Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

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

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Famous Short Poems Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Poems | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Shel Silverstein

Its Dark in Here

 I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here.


by Emily Dickinson

To see the Summer Sky

 To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie --
True Poems flee --


by Erica Jong

Autobiographical

 The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears as husband, lover analyst & muse, as father, son & maybe even God & surely death.
All this is true.
The man you turn to in the dark is many men.
This is an open secret women share & yet agree to hide as if they might then hide it from themselves.
I will not hide.
I write in the nude.
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor's name is Love.


by Alexander Pushkin

The Night

 My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,
Disturbs the velvet of the dark night's mantle,
By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,
Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood --
And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,
And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,
And smile to me, and hear I the voice:
My friend, my sweetest friend.
.
.
I love.
.
.
I'm yours.
.
.
I'm yours!


by Robinson Jeffers

TO THE STONE-CUTTERS

Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain.
The poet as well Builds his monument mockingly; For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun Die blind and blacken to the heart: Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found The honey of peace in old poems.


by Oscar Wilde

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems

 I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals One to you seem fair, Love will waft it till it settles On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.


by Robert Creeley

The Conspiracy

 You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.
Things tend to awaken even through random communication Let us suddenly proclaim spring.
And jeer at the others, all the others.
I will send a picture too if you will send me one of you.


by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (1)

 Please click here to view the full version of this poem.


by Charles Bukowski

Poetry

 it
takes
a lot of 
desperation 
dissatisfaction 
and 
disillusion 
to 
write 
a 
few
good
poems.
it's not for everybody either to write it or even to read it.


by Gary Snyder

For Lew Welch In A Snowfall

 Snowfall in March:
I sit in the white glow reading a thesis
About you.
Your poems, your life.
The author's my student, He even quotes me.
Forty years since we joked in a kitchen in Portland Twenty since you disappeared.
All those years and their moments— Crackling bacon, slamming car doors, Poems tried out on friends, Will be one more archive, One more shaky text.
But life continues in the kitchen Where we still laugh and cook, Watching snow.


by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (3)

 Please click here to view the full version of this poem.


by Dimitris P Kraniotis

One-word garments

 Waves of circumflexes
storms of adverbs,
windmills of verbs,
shells of signs of ellipsis,
on the island of poems
of soul,
of mind,
of thought,
one-word garments
you wear
to endure!


by Walt Whitman

Here the Frailest Leaves of Me

 HERE the frailest leaves of me, and yet my strongest-lasting: 
Here I shade and hide my thoughts—I myself do not expose them, 
And yet they expose me more than all my other poems.


by Walt Whitman

Full of Life Now

 FULL of life, now, compact, visible, 
I, forty years old the Eighty-third Year of The States, 
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence, 
To you, yet unborn, these, seeking you.
When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible; Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me; Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your comrade; Be it as if I were with you.
(Be not too certain but I am now with you.
)


by Charles Bukowski

As The Poems Go

 as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight, the traffic, the nights and the days of the years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living it, typing one more line now as a man plays a piano through the radio, the best writers have said very little and the worst, far too much.
from ONTHEBUS - 1992


by Ruth Stone

Poems

When you come back to me
it will be crow time
and flycatcher time,
with rising spirals of gnats
between the apple trees.
Every weed will be quadrupled, coarse, welcoming and spine-tipped.
The crows, their black flapping bodies, their long calling toward the mountain; relatives, like mine, ambivalent, eye-hooded; hooting and tearing.
And you will take me in to your fractal meaningless babble; the quick of my mouth, the madness of my tongue.


by Robert Burns

148. To Miss Logan with Beattie's Poems

 AGAIN the silent wheels of time
 Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,
 Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin’s simple tale.
Our sex with guile, and faithless love, Is charg’d, perhaps too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you.


by Ruth Stone

So What

For me the great truths are laced with hysteria.
How many Einsteins can we tolerate? I leap into the uncertainty principle.
After so many smears, you want to wash it off with a laugh.
Ha ha, you say.
So what if it's a meltdown? Last lines to poems I will write immediately.


by Walt Whitman

To Foreign Lands

 I HEARD that you ask’d for something to prove this puzzle, the New World, 
And to define America, her athletic Democracy; 
Therefore I send you my poems, that you behold in them what you wanted.


by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (4)

 Please click here to view the full version of this poem.


by Barry Tebb

WAITING

 I am waiting for the sky to flower

Like poems in a winter mind:

And yet they come, maybe trailing along

An urchin gang, sobbing and snotty-nosed.


by Rg Gregory

shape-poems (5)

 Please click here to view the full version of this poem.


by Jiri Mordecai Langer

The poem

 The poem
that I chose for you
is simple,
as are all my singing poems.
It has the trace of a veil, a little balsam, and a taste of the honey of lies.
There is also the coming end of summer when heat scorches the meadow and the quick waters of the river cease to flow.


by Dimitris P Kraniotis

To the dead poet of obscurity

 (In honor of the dead unpublished poet)

Well done!
You have won!
You should not feel sorry.
Your unpublished poems -always remember- have not been buried, haven’t bent under the strength of time.
Like gold inside the soil they remain, they never melt.
They may be late but they will be given to their people someday, to offer their sweet, eternal essence.


by Joyce Kilmer

Trees

 (For Mrs.
Henry Mills Alden) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.