: 
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways: 
Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again: Our souls exult, and London's towers Receive the Lamb of God to dwell In England's green and pleasant bowers.


by Patrick Kavanagh

Memory Of My Father

 Every old man I see
Reminds me of my father
When he had fallen in love with death
One time when sheaves were gathered.
That man I saw in Gardner Street Stumbled on the kerb was one, He stared at me half-eyed, I might have been his son.
And I remember the musician Faltering over his fiddle In Bayswater, London, He too set me the riddle.
Every old man I see In October-coloured weather Seems to say to me: "I was once your father.
"


by A E Housman

Far In a Western Brookland

 Far in a western brookland 
That bred me long ago 
The poplars stand and tremble 
By pools I used to know.
There, in the windless night-time, The wanderer, marvelling why, Halts on the bridge to hearken How soft the poplars sigh.
He hears: no more remembered In fields where I was known, Here I lie down in London And turn to rest alone.
There, by the starlit fences, The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.


by Ezra Pound

Song in the Manner of Housman

 O woe, woe, 
People are born and die, 
We also shall be dead pretty soon 
Therefore let us act as if we were 
dead already.
The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently.
Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
Woeful is this human lot.
Woe! woe, etcetera .
.
.
.
London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter.
Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace.
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera .
.
.