Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

 Poet
1 William Wordsworth
2 William Shakespeare
3 Oscar Wilde
4 Emily Dickinson
5 Rabindranath Tagore
6 Maya Angelou
7 Robert Frost
8 Langston Hughes
9 Walt Whitman
10 Shel Silverstein
11 William Blake
12 Pablo Neruda
13 Rudyard Kipling
14 Sylvia Plath
15 Alfred Lord Tennyson
16 William Butler Yeats
17 Tupac Shakur
18 Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
19 Charles Bukowski
20 Sarojini Naidu
21 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
22 Muhammad Ali
23 Christina Rossetti
24 Billy Collins
25 Alice Walker
26 Sandra Cisneros
27 Ogden Nash
28 Carol Ann Duffy
29 John Donne
30 Edgar Allan Poe
31 Ralph Waldo Emerson
32 Raymond Carver
33 Nikki Giovanni
34 John Keats
35 Lewis Carroll
36 Spike Milligan
37 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
38 Thomas Hardy
39 Mark Twain
40 Carl Sandburg
41 Percy Bysshe Shelley
42 Anne Sexton
43 Alexander Pushkin
44 Roger McGough
45 Henry David Thoreau
46 Wendell Berry
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
50 George (Lord) Byron

Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.


Famous Short Books Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Books | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by D A Levy

for a rainy day

kisses
we tried to save
pressed in books
like flowers from
a sun warmed day
only
years later to
open yellowing pages
to find those same
kisses - wilted and dry.


by Walt Whitman

A Clear Midnight

 THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, 
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, 
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, and the stars.


by William Butler Yeats

A Poet To His Beloved

 I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.


by Jane Kenyon

Notes from the Other Side

 I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.
Now there is no more catching one's own eye in the mirror, there are no bad books, no plastic, no insurance premiums, and of course no illness.
Contrition does not exist, nor gnashing of teeth.
No one howls as the first clod of earth hits the casket.
The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour, and God, as promised, proves to be mercy clothed in light.


by Adrienne Rich

In A Classroom

 Talking of poetry, hauling the books
arm-full to the table where the heads
bend or gaze upward, listening, reading aloud,
talking of consonants, elision,
caught in the how, oblivious of why:
I look in your face, Jude,
neither frowning nor nodding,
opaque in the slant of dust-motes over the table:
a presence like a stone, if a stone were thinking
What I cannot say, is me.
For that I came.


by Philip Larkin

New Eyes Each Year

 New eyes each year
Find old books here,
And new books,too,
Old eyes renew;
So youth and age
Like ink and page
In this house join,
Minting new coin.


by Isaac Watts

Against Idleness and Mischief

 How doth the little busy Bee 
Improve each shining Hour,
And gather Honey all the day
From every opening Flower!

How skilfully she builds her Cell!
How neat she spreads the Wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet Food she makes.
In Works of Labour or of Skill I would be busy too: For Satan finds some Mischief still For idle Hands to do.
In Books, or Work, or healthful Play Let my first Years be past, That I may give for every Day Some good Account at last.


by William Allingham

Writing

 A man who keeps a diary, pays 
Due toll to many tedious days; 
But life becomes eventful--then 
His busy hand forgets the pen.
Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness.


by Charles Bukowski

Sway With Me

 sway with me, everything sad --
madmen in stone houses
without doors,
lepers steaming love and song
frogs trying to figure
the sky;
sway with me, sad things --
fingers split on a forge
old age like breakfast shell
used books, used people
used flowers, used love
I need you
I need you
I need you:
it has run away
like a horse or a dog,
dead or lost
or unforgiving.


by Barry Tebb

HAPPY THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY CARCANET BOOKS

 Sorry, I almost forgot, but I don't think

Its worth the effort to become a Carcanet poet

With my mug-shot on art gloss paper

In your catalogue as big as Mont Blanc

Easier to imagine, as Benjamin Peret did,

A wind that would unscrew the mountain

Or stars like apricot tarts strolling

Aimlessly along the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.


by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Suum Cuique

 The rain has spoiled the farmer's day;
Shall sorrow put my books away?
Thereby are two days lost:
Nature shall mind her own affairs,
I will attend my proper cares,
In rain, or sun, or frost.


by Weldon Kees

The End Of The Library

 When the coal
Gave out, we began
Burning the books, one by one;
First the set
Of Bulwer-Lytton
And then the Walter Scott.
They gave a lot of warmth.
Toward the end, in February, flames Consumed the Greek Tragedians and Baudelaire, Proust, Robert Burton And the Po-Chu-i.
Ice Thickened on the sills.
More for the sake of the cat, We said, than for ourselves, Who huddled, shivering, Against the stove All winter long.


by Erica Jong

Flying at Forty

 You call me
courageous, 
I who grew up
gnawing on books,
as some kids
gnaw
on bubble gum,

who married disastrously
not once
but three times,
yet have a lovely daughter
I would not undo
for all the dope
in California.
Fear was my element, fear my contagion.
I swam in it till I became immune.
The plane takes off & I laugh aloud.
Call me courageous.
I am still alive.


by James Schuyler

October

 Books litter the bed,
leaves the lawn.
It lightly rains.
Fall has come: unpatterned, in the shedding leaves.
The maples ripen.
Apples come home crisp in bags.
This pear tastes good.
It rains lightly on the random leaf patterns.
The nimbus is spread above our island.
Rain lightly patters on un- shed leaves.
The books of fall litter the bed.


by William Butler Yeats

The Realists

 Hope that you may understand!
What can books of men that wive
In a dragon-guarded land,
paintings of the dolphin-drawn
Sea-nymphs in their pearly wagons
Do, but awake a hope to live
That had gone
With the dragons?


by Edward Lear

There was an old person of Hove

There was an old person of Hove,
Who frequented the depths of a grove;
Where he studied his books, with the wrens and the rooks,
That tranquil old person of Hove.


by Walt Whitman

Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour

 HAST never come to thee an hour, 
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth? 
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, 
To utter nothingness?


by William Strode

On A Register For A Bible

 I am the faythfull deputy
Unto your fading memory.
Your Index long in search doth hold; Your folded wrinkles make books olde: But I the Scripture open plaine, And what you heard soone teach againe: By mee the Welchman well may bring Himselfe to Heaven in a string.


by Ben Jonson

To the Same. (H. Goodyere)


LXXXVI.
 ? TO THE SAME.
  
[TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE.
]
When I would know thee, GOODYERE, my thought looks
Upon thy well-made choice of friends, and books ;
Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends
In making thy friends books, and thy books friends :
Now I must give thy life and deed, the voice
Attending such a study, such a choice ;
Where, though't be love that to praise doth move,
It was a knowledge that begat that love.


by Dylan Thomas

Was There A Time

 Was there a time when dancers with their fiddles
In children's circuses could stay their troubles?
There was a time they could cry over books,
But time has set its maggot on their track.
Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe.
What's never known is safest in this life.
Under the skysigns they who have no arms Have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghost Alone's unhurt, so the blind man sees best.


by Mother Goose

Bobby Snooks

 

Little Bobby Snooks was fond of his books,
  And loved by his usher and master;
But naughty Jack Spry, he got a black eye,
  And carries his nose in a plaster.


by Robert William Service

Book Borrower

 I am a mild man, you'll agree,
 But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
 Turn down their pages.
Or when a chap a book I lend, And find he's loaned it Without permission to a friend - As if he owned it.
But worst of all I hate those crooks (May hell-fires burn them!) Who beg the loan of cherished books And don't return them.
My books are tendrils of myself No shears can sever .
.
.
May he who rapes one from its shelf Be damned forever.


by Emily Dickinson

My Wars are laid away in Books --

 My Wars are laid away in Books --
I have one Battle more --
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o'er --
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best -- Neglecting me -- till
All the rest, have died --
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away --
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity --


by Constantine P Cavafy

He Came To Read

 He came to read.
Two or three books are open; historians and poets.
But he only read for ten minutes, and gave them up.
He is dozing on the sofa.
He is fully devoted to books -- but he is twenty-three years old, and he's very handsome; and this afternoon love passed through his ideal flesh, his lips.
Through his flesh which is full of beauty the heat of love passed; without any silly shame for the form of the enjoyment.
.
.
.
.