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 Alfred Lord Tennyson
15 William Butler Yeats
16 Rudyard Kipling
17 Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
18 Tupac Shakur
19 Charles Bukowski
20 Sandra Cisneros
21 Alice Walker
22 Muhammad Ali
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 Nikki Giovanni
31 Ralph Waldo Emerson
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 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan

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Famous Short Poetry Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Poetry | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Maya Angelou

A Conceit

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.
Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love.
For me Give me your hand.


by Marianne Moore

The Past is the Present

 If external action is effete
and rhyme is outmoded,
I shall revert to you,
Habakkuk, as when in a Bible class
the teacher was speaking of unrhymed verse.
He said - and I think I repeat his exact words - "Hebrew poetry is prose with a sort of heightened consciousness.
" Ecstasy affords the occasion and expediency determines the form.


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 Barry Tebb

RESURRECTION

 I thought of my ‘faculty of poetry’

As of the eye

The bream or white-bait showed

In its hysterical dance of death

When the receding tide

Left it asleep

In a shallow pool on the shore.
Why did I fail to take it? Was I strangely compassionate Or merely afraid to touch The jerking spasm of flesh With the still eye? Or was it I on the shore In the shallow pool, left by the tide, Engaged in that mystic dance of death, Twenty years before?


by Emily Dickinson

Yesterday is History

 Yesterday is History,
'Tis so far away --
Yesterday is Poetry --
'Tis Philosophy --

Yesterday is mystery --
Where it is Today
While we shrewdly speculate
Flutter both away


by Adrienne Rich

In A Classroom

 Talking of poetry, hauling the books
arm-full to the table where the heads
bend or gaze upward, listening, reading aloud,
talking of consonants, elision,
caught in the how, oblivious of why:
I look in your face, Jude,
neither frowning nor nodding,
opaque in the slant of dust-motes over the table:
a presence like a stone, if a stone were thinking
What I cannot say, is me.
For that I came.


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 Jack Gilbert

Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying

 Poetry is a kind of lying,
necessarily.
To profit the poet or beauty.
But also in that truth may be told only so.
Those who, admirably, refuse to falsify (as those who will not risk pretensions) are excluded from saying even so much.
Degas said he didn't paint what he saw, but what would enable them to see the thing he had.


by Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden

Epitaph on a Tyrant

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.


by Julie Hill Alger

Lesson 1

 At least I've learned this much:
Life doesn't have to be
all poetry and roses.
Life can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks, electric bills, dishwashing, chapped lips, dull stubby pencils with the erasers chewed off, cheap radios played too loud, the rank smell of stale coffee yet still glow with the inner fire of an opal, still taste like honey.
-Julie Alger


by Li Po

About Tu Fu

 I met Tu Fu on a mountaintop
in August when the sun was hot.
Under the shade of his big straw hat his face was sad-- in the years since we last parted, he'd grown wan, exhausted.
Poor old Tu Fu, I thought then, he must be agonizing over poetry again.


by Dorothy Parker

Interview

 The ladies men admire, I've heard, 
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light; They'd rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three, Nor read erotic poetry.
They never sanction the impure, Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints .
.
.
So far, I've had no complaints.


by Constantine P Cavafy

Understanding

 The years of my youth, my sensual life --
how clearly I see their meaning now.
What needless repentances, how futile.
.
.
.
But I did not understand the meaning then.
In the dissolute life of my youth the desires of my poetry were being formed, the scope of my art was being plotted.
This is why my repentances were never stable.
And my resolutions to control myself, to change lasted for two weeks at the very most.


by Amy Lowell

Fragment

 What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.


by Charles Bukowski

Short Order

 I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading,
she said.
yes, yes? I asked.
she's young and pretty, she said.
and? I asked.
she hated your guts.
then she stretched out on the couch and pulled off her boots.
I don't have very good legs, she said.
all right, I thought, I don't have very good poetry; she doesn't have very good legs.
scramble two.


by Nazim Hikmet

About My Poetry

 I have no silver-saddled horse to ride,
no inheritance to live on,
neither riches no real-estate --
a pot of honey is all I own.
A pot of honey red as fire! My honey is my everything.
I guard my riches and my real-estate -- my honey pot, I mean -- from pests of every species, Brother, just wait.
.
.
As long as I've got honey in my pot, bees will come to it from Timbuktu.
.
.


by Emily Dickinson

To pile like Thunder to its close

 To pile like Thunder to its close
Then crumble grand away
While Everything created hid
This -- would be Poetry --

Or Love -- the two coeval come --
We both and neither prove --
Experience either and consume --
For None see God and live --


by Jack Gilbert

In Dispraise Of Poetry

 When the King of Siam disliked a courtier, 
he gave him a beautiful white elephant.
The miracle beast deserved such ritual that to care for him properly meant ruin.
Yet to care for him improperly was worse.
It appears the gift could not be refused.


by Robert Burns

163. On Elphinstone's Translation of Martial's Epigrams

 O THOU whom Poetry abhors,
Whom Prose has turnèd out of doors,
Heard’st thou yon groan?—proceed no further,
’Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.


by Li Bai

About Du Fu

I met Du Fu on a mountaintop

in August when the sun was hot.
Under the shade of his big straw hat his face was sad-- in the years since we last parted, he'd grown wane, exhausted.
Poor old Du Fu, I thought then, he must be agonizing over poetry again.


by Jack Spicer

Thing Language

 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 Rossy Evelin Lima

Tempus Fugit

I have the cadence of a serpent,
                                            I slither,
time caresses me softly
and hides peacefully
in my labyrinth skin.
I glee among the rocks.
The wind that carries me
is poetry
                living solely within my chest.


by Howard Nemerov

Because You Asked About The Line Between Prose And Poetry

 Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.


by Amy Lowell

Fragment

 What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.


by Conrad Aiken

The House Of Dust: Introduction

 THE HOUSE OF DUST
A Symphony

BY
CONRAD AIKEN

To Jessie

NOTE

.
.
.
Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review".
.
.
.
I am indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden" in Part II.
This text comes from the source available at Project Gutenberg, originally prepared by Judy Boss of Omaha, NE.