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Russell Edson Short Poems

Famous Short Russell Edson Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Russell Edson. A collection of the all-time best Russell Edson short poems


by Russell Edson
 There was once a hog theater where hogs performed 
as men, had men been hogs.
One hog said, I will be a hog in a field which has found a mouse which is being eaten by the same hog which is in the field and which has found the mouse, which I am performing as my contribution to the performer's art.
Oh let's just be hogs, cried an old hog.
And so the hogs streamed out of the theater crying, only hogs, only hogs .
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by Russell Edson
 A toy-maker made a toy wife and a toy child.
He made a toy house and some toy years.
He made a getting-old toy, and he made a dying toy.
The toy-maker made a toy heaven and a toy god.
But, best of all, he liked making toy shit.

by Russell Edson
 One night a woman's breast came to a man's room and
began to talk about her twin sister.
Her twin sister this and her twin sister that.
Finally the man said, but what about you, dear breast? And so the breast spent the rest of the night talking about herself.
It was the same as when she talked about her sister: herself this and herself that.
Finally the man kissed her nipple and said, I'm sorry, and fell asleep.
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by Russell Edson
 There was a man who found two leaves and came 
indoors holding them out saying to his parents 
that he was a tree.
To which they said then go into the yard and do not grow in the living room as your roots may ruin the carpet.
He said I was fooling I am not a tree and he dropped his leaves.
But his parents said look it is fall.

by Russell Edson
 This is the house of the closet-man.
There are no rooms, just hallways and closets.
Things happen in rooms.
He does not like things to happen .
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Closets, you take things out of closets, you put things into closets, and nothing happens .
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Why do you have such a strange house? I am the closet-man, I am either going or coming, and I am never sad.
But why do you have such a strange house? I am never sad .
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by Russell Edson
 On the other side of a mirror there's an inverse world, 
where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the 
earth and recede to the first slime of love.
And in the evening the sun is just rising.
Lovers cry because they are a day younger, and soon childhood robs them of their pleasure.
In such a world there is much sadness which, of course, is joy.

by Russell Edson
 Here I am with my mother, hanging under the molt 
of years, in a garden of umbrellas and rubber boots, 
together always in the vague perfume of her coat.
See how the fedoras along the shelf are the several skulls of my father, in this catacomb of my family.



by Russell Edson
 A lighted window floats through the night 
like a piece of paper in the wind.
I want to see into it.
I want to climb through into its lighted room.
As I reach for it it slips through the trees.
As I chase it it rolls and tumbles into the air and skitters on through the night .
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by Russell Edson
 Some gentlemen are floating in the meadow over 
the yellow grass.
They seem to hover by those wonderful blue little flowers that grow there by those rocks.
Perhaps they have floated up from that nearby graveyard? They drift a little when the wind blows.
Butterflies flutter through them .
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by Russell Edson
 There was a road that leads him to go to find a certain 
time where he sits.
Smokes quietly in the evening by the four legged table wagging its (well why not) tail, friendly chap.
Hears footsteps, looks to find his own feet gone.
The road absorbs everything with rumors of sleep.
And then he looked for himself and even he was gone.
Looked for the road and even that .
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Hands  Create an image from this poem
by Russell Edson
 There was a road that leads him to go to find 
a certain time where he sits.
Smokes quietly in the evening by the four legged table wagging its (well why not) tail, friendly chap.
Hears footsteps, looks to find his own feet gone.
The road absorbs everything with rumors of sleep.
And then he looked for himself and even he was gone.
Looked for the road and even that .
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by Russell Edson
 In a back room a man is performing an autopsy 
on an old raincoat.
His wife appears in the doorway with a candle and asks, how does it go? Not now, not now, I'm just getting to the lining, he murmurs with impatience.
I just wanted to know if you found any blood clots? Blood clots?! For my necklace .
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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 Russell Edson
 How I make my soup: I draw water from a tap .
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I am not an artist.
And the water is not so much drawn as allowed to fall, and to capture itself in a pot.
Perhaps not so much captured, as allowed to gather itself from its stream; the way it falls that the drain would have it.
But in this case a normal path interrupted by a pot; for which soup is the outcome of all I do .
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by Russell Edson
 They have grafted pieces of an ape with a dog.
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Then, what they have, wants to live in a tree.
No, it wants to lift its leg and piss on the tree.
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