Famous Short Poetry Poems
Famous Short Poetry Poems. Short Poetry Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Poetry short poems
by
Maya Angelou
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
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
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie --
True Poems flee --
by
Jack Gilbert
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
Li Po
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
Nazim Hikmet
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
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
Barry Tebb
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
Adrienne Rich
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
Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden
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
Dorothy Parker
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
Amy Lowell
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
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
Julie Hill Alger
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 Bai
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
Charles Bukowski
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
Rossy Evelin Lima
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
Constantine P Cavafy
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
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
Jack Gilbert
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
Howard Nemerov
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
Conrad Aiken
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.
by
Emily Dickinson
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
Robert Burns
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
Amy Lowell
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.