Poetry Poems | Best Poems of Famous Poets


    Be Drunk Poem by Charles Baudelaire

    You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it–it’s the
    only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
    your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
    But on what?Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be
    And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of
    a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
    drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave,
    the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything
    that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is
    singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and
    wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you:”It is time to be
    drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be
    continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”



    Dis Poetry Poem by Benjamin Zephaniah

    Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops
    De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
    Dis poetry is designed fe rantin
    Dance hall style, big mouth chanting,
    Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep
    Preaching follow me
    Like yu is blind sheep,
    Dis poetry is not Party Political
    Not designed fe dose who are critical.
    Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
    It gets into me dreadlocks
    It lingers around me head
    Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike
    IÕve tried Shakespeare, respect due dere
    But did is de stuff I like.

    Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book
    Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look
    Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved
    An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved,
    IÕve tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me
    So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry,
    I could try be more personal
    But youÕve heard it all before,
    Pages of written words not needed
    Brain has many words in store,
    Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting
    De tongue plays a beat
    De body starts skanking,
    Dis poetry is quick an childish
    Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish,
    Anybody can do it fe free,
    Dis poetry is fe yu an me,
    DonÕt stretch yu imagination
    Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation,
    In de morning
    I chant
    In de night
    I chant
    In de darkness
    An under de spotlight,
    I pass thru University
    I pass thru Sociology
    An den I got a dread degree
    In Dreadfull Ghettology.

    Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk
    An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk,
    Dis poetry is wid me,
    Below me an above,
    Dis poetry’s from inside me
    It goes to yu
    WID LUV.



    Poetic Masterpiece Poem by Chinedu Dike

    Poetic Masterpiece: A Childbirth Of Profundity.
    Like delivery of Divine Revelations
    which favours calmness of wilderness;
    It’s brought forth in Creative-Glory-Of-Solitude:
    an abode of Enlightenment in whose mirror of grace,
    purest passions reflect out from shady reality —
    to gratify inflamed curiosity of Inward-Eye,
    as it wanders around source of enchantment,
    seeking in expanded awareness to capture
    the essence of a phenomenon shrouded in mystery.

    In blessed serene mood with passionate intensity,
    mind labours hard to replicate images being
    unveiled in the exalted realm of thought.
    With illuminative wizardry that nudge limits of speech,
    the wordsmith graced with breath of poetic creation
    gives life to words —
    freeing them from their rigid implications.
    Soulful words that sway soul of the reader,
    leaving the excited spirit with an enigma to ponder.
    Such is the sublime nature of every Poetic Masterpiece.



    Songs Of The Singing Bird! Poem by Ramesh T A

    The unknown singing bird sang
    Several songs for some years;
    The songs of the singing bird
    Soon created news and history!
    All the life songs of the bird about
    Nature and culture are literature now!

    Knowledge and experience give wisdom
    That gives a system of life to live;
    This is called human culture.
    For all, the beginning and the end
    Are in Nature only and so it is
    The friend, philosopher and guide
    Not only to poets, scientists and artists
    But also to the whole of mankind.

    From first melody to last funeral song
    All songs say only about human love!
    In reality the more we love the dear one
    The more the dear one goes far away!
    The tragedy of loved one lives in mind
    Ever plunging everyone in endless tears!

    Love is the source of all creations in evolution
    From blue green algae to man in the world!
    Without love nothing can be created and
    Great things worthwhile are achieved by men!
    One such great thing is poetry of great poets
    Absorbing heart, mind and soul of man ever!

    What is poetry? Poetry is the magical expression,
    Words of poet’s heart echoing in the minds of men!
    Building castle in the air and capturing in camera
    Poetry does to produce the album of poetry book!
    Collecting honey from flowers to build beehive
    Poet bee weaves ideas together to compose poetry!

    Arranging beautiful ideas focused on a subject
    A great work of art poet creates in poetry with
    Sound, sense, substance and seriousness in words!
    Beautiful, sweet and light music of poetry absorbs
    Heart, mind and soul to entertain and instruct with
    Inspiring ideas to live a happy and prosperous life
    With confidence, courage and endurance in the world!

    Expressing experience of life in meaningful verse
    Poet finds favour with everyone everywhere here!
    Compressing many ideas in a nutshell, poet makes it
    Possible to reveal Universal truths from trivialities;
    Such a magical art in any other form of literature
    It is not worth trying other than in poetry alone!

    The all absorbing power of poetry is an invaluable art
    That has royal reception everywhere in world literature.
    Sweet songs of Nightingale, beautiful dance of peacock
    And so on will be immortal and unforgettable in poetry!
    So, the songs of the singing bird, whom we call a poet,
    Will echo eternally in the hearts of men and world of art!


    Ars Poetica? Poem by Czeslaw Milosz

    I have always aspired to a more spacious form
    that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
    and would let us understand each other without exposing
    the author or reader to sublime agonies.

    In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
    a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,
    so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
    and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

    That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
    though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
    It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
    when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.

    What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
    who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
    and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
    work at changing his destiny for their convenience?

    It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
    and so you may think that I am only joking
    or that I’ve devised just one more means
    of praising Art with thehelp of irony.

    There was a time when only wise books were read
    helping us to bear our pain and misery.
    This, after all, is not quite the same
    as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.

    And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
    and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
    People therefore preserve silent integrity
    thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.

    The purpose of poetry is to remind us
    how difficult it is to remain just one person,
    for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
    and invisible guests come in and out at will.

    What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
    as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
    under unbearable duress and only with the hope
    that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.



    Populist Manifesto No. 1 Poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

    Poets, come out of your closets,
    Open your windows, open your doors,
    You have been holed-up too long
    in your closed worlds.
    Come down, come down
    from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills,
    your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,
    your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses,
    down from your foothills and mountains,
    out of your teepees and domes.
    The trees are still falling
    and we’ll to the woods no more.
    No time now for sitting in them
    As man burns down his own house
    to roast his pig
    No more chanting Hare Krishna
    while Rome burns.
    San Francisco’s burning,
    Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning
    the fossil-fuels of life.
    Night & the Horse approaches
    eating light, heat & power,
    and the clouds have trousers.
    No time now for the artist to hide
    above, beyond, behind the scenes,
    indifferent, paring his fingernails,
    refining himself out of existence.
    No time now for our little literary games,
    no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias,
    no time now for fear & loathing,
    time now only for light & love.
    We have seen the best minds of our generation
    destroyed by boredom at poetry readings.
    Poetry isn’t a secret society,
    It isn’t a temple either.
    Secret words & chants won’t do any longer.
    The hour of oming is over,
    the time of keening come,
    a time for keening & rejoicing
    over the coming end
    of industrial civilization
    which is bad for earth & Man.
    Time now to face outward
    in the full lotus position
    with eyes wide open,
    Time now to open your mouths
    with a new open speech,
    time now to communicate with all sentient beings,
    All you ‘Poets of the Cities’
    hung in museums including myself,
    All you poet’s poets writing poetry
    about poetry,
    All you poetry workshop poets
    in the boondock heart of America,
    All you housebroken Ezra Pounds,
    All you far-out freaked-out cut-up poets,
    All you pre-stressed Concrete poets,
    All you cunnilingual poets,
    All you pay-toilet poets groaning with graffiti,
    All you A-train swingers who never swing on birches,
    All you masters of the sawmill haiku in the Siberias of America,
    All you eyeless unrealists,
    All you self-occulting supersurrealists,
    All you bedroom visionaries and closet agitpropagators,
    All you Groucho Marxist poets
    and leisure-class Comrades
    who lie around all day and talk about the workingclass proletariat,
    All you Catholic anarchists of poetry,
    All you Black Mountaineers of poetry,
    All you Boston Brahims and Bolinas bucolics,
    All you den mothers of poetry,
    All you zen brothers of poetry,
    All you suicide lovers of poetry,
    All you hairy professors of poesie,
    All you poetry reviewers
    drinking the blood of the poet,
    All you Poetry Police –
    Where are Whitman’s wild children,
    where the great voices speaking out
    with a sense of sweetness and sublimity,
    where the great’new vision,
    the great world-view,
    the high prophetic song
    of the immense earth
    and all that sings in it
    And our relations to it –
    Poets, descend
    to the street of the world once more
    And open your minds & eyes
    with the old visual delight,
    Clear your throat and speak up,
    Poetry is dead, long live poetry
    with terrible eyes and buffalo strength.
    Don’t wait for the Revolution
    or it’ll happen without you,
    Stop mumbling and speak out
    with a new wide-open poetry
    with a new commonsensual ‘public surface’
    with other subjective levels
    or other subversive levels,
    a tuning fork in the inner ear
    to strike below the surface.
    Of your own sweet Self still sing
    yet utter ‘the word en-masse –
    Poetry the common carrier
    for the transportation of the public
    to higher places
    than other wheels can carry it.
    Poetry still falls from the skies
    into our streets still open.
    They haven’t put up the barricades, yet,
    the streets still alive with faces,
    lovely men & women still walking there,
    still lovely creatures everywhere,
    in the eyes of all the secret of all
    still buried there,
    Whitman’s wild children still sleeping there,
    Awake and walk in the open air.



    Everything I See Is Poetry To Me Poem by Allen Steble The Philosophical Poet

    Everything I see
    Is poetry to me
    From the last standing tree
    In a lonely forest
    To the great ocean sea
    Bathing in the sunset
    everything I see
    Is poetry to me

    Every thing I see
    From the buzzing honey bee
    In a red field of roses
    From the whimsical jumping flea
    That makes a dog scratch vigorously
    Then chase his tail playfully
    Is poetry to me

    From the sun shinning brightly
    To the birds flying freely
    And singing in harmony
    Everything around me
    And everything I see
    Is poetry to me.



    Poetry Is Sexy Poem by Brian Dorn

    Poetry is sexy
    Its lyrics aim to please

    Poetry is sexy
    Engaging in its tease

    Poetry is sexy
    It radiates with verb

    Poetry is sexy
    Every idyllic word

    Poetry is sexy
    Refined for purity

    Poetry is sexy
    Stripped of subtlety

    Poetry is sexy
    When read between the lines

    Poetry is sexy
    Laced with frilly rhymes

    Poetry is sexy
    Both singular and plural

    Poetry is sexy
    Every exclamatory swirl

    Poetry is sexy
    Grammatically raw

    Poetry is sexy
    Even typos and all

    Poetry is sexy
    Consummated publicly

    Poetry is sexy
    When performed properly

    Poetry is sexy
    Irrespective of its font

    Poetry is sexy
    Fashioned any way you want



    A Single Note Poem by Sandra Fowler

    A lilac for the anonymity,
    Of Mrs. Hinkle’s simple poetry.
    It shines within the margins of its space,
    A single note of captivating grace.

    The subtle sun through ancient maple leaves,
    Paints memory with a gentleness that grieves.
    A touch of soul is music to the bone,
    Even after every wing has flown.

    For Julia Ann Hinkle 1846-1908. This lady rests on a hill
    above my house beneath a poem of her own composition.
    She has been a great inspiration to me throughout my poetry life.



    A Man I Knew Poem by Cj Heck

    There was a man I knew
    and just knowing him
    made me think of poetry.

    Loving him, I learned
    that accepting love
    is as important as giving it

    and the not-so-subtle difference
    between loving lukewarm
    and loving red-hot.

    Love like that
    can make you stupid –
    a total-immersion kind of stupid,
    but it made me want
    to read poetry.

    In a different time
    and a different place
    it might have worked

    but it was over
    and when the last page was turned
    he was only a man I knew

    no regrets
    just one perfect memory
    and because I loved him
    I write poetry.