Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

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

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Famous Short Paris Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Paris | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Ogden Nash

Oh To Be Odd!

 Hypochondriacs
Spend the winter at the bottom of Florida and the summer on top of
the Adirondriacs.
You go to Paris and live on champagne wine and cognac If you're dipsomognac.
If you're a manic-depressive You don't go anywhere where you won't be cheered up, and people say "There, there!" if your bills are excessive.
But you stick around and work day and night and night and day with your nose to the sawmill.
If you're nawmill.
Note: Dipsomaniac -- alcoholic


by David Lehman

Maximism

 What I propose is not 
 Marxism, which 
 is not dead yet in 
 the English department, 
Not maximalism, which was 
 a still-born alternative 
 to minimalism, 
Nor Maxism, which rests on 
 adulation of Max 
 Beerbohm, parodist 
 nonpareil, 
But maximism, the love 
 of adages, 
Or Maximism, the advocacy of 
 maximum gastronomic 
 pleasure on the model 
 of a meal at Maxim's 
 in Paris in, say, 1950.
Is that clear?


by Victor Hugo

THE BEGGAR'S QUATRAIN

 ("Aveugle comme Homère.") 
 
 {Improvised at the Café de Paris.} 


 Blind, as was Homer; as Belisarius, blind, 
 But one weak child to guide his vision dim. 
 The hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind— 
 He'll never see; God sees it, though, for him. 
 
 H.L.C., "London Society." 


 





by James A Emanuel

Bojangles And Jo

 Stairstep music: ups,
downs, Bill Robinson smiling,
jazzdancing the rounds.
She raised champagne lips, danced inside banana hips.
All Paris wooed Jo.
Banana panties, perfumed belt, Jazz tatooing lush ecstasies felt.
Josephine, royal, jewelling her dance, flushing the bosom of France.


by Paul Celan

Twelve Years

 The line
that remained, that
became true: .
.
.
your house in Paris -- become the alterpiece of your hands.
Breathed through thrice, shone through thrice.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It's turning dumb, turning deaf behind our eyes.
I see the poison flower in all manner of words and shapes.
Go.
Come.
Love blots out its name: to you it ascribes itself.
Tr.
Michael Hamburger


by Edgar Lee Masters

Hortense Robbins

 My name used to be in the papers daily
As having dined somewhere,
Or traveled somewhere,
Or rented a house in Paris,
Where I entertained the nobility.
I was forever eating or traveling, Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden.
Now I am here to do honor To Spoon River, here beside the family whence I sprang.
No one cares now where I dined, Or lived, or whom I entertained, Or how often I took the cure at Baden-Baden!


by Paul Celan

Twelve Years

 The line
that remained, that
became true: .
.
.
your house in Paris -- become the alterpiece of your hands.
Breathed through thrice, shone through thrice.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It's turning dumb, turning deaf behind our eyes.
I see the poison flower in all manner of words and shapes.
Go.
Come.
Love blots out its name: to you it ascribes itself.
Tr.
Michael Hamburger


by David Lehman

September 22

 It's the day of the ram
and the head of the year
Rosh Ha'Shanah at
services I sat next to
Mel Torme who outshone
all comers with his bar
mitzvah heroics while on
my left is Barnett Newman
big talker whose favorite
subjects include the horses
and the stock market he
knows the odds the women
are seated upstairs this is
an orthodox congregation
very serious I make
eye contact with the wife
of Menelaus who runs off
with Paris confident I'm Paris.


by William Butler Yeats

A Man Young And Old: X. His Wildness

 O bid me mount and sail up there
Amid the cloudy wrack,
For peg and Meg and Paris' love
That had so straight a back,
Are gone away, and some that stay
Have changed their silk for sack.
Were I but there and none to hear I'd have a peacock cry, For that is natural to a man That lives in memory, Being all alone I'd nurse a stone And sing it lullaby.


by Robert William Service

The sunshine seeks my little room

 The sunshine seeks my little room
To tell me Paris streets are gay;
That children cry the lily bloom
All up and down the leafy way;
That half the town is mad with May,
With flame of flag and boom of bell:
For Carnival is King to-day;
So pen and page, awhile farewell.


by Emily Dickinson

Pigmy seraphs -- gone astray

 Pigmy seraphs -- gone astray --
Velvet people from Vevay --
Balles from some lost summer day --
Bees exclusive Coterie --
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with Emerald --
Venice could not show a check
Of a tint so lustrous meek --
Never such an Ambuscade
As of briar and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid --

I had rather wear her grace
Than an Earl's distinguished face --
I had rather dwell like her
Than be "Duke of Exeter" --
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the Bumblebee.


by Victor Hugo

TO THE CANNON "VICTOR HUGO."

 {Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les Châtiments" during 
 the Siege of Paris.} 
 
 {1872.} 


 Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse, 
 Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart, 
 And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart! 


 





by Robert Burns

46. The Belles of Mauchline

 IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
 The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a’;
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
 In Lon’on or Paris, they’d gotten it a’.
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland’s divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw: There’s beauty and fortune to get wi’ Miss Morton, But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’.


by Friedrich von Schiller

The Antiques At Paris

 That which Grecian art created,
Let the Frank, with joy elated,
Bear to Seine's triumphant strand,
And in his museums glorious
Show the trophies all-victorious
To his wondering fatherland.
They to him are silent ever, Into life's fresh circle never From their pedestals come down.
He alone e'er holds the Muses Through whose breast their power diffuses,-- To the Vandal they're but stone!







...