Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

 Poet
1 William Wordsworth
2 William Shakespeare
3 Oscar Wilde
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 Tupac Shakur
18 Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
19 Charles Bukowski
20 Muhammad Ali
21 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
22 Sandra Cisneros
23 Sarojini Naidu
24 Alice Walker
25 Billy Collins
26 Christina Rossetti
27 Carol Ann Duffy
28 Edgar Allan Poe
29 John Donne
30 Ralph Waldo Emerson
31 Nikki Giovanni
32 Raymond Carver
33 John Keats
34 Ogden Nash
35 Lewis Carroll
36 Thomas Hardy
37 Mark Twain
38 Spike Milligan
39 Carl Sandburg
40 Anne Sexton
41 Alexander Pushkin
42 Percy Bysshe Shelley
43 Henry David Thoreau
44 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
45 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
46 Roger McGough
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 George (Lord) Byron
50 Gary Soto

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Famous Short Sorry Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Sorry | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Sara Teasdale

Longing

 I am not sorry for my soul
That it must go unsatisfied,
For it can live a thousand times,
Eternity is deep and wide.
I am not sorry for my soul, But oh, my body that must go Back to a little drift of dust Without the joy it longed to know.


by Emily Dickinson

Funny -- to be a Century

 Funny -- to be a Century --
And see the People -- going by --
I -- should die of the Oddity --
But then -- I'm not so staid -- as He --

He keeps His Secrets safely -- very --
Were He to tell -- extremely sorry
This Bashful Globe of Ours would be --
So dainty of Publicity --


by R S Thomas

Sorry

 Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled; You gave me enough food To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on, Arrow aimed from a tried bow At a tried target, has turned back, Wounding itself With questions you had not asked.


by Allen Ginsberg

Refrain

 The air is dark, the night is sad,
I lie sleepless and I groan.
Nobody cares when a man goes mad: He is sorry, God is glad.
Shadow changes into bone.
Every shadow has a name; When I think of mine I moan, I hear rumors of such fame.
Not for pride, but only shame, Shadow changes into bone.
When I blush I weep for joy, And laughter drops from me like a stone: The aging laughter of the boy To see the ageless dead so coy.
Shadow changes into bone.


by Barry Tebb

HAPPY THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY CARCANET BOOKS

 Sorry, I almost forgot, but I don't think

Its worth the effort to become a Carcanet poet

With my mug-shot on art gloss paper

In your catalogue as big as Mont Blanc

Easier to imagine, as Benjamin Peret did,

A wind that would unscrew the mountain

Or stars like apricot tarts strolling

Aimlessly along the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.


by Elizabeth Smart

Blakes Sunflower

 1

Why did Blake say 
'Sunflower weary of time'? 
Every time I see them 
they seem to say 
Now! with a crash 
of cymbals!
Very pleased 
and positive 
and absolutely delighting 
in their own round brightness.
2 Sorry, Blake! Now I see what you mean.
Storms and frost have battered their bright delight and though they are still upright nothing could say dejection more than their weary disillusioned hanging heads.


by Richard Brautigan

The Moon Versus Us Ever Sleeping Together Again

 I sit here, an arch-villain of romance, 
thinking about you.
Gee, I'm sorry I made you unhappy, but there was nothing I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different if you had stayed at the table or asked me to go out with you to look at the moon, instead of getting up and leaving me alone with her.


by Edna St Vincent Millay

Indifference

 I said,—for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,—
 "I'll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in
 bed;
But I'll never leave my pillow, though there be some
 As would let him in—and take him in with tears!" I said.
I lay,—for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,— I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep; And he found me at my window with my big cloak on, All sorry with the tears some folks might weep!


by Connie Wanek

Daisies

 In the democracy of daisies
every blossom has one vote.
The question on the ballot is Does he love me? If the answer's wrong I try another, a little sorry about the petals piling up around my shoes.
Bees are loose in the fields where daisies wait and hope, dreaming of the kiss of a proboscis.
We can't possibly understand what makes us such fools.
I blame the June heat and everything about him.


by Louise Gluck

Confession

 waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white 
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"

Hank won't
answer.
it's not my death that worries me, it's my wife left with this pile of nothing.
I want to let her know though that all the nights sleeping beside her even the useless arguments were things ever splendid and the hard words I ever feared to say can now be said: I love you.


by Russell Edson

The Breast

 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.
.
.


by Charles Bukowski

Rhyming Poem

 the goldfish sing all night with guitars,
and the whores go down with the stars,
the whores go down with the stars 
I'm sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides yr mother's neck is dirty,
and the whores go down with the etc.
, the whrs.
go dn.
with the etc.
I'm sorry jack you can't come back, I've fallen in love with another sap, 3/4 Italian and 1/2 Jap, and the whores go the whores go etc.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985


by Robert Burns

248. Pegasus at Wanlockhead

 WITH Pegasus upon a day,
 Apollo, weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
 On foot the way was plying.
Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty caulker.
Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet, And did Sol’s business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet.
Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster; My Pegasus is poorly shod, I’ll pay you like my master.


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 Carl Sandburg

Hate

 ONE man killed another.
The saying between them had been “I’d give you the shirt off my back.
” The killer wept over the dead.
The dead if he looks back knows the killer was sorry.
It was a shot in one second of hate out of ten years of love.
Why is the sun a red ball in the six o’clock mist? Why is the moon a tumbling chimney?… tumbling … tumbling … “I’d give you the shirt off my back” … And I’ll kill you if my head goes wrong.


by Carl Sandburg

Bilbea

 BILBEA, I was in Babylon on Saturday night.
I saw nothing of you anywhere.
I was at the old place and the other girls were there, but no Bilbea.
Have you gone to another house? or city? Why don’t you write? I was sorry.
I walked home half-sick.
Tell me how it goes.
Send me some kind of a letter.
And take care of yourself.


by David Herbert Lawrence

Self-pity

 I never saw a wild thing 
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.


by Emily Dickinson

So glad we are -- a Strangerd deem

 'Twas sorry, that we were --
For where the Holiday should be
There publishes a Tear --
Nor how Ourselves be justified --
Since Grief and Joy are done
So similar -- An Optizan
Could not decide between --


by Barry Tebb

OPEN LETTER TO ANDY C

 Sorry, Writer in Residence on the Great North Run

The last thing I’d ever do is listen to your spin

“You risk losing potential allies in your war

 against the philistines,

Astley, Armitage, Duffy, Sansom, unashamedly provincial,

Defiantly Un-Oxbridge, not the enemy!”



Sorry, Andy, arse-licking's not to my taste.
I always thought it wasn’t yours, my mistake!


by Emily Dickinson

Here where the Daisies fit my Head

 Here, where the Daisies fit my Head
'Tis easiest to lie
And every Grass that plays outside
Is sorry, some, for me.
Where I am not afraid to go I may confide my Flower -- Who was not Enemy of Me Will gentle be, to Her.
Nor separate, Herself and Me By Distances become -- A single Bloom we constitute Departed, or at Home --


by Kenn Nesbitt

The Contents of My Desk

A nail.
A nickel.
A snail.
A pickle.
A twisted-up
slinky.
A ring for
my pinky.
A blackened
banana.
A love note
from Hannah.
My doodles
of rockets.
The lint from
my pockets.
A fork-like
utensil.
But sorry…
no pencil.

 --Kenn Nesbitt

Copyright © Kenn Nesbitt 2009. All Rights Reserved.


by Omar Khayyam

I close the door of hope in my own face,

I close the door of hope in my own face,
Nor sue for favours from good men, or base;
I have but ONE to lend a helping hand,
He knows, as well as I, my sorry case.


by Omar Khayyam

One hand with Koran, one with wine-cup dight,

One hand with Koran, one with wine-cup dight,
I half incline to wrong, and half to right;
The azure-marbled sky looks down on me
A sorry Moslem, yet not heathen quite.


by Robert Herrick

HIS LAST REQUEST TO JULIA

 I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,
To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear;--
Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth win
Grace with the gods who's sorry for his sin.
That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come, And go with me to chuse my burial room: My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies, Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.







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