Famous Short Hurt Poems
Famous Short Hurt Poems. Short Hurt Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Hurt short poems
by
Nikki Giovanni
When I Die
when i die i hope no one who ever hurt me cries
and if they cry i hope their eyes fall out
and a million maggots that had made up their brains
crawl from the empty holes and devour the flesh
that covered the evil that passed itself off as a person
that i probably tried
to love
by
Spike Milligan
There must be a wound!
No one can be this hurt
and not bleed.
How could she injure me so?
No marks
No bruise
Worse!
People say 'My, you're looking well'
.
.
.
.
.
God help me!
She's mummified me -
ALIVE!
by
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
It was a face which darkness could kill
in an instant
a face as easily hurt
by laughter or light
'We think differently at night'
she told me once
lying back languidly
And she would quote Cocteau
'I feel there is an angel in me' she'd say
'whom I am constantly shocking'
Then she would smile and look away
light a cigarette for me
sigh and rise
and stretch
her sweet anatomy
let fall a stocking
by
Emily Dickinson
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons --
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes --
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us --
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are --
None may teach it -- Any --
'Tis the Seal Despair --
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air --
When it comes, the Landscape listens --
Shadows -- hold their breath --
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death --
by
Robert Louis Stevenson
We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back-bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of soft pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.
We took a saw and several nails,
And water in the nursery pails;
And Tom said, "Let us also take
An apple and a slice of cake;"--
Which was enough for Tom and me
To go a-sailing on, till tea.
We sailed along for days and days,
And had the very best of plays;
But Tom fell out and hurt his knee,
So there was no one left but me.
by
William Blake
A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
by
George Herbert
Alas, poor Death! Where is thy glory?
Where is thy famous force, thy ancient sting?
Alas, poor mortal, void of story!
Go spell and read how I have killed thy King.
Poor Death! And who was hurt thereby?
Thy curse being laid on Him makes thee accurst.
Let losers talk, yet thou shalt die;
These arms shall crush thee.
Spare not, do thy worst.
I shall be one day better than before;
Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.
by
A E Housman
If by chance your eye offend you,
Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,
And many a balsam grows on ground.
And if your hand or foot offend you,
Cut it off, lad, and be whole;
But play the man, stand up and end you,
When your sickness is your soul.
by
Gertrude Stein
A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading.
by
Emily Dickinson
To die--takes just a little while--
They say it doesn't hurt--
It's only fainter--by degrees--
And then--it's out of sight--
A darker Ribbon--for a Day--
A Crape upon the Hat--
And then the pretty sunshine comes--
And helps us to forget--
The absent--mystic--creature--
That but for love of us--
Had gone to sleep--that soundest time--
Without the weariness--
by
John Matthew
When she smiles she sends happiness
A million pleasant thrills of the heart
To parched souls thirsting for love
In the vast desert of human affairs.
Oh, is there in this world such a heart?
So pure in its expression of joy, smiles
I know not how to thank you dear God
For this wonderful creation of yours.
What makes Muskan’s smile so beautiful?
Is it the deep pain and hurt she is hiding?
Wringing the joys from the sadness of life
Throwing away the bland fiber and rinds.
by
Robert William Service
My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.
by
Emily Dickinson
A Wounded Deer -- leaps highest --
I've heard the Hunter tell --
'Tis but the Ecstasy of death --
And then the Brake is still!
The Smitten Rock that gushes!
The trampled Steel that springs!
A Cheek is always redder
Just where the Hectic stings!
Mirth is the Mail of Anguish
In which it Cautious Arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And "you're hurt" exclaim!
by
Herman Melville
Healed of my hurt, I laud the inhuman Sea--
Yea, bless the Angels Four that there convene;
For healed I am even by the pitiless breath
Distilled in wholesome dew named rosmarine.
by
Emily Dickinson
She dealt her pretty words like Blades --
How glittering they shone --
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone --
She never deemed -- she hurt --
That -- is not Steel's Affair --
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh --
How ill the Creatures bear --
To Ache is human -- not polite --
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom --
Just locking up -- to Die.
by
Helen Hunt Jackson
Darling,' he said, 'I never meant
To hurt you;' and his eyes were wet.
'I would not hurt you for the world:
Am I to blame if I forget?'
'Forgive my selfish tears!' she cried,
'Forgive! I knew that it was not
Because you meant to hurt me, sweet-
I knew it was that you forgot!'
But all the same, deep in her heart
Rankled this thought, and rankles yet,-
'When love is at its best, one loves
So much that he cannot forget.
'
by
Russell Edson
A man is fighting with a cup of coffee.
The rules: he must not
break the cup nor spill its coffee; nor must the cup break the
man's bones or spill his blood.
The man said, oh the hell with it, as he swept the cup to
the floor.
The cup did not break but its coffee poured out
of its open self.
The cup cried, don't hurt me, please don't hurt me; I am
without mobility, I have no defense save my utility; use
me to hold your coffee.
by
Emily Dickinson
Dying! Dying in the night!
Won't somebody bring the light
So I can see which way to go
Into the everlasting snow?
And "Jesus"! Where is Jesus gone?
They said that Jesus -- always came --
Perhaps he doesn't know the House --
This way, Jesus, Let him pass!
Somebody run to the great gate
And see if Dollie's coming! Wait!
I hear her feet upon the stair!
Death won't hurt -- now Dollie's here!
by
Emily Dickinson
To die -- takes just a little while --
They say it doesn't hurt --
It's only fainter -- by degrees --
And then -- it's out of sight --
A darker Ribbon -- for a Day --
A Crape upon the Hat --
And then the pretty sunshine comes --
And helps us to forget --
The absent -- mystic -- creature --
That but for love of us --
Had gone to sleep -- that soundest time --
Without the weariness --
by
Emily Dickinson
What if I say I shall not wait!
What if I burst the fleshly Gate --
And pass escaped -- to thee!
What if I file this Mortal -- off --
See where it hurt me -- That's enough --
And wade in Liberty!
They cannot take me -- any more!
Dungeons can call -- and Guns implore
Unmeaning -- now -- to me --
As laughter -- was -- an hour ago --
Or Laces -- or a Travelling Show --
Or who died -- yesterday!
by
Emily Dickinson
The Black Berry -- wears a Thorn in his side --
But no Man heard Him cry --
He offers His Berry, just the same
To Partridge -- and to Boy --
He sometimes holds upon the Fence --
Or struggles to a Tree --
Or clasps a Rock, with both His Hands --
But not for Sympathy --
We -- tell a Hurt -- to cool it --
This Mourner -- to the Sky
A little further reaches -- instead --
Brave Black Berry --
by
Robert William Service
'Why did the lady in the lift
Slap that poor parson's face?'
Said Mother, thinking as she sniffed,
Of clerical disgrace.
Said Sonny Boy: 'Alas, I know.
My conscience doth accuse me;
The lady stood upon my toe,
Yet did not say--"Excuse me!"
'She hurt--and in that crowd confined
I scarcely could endure it;
So when I pinched her fat behind
She thought--it was the Curate.
'
by
Mother Goose
I like little Pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her
She'll do me no harm;
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But Pussy and I
Very gently will play.
by
Emily Dickinson
I reason, Earth is short --
And Anguish -- absolute --
And many hurt,
But, what of that?
I reason, we could die --
The best Vitality
Cannot excel Decay,
But, what of that?
I reason, that in Heaven --
Somehow, it will be even --
Some new Equation, given --
But, what of that?
by
Emily Dickinson
Her smile was shaped like other smiles --
The Dimples ran along --
And still it hurt you, as some Bird
Did hoist herself, to sing,
Then recollect a Ball, she got --
And hold upon the Twig,
Convulsive, while the Music broke --
Like Beads -- among the Bog --