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Elegy Stress Poems | Elegy Poems About Stress

These Elegy Stress poems are examples of Elegy poems about Stress. These are the best examples of Elegy Stress poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Elegy | |

I Need Your Help Daddy

I’m tired
I’m Physically and Emotionally tired
I don’t want to be the strong one anymore
I can’t this time
I don’t know what to do Daddy
I need your help down here

I can’t get back in control of my emotions 
I’m having a hard time dealing with your absence
I’m having a hard time standing by myself
I need your help Daddy

I’m broken and lost without you Daddy
I need your will to want to carry on
I need your strength to over come this
I need your strength to stay standing
Your courage to fight back again
I need your help 

Please Daddy I’m at a loss
How am I suppose to do this
I need your guidance 
I need you to guide me back
To whom I was before
I need your help Daddy
I need your help







Details | Elegy | |

A Perfect-

A perfect crime.
The paper the victim,
the weapon a pen.

A perfect time.
The thoughts in my head,
a prayer, I say, amen.

A perfect day.
The mood is right,
it is time to begin.

A perfect way.
So I write, Father please,
forgive me for my sin.

A perfect start.
The liquid poison,
slowly kills the page.

A perfect heart.
Slowly breaking,
from all the rage.

A perfect death.
Please go in peace,
Your soul to keep.

A perfect breath.
For it's the last,
please don't weep.


Details | Elegy | |

The Evening Soup, Translation of Paul Verlaine's La soupe du soir

The Evening Soup, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s La soupe du soir

						To J.-K. Huysmans

(Verlaine here paints a stark tableau of working-class or peasant life shorn of any symbolic or imaginary references. Even if I see no reason to keep to the strict rhyme scheme, I have nevertheless tried – wherever possible - to retain the quatrain form. Yves-Alain Favre, the editor of Verlaine’s complete works, says that the beginning resembles Victor Hugo’s « Pauvres Gens » (Poor People). T. Wignesan)

The day dims in the narrow and cold room where the man
Just returned, in a shirt covered with snow, and for
The last three days has not uttered a word,
The woman takes fright and gesticulates warning the kids by signs .

One solitary bed, a dislocated sideboard, four chairs,
Curtains once white soiled by the blood of bugs,
A table which sags on one of its legs –
The whole wreaking with an air gone long stale

The man with the wide forehead, huge eyes fully sombre flame 
Truly sparkled with intelligence and soulfulness,
What one calls a solid reliable bloke.
The woman, still young, looks beautiful afetr a fashion.

But Misery has laid its cursed hand on them,
And in a mad tumble, they were dispossessed of what was left
Of their hard-cherished honour and sense of humanity,
Tomorrow, it’ll be the turn of the female and the male.

They were seated at the table to partake of the soup
And beef, and this sordid bunch made up a group
Whose shadows loomed endless invading the space around
The room, the lamp burned ever bright without any shutters.

The children are small and look pale though in stature robust
In spite of the apparent leanness of their chests
Which speak of winters gone by without proper warmth
And having to put up with stifling summers.

Closeby an old rusted rifle hangs on a nail
And which the lamp lights up in a strange way.
Anyone who would look about long in the retreat
With that eye of the policeman would see

Piled up at the bottom of a rickety almeirah
A few dust-caked books of « science » and « history »,
And under the mattress, concealed with great care,
Heady novels dog-eared at every end.

And yet they do eat. The man, morose and fierce,
Brings up this nauseating fare to his mouth
Like one notwithstanding a subdued air humbles,
While his Eustachian tube seems destined for other uses.

The woman thinks of some former buddy
Who has everything : carriage and cottage in the country,
While the children, their fists dug into their closed eye-lids
Slurp snoring over their bowls – the sound of imitated sobs.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013