Famous Short Language Poems
Famous Short Language Poems. Short Language Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Language short poems
by
Shel Silverstein
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers.
.
.
.
How did it go?
How did it go?
by
Imamu Amiri Baraka
WHYS (Nobody Knows
The Trouble I Seen)
Traditional
If you ever find
yourself, some where
lost and surrounded
by enemies
who won't let you
speak in your own language
who destroy your statues
& instruments, who ban
your omm bomm ba boom
then you are in trouble
deep trouble
they ban your
own boom ba boom
you in deep deep
trouble
humph!
probably take you several hundred years
to get
out!
by
Adrienne Rich
Our whole life a translation
the permissible fibs
and now a knot of lies
eating at itself to get undone
Words bitten thru words
~~
meanings burnt-off like paint
under the blowtorch
All those dead letters
rendered into the oppressor's language
Trying to tell the doctor where it hurts
like the Algerian
who waled form his village, burning
his whole body a could of pain
and there are no words for this
except himself
by
Ralph Waldo Emerson
What care I, so they stand the same,—
Things of the heavenly mind,—
How long the power to give them fame
Tarries yet behind?
Thus far to-day your favors reach,
O fair, appeasing Presences!
Ye taught my lips a single speech,
And a thousand silences.
Space grants beyond his fated road
No inch to the god of day,
And copious language still bestowed
One word, no more, to say.
by
James Joyce
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
Rainer Maria Rilke
The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.
by
Isaac Watts
Praise to God from all nations.
O all ye nations, praise the Lord,
Each with a diff'rent tongue;
In every language learn his word,
And let his name be sung.
His mercy reigns through every land;
Proclaim his grace abroad;
For ever firm his truth shall stand
Praise ye the faithful God.
by
Les Murray
Everything except language
knows the meaning of existence.
Trees, planets, rivers, time
know nothing else.
They express it
moment by moment as the universe.
Even this fool of a body
lives it in part, and would
have full dignity within it
but for the ignorant freedom
of my talking mind.
by
Linda Pastan
We think of hidden in a white dress
among the folded linens and sachets
of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight
sending jellies and notes with no address
to all the wondering Amherst neighbors.
Eccentric as New England weather
the stiff wind of her mind, stinging or gentle,
blew two half imagined lovers off.
Yet legend won't explain the sheer sanity
of vision, the serious mischief
of language, the economy of pain.
by
Emily Dickinson
A Word made Flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Nor then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength --
A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He --
"Made Flesh and dwelt among us"
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Elizabeth it is in vain you say
"Love not" — thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
In vain those words from thee or L.E.L.
Zantippe's talents had enforced so well:
Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
Breath it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes.
Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
To cure his love — was cured of all beside —
His follie — pride — and passion — for he died.
by
Edward Lear
There was an Old Lady of Prague,
Whose language was horribly vague;
When they said, "Are these caps?" she answered, "Perhaps!"
That oracular Lady of Prague.
by
Walter Savage Landor
Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.
by
Alfred Lord Tennyson
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
by
Donald Hall
It has happened suddenly,
by surprise, in an arbor,
or while drinking good coffee,
after speaking, or before,
that I dumbly inhabit
a density; in language,
there is nothing to stop it,
for nothing retains an edge.
Simple ignorance presents,
later, words for a function,
but it is common pretense
of speech, by a convention,
and there is nothing at all
but inner silence, nothing
to relieve on principle
now this intense thickening.
by
Dorothy Parker
A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.
'
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
by
Regina Derieva
It was not necessary to study
the language
of a strange country;
anyway, it would be of no help.
It was not necessary to know
where Italy or England
is located;
travel was obviously
out of question.
It was not necessary to live
among the wild beasts
of Noah's ark,
which had just devoured
the last dove of peace,
along with Noah
and his virtuous family.
It was not necessary to strive
for some holy land
awash in milk and honey,
according to rumor.
by
Jack Spicer
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry.
The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to.
A drop
Or crash of water.
It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt.
The death
That young men hope for.
Aimlessly
It pounds the shore.
White and aimless signals.
No
One listens to poetry.
by
Ben Jonson
Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse
Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;
Whose every work of thy most early wit
Came forth example, and remains so yet;
Longer a-knowing than most wits do live;
And which no affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with half mankind maintain a strife.
All which I meant to praise, and yet I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should!
by
Omar Khayyam
This priceless ruby comes from a mine of its own, this
rare pearl is pregnant with a character its own; our
different dogmas on this matter are erroneous, since the
enigma of perfect love is explained in a language of its
own [and that is not conveyed to us].
by
Dejan Stojanovic
Born from the natural attraction
Of vowels and consonants
Alliterating or merging into a fugue
Of sounds flowing
From the fountain of language.
Meanings embodied
In blasts of thunder, chirping, blowing;
Sounds becoming meanings
In, for, and of themselves;
A huge dictionary of sounds
Craving to be recognized and translated
Either into language or into understanding.
by
Emily Dickinson
Many a phrase has the English language --
I have heard but one --
Low as the laughter of the Cricket,
Loud, as the Thunder's Tongue --
Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,
When the Tide's a' lull --
Saying itself in new inflection --
Like a Whippoorwill --
Breaking in bright Orthography
On my simple sleep --
Thundering its Prospective --
Till I stir, and weep --
Not for the Sorrow, done me --
But the push of Joy --
Say it again, Saxton!
Hush -- Only to me!
by
James Lee Jobe
Quiet! Today the earth tells me, be quiet.
Ssh! No talking now.
Our soul
is listening to tiny things, almost silent.
This is a language that you feel.
Our soul, says the earth, hears every little sound.
by
Edgar Lee Masters
Edgar Lee Masters - Hamilton Greene
I was the only child of Frances Harris of Virginia
And Thomas Greene of Kentucky,
Of valiant and honorable blood both.
To them I owe all that I became,
Judge, member of Congress, leader in the State.
From my mother I inherited
Vivacity, fancy, language;
From my father will, judgment, logic.
All honor to them
For what service I was to the people!