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 William Butler Yeats
16 Alfred Lord Tennyson
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 Thomas Hardy
38 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
39 Mark Twain
40 Carl Sandburg
41 Percy Bysshe Shelley
42 Anne Sexton
43 Alexander Pushkin
44 Henry David Thoreau
45 Roger McGough
46 Wendell Berry
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
50 George (Lord) Byron

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Famous Short Fruit Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Fruit | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Raymond Carver

The Best Time Of The Day

 Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours, of course.
And the time just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and early evening hours.
But I do love these summer nights.
Even more, I think, than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.


by Sara Teasdale

My Heart Is Heavy

 My heart is heavy with many a song
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree, 
But I can never give you one --
My songs do not belong to me.
Yet in the evening, in the dusk When moths go to and fro, In the gray hour if the fruit has fallen, Take it, no one will know.


by Charles Simic

Watermelons

 Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.


by Sylvia Plath

Metaphors

 I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off.


by William Blake

To Nobodaddy

 Why art thou silent & invisible 
Father of jealousy 
Why dost thou hide thyself in clouds 
From every searching Eye

Why darkness & obscurity 
In all thy words & laws 
That none dare eat the fruit but from 
The wily serpents jaws 
Or is it because Secresy
gains females loud applause


by Vachel Lindsay

This Section is a Christmas Tree

 THIS section is a Christmas tree: 
Loaded with pretty toys for you.
Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks, The popguns painted red and blue.
No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit, But silver horns and candy sacks And many little tinsel hearts And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks.
For every child a gift, I hope.
The doll upon the topmost bough Is mine.
But all the rest are yours.
And I will light the candles now.


by James Joyce

A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight

 They mouth love's language.
Gnash The thirteen teeth Your lean jaws grin with.
Lash Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung, As sour as cat's breath, Harsh of tongue.
This grey that stares Lies not, stark skin and bone.
Leave greasy lips their kissing.
None Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
Dire hunger holds his hour.
Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
Pluck and devour!


by Kathleen Raine

Paradise Seed

 Where is the seed 
Of the tree felled, 
Of the forest burned, 
Or living root 
Under ash and cinders? 
From woven bud 
What last leaf strives 
Into life, last 
Shrivelled flower?
Is fruit of our harvest,
Our long labour
Dust to the core?
To what far, fair land 
Borne on the wind 
What winged seed 
Or spark of fire 
From holocaust 
To kindle a star?


by Bertolt Brecht

On The Critical Attitude

 The critical attitude
Strikes many people as unfruitful
That is because they find the state
Impervious to their criticism
But what in this case is an unfruitful attitude
Is merely a feeble attitude.
Give criticism arms And states can be demolished by it.
Canalising a river Grafting a fruit tree Educating a person Transforming a state These are instances of fruitful criticism And at the same time instances of art.


by Amy Levy

At a Dinner Party

 With fruit and flowers the board is deckt,
The wine and laughter flow;
I'll not complain--could one expect
So dull a world to know?

You look across the fruit and flowers,
My glance your glances find.
-- It is our secret, only ours, Since all the world is blind.


by Linda Pastan

Pears

 Some say
it was a pear
Eve ate.
Why else the shape of the womb, or of the cello Whose single song is grief for the parent tree? Why else the fruit itself tawny and sweet which your lover over breakfast lets go your pear- shaped breast to reach for?


by Emily Dickinson

Forbidden Fruit a flavor has

 Forbidden Fruit a flavor has
That lawful Orchards mocks --
How luscious lies within the Pod
The Pea that Duty locks --


by Elinor Wylie

Escape

 When foxes eat the last gold grape, 
And the last white antelope is killed, 
I shall stop fighting and escape 
Into a little house I'll build.
But first I'll shrink to fairy size, With a whisper no one understands, Making blind moons of all your eyes, And muddy roads of all your hands.
And you may grope for me in vain In hollows under the mangrove root, Or where, in apple-scented rain, The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.


by Mother Goose

A Plum Pudding


Flour of England, fruit of Spain,
  Met together in a shower of rain;
Put in a bag tied round with a string;
  If you'll tell me this riddle,
  I'll give you a ring.


by Edna St Vincent Millay

Feast

 I drank at every vine.
The last was like the first.
I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst.
I gnawed at every root.
I ate of every plant.
I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want.
Feed the grape and bean To the vintner and monger: I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger.


by Hilda Doolittle

Heat

 O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop through this thick air-- fruit cannot fall into heat that presses up and blunts the points of pears and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat-- plough through it, turning it on either side of your path.


by Robert Francis

Waxwings

 Four Tao philosophers as cedar waxwings
chat on a February berry bush
in sun, and I am one.
Such merriment and such sobriety-- the small wild fruit on the tall stalk-- was this not always my true style? Above an elegance of snow, beneath a silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four birds.
Can you mistake us? To sun, to feast, and to converse and all together--for this I have abandoned all my other lives.


by Claude McKay

The Tropics in New York

 Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,

Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze; A wave of longing through my body swept, And, hungry for the old, familiar ways, I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.


by Hilda Doolittle

Sea Poppies

 Amber husk 
fluted with gold, 
fruit on the sand 
marked with a rich grain, 

treasure 
spilled near the shrub-pines 
to bleach on the boulders: 

your stalk has caught root 
among wet pebbles 
and drift flung by the sea 
and grated shells 
and split conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread, fire upon leaf, what meadow yields so fragrant a leaf as your bright leaf?


by Theodore Roethke

Pickle Belt

 The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep; They thought about Saturday pay, And Sunday sleep.
Whatever he smelled was good: The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,-- And he, perplexed; He, in his shrunken britches, Eyes rimmed with pickle dust, Prickling with all the itches Of sixteen-year-old lust.


by Rainer Maria Rilke

Song Of The Sea

 (Capri, Piccola Marina)


Timeless sea breezes,
sea-wind of the night:
you come for no one;
if someone should wake,
he must be prepared
how to survive you.
Timeless sea breezes, that for aeons have blown ancient rocks, you are purest space coming from afar.
.
.
Oh, how a fruit-bearing fig tree feels your coming high up in the moonlight.


by Claude McKay

Absence

 Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool, 
Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool.
Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb, Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim.
But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies.
And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word, To stir my fluent blood as never your presence stirred.


by The Bible

Psalm 1:1-3

Blessed are you that do not walk
In the counsel of the unwise,
Nor stand in the path of the unrighteous ones,
Nor listen to their advice
But your delight and holy desire
Are the teachings of the Lord,
Meditating by day and by night,
Giving ear to God's holy law
Like a firmly planted tree
That is watered by the streams,
You shall bear fruit in its season
And prosper in everything.

Scripture Poem © Copyright Of M.
S.
Lowndes


by Edna St Vincent Millay

Doubt No More That Oberon

 Doubt no more that Oberon—
Never doubt that Pan
Lived, and played a reed, and ran
After nymphs in a dark forest,
In the merry, credulous days,—
Lived, and led a fairy band
Over the indulgent land!
Ah, for in this dourest, sorest
Age man's eye has looked upon,
Death to fauns and death to fays,
Still the dog-wood dares to raise—
Healthy tree, with trunk and root—
Ivory bowls that bear no fruit,
And the starlings and the jays—
Birds that cannot even sing—
Dare to come again in spring!


by Isaac Watts

Hymn 101

 Joy in heaven for a repenting sinner.
Luke 15:7,10.
Who can describe the joys that rise Through all the courts of Paradise, To see a prodigal return, To see an heir of glory born? With joy the Father doth approve The fruit of his eternal love; The Son with joy looks down and sees The purchase of his agonies.
The Spirit takes delight to view The holy soul he formed anew; And saints and angels join to sing, The growing empire of their King.