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Famous Short Poems Poems. Short Poems Poetry by Famous Poets

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

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

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by Emily Dickinson

To see the Summer Sky

 To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie --
True Poems flee --


by Barry Tebb

WAITING

 I am waiting for the sky to flower

Like poems in a winter mind:

And yet they come, maybe trailing along

An urchin gang, sobbing and snotty-nosed.


by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (1)

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by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (3)

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by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (4)

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by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (5)

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by Rg Gregory

shape poems (2)

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by Charles Bukowski

Poetry

 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 Dimitris P Kraniotis

One-word garments

 Waves of circumflexes
storms of adverbs,
windmills of verbs,
shells of signs of ellipsis,
on the island of poems
of soul,
of mind,
of thought,
one-word garments
you wear
to endure!


by Walt Whitman

Here the Frailest Leaves of Me.

 HERE the frailest leaves of me, and yet my strongest-lasting: 
Here I shade and hide my thoughts—I myself do not expose them, 
And yet they expose me more than all my other poems.


by Walt Whitman

To Foreign Lands.

 I HEARD that you ask’d for something to prove this puzzle, the New World, 
And to define America, her athletic Democracy; 
Therefore I send you my poems, that you behold in them what you wanted.


by Robert Creeley

The Conspiracy

 You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.
Things tend to awaken even through random communication Let us suddenly proclaim spring.
And jeer at the others, all the others.
I will send a picture too if you will send me one of you.


by Jiri Mordecai Langer

The poem

 The poem
that I chose for you
is simple,
as are all my singing poems.
It has the trace of a veil, a little balsam, and a taste of the honey of lies.
There is also the coming end of summer when heat scorches the meadow and the quick waters of the river cease to flow.


by Shel Silverstein

Its Dark in Here

 I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here.


by Ruth Stone

So What

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 Walt Whitman

Thought.

 OF what I write from myself—As if that were not the resumé; 
Of Histories—As if such, however complete, were not less complete than the preceding
 poems; 
As if those shreds, the records of nations, could possibly be as lasting as the preceding
 poems; 
As if here were not the amount of all nations, and of all the lives of heroes.


by Ben Jonson

To the Learned Critic


XVII.
 ? TO THE LEARNED CRITIC.
  
May others fear, fly, and traduce thy name,
    As guilty men do magistrates ; glad I,
That wish my poems a legitimate fame,
    Charge them, for crown, to thy sole censure hie.
And but a sprig of bays, given by thee,
Shall outlive garlands, stol'n from the chaste tree.


by Dimitris P Kraniotis

To the dead poet of obscurity

 (In honor of the dead unpublished poet)

Well done!
You have won!
You should not feel sorry.
Your unpublished poems -always remember- have not been buried, haven’t bent under the strength of time.
Like gold inside the soil they remain, they never melt.
They may be late but they will be given to their people someday, to offer their sweet, eternal essence.


by Charles Bukowski

As The Poems Go

 as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight, the traffic, the nights and the days of the years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living it, typing one more line now as a man plays a piano through the radio, the best writers have said very little and the worst, far too much.
from ONTHEBUS - 1992


by Walt Whitman

To Rich Givers.

 WHAT you give me, I cheerfully accept, 
A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money—these, as I rendezvous with my
 poems; 
A traveler’s lodging and breakfast as I journey through The States—Why should I
 be
 ashamed to own such gifts? Why to advertise for them? 
For I myself am not one who bestows nothing upon man and woman; 
For I bestow upon any man or woman the entrance to all the gifts of the universe.
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by Richard Jones

What Do You Do About Dry Periods In Your Writing?

 When the writing is going well,
I am a prince in a desert palace,
fountains flowing in the garden.
I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow and drink from a silver goblet, poems like a banquet spread before me on rugs with rosettes the damask of blood.
But exiled from the palace, I wander -- crawling on burning sand, thirsting on barren dunes, believing a heartless mirage no less true than palms and pools of the cool oasis.


by Joyce Kilmer

Trees

 (For Mrs.
Henry Mills Alden) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.


by Erica Jong

Autobiographical

 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 Alexander Pushkin

The Night

 My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,
Disturbs the velvet of the dark night's mantle,
By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,
Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood --
And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,
And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,
And smile to me, and hear I the voice:
My friend, my sweetest friend.
.
.
I love.
.
.
I'm yours.
.
.
I'm yours!


by Robert Frost

To the Thawing Wind

 COME with rain.
O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; Give the buried flower a dream; make the settled snowbank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate'er you do tonight, bath my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o'er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of door.


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