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abortion absence
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Long Art Poems

Long Art Poems. Below are the most popular long Art by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Art poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Tom Arnone | Details |

April's Babbling Foolishness

(Created using the bAbBlE sentence generator, various text excerpts, and a minuscule bit of human editing.) 

And she smells good without keeping all ...

Beef, sitting lonely on that lies floating on the tufted floor. "Surely," I was napping, cold noodles, I implore!

But the Raven, "Nevermore."

Deep into that darkness peering, I got enough trouble.

Boy, the whole world together. Eagerly I guess dirt is what thy worldly name is on the tufted floor.

Taken from the night thinking. Eagerly I sat engaged in guessing, when, I'm supposed to spend the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose foot-falls tinkled on the floor; And my soul grew stronger; hesitating then he fluttered - Till the dirges of evil! - prophet still, hot noodles with seeing bird above my heart be still is there balm in Gilead? - here I scarcely more than muttered, sitting lonely on that placid bust, chicken guts!

Beef, while I pondered, shrimp with garlic sauce, and the silken, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; hesitating then no longer, "Nevermore."

Beef, yet all undaunted, nearly napping, and sour chicken, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to take out, "Though thy crest be shorn and mighty truck load of prehistoric swamp mud! Take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, lemon chicken with fantastic terrors never felt before. Then the bird said, beef with fantastic terrors never felt before; But the morrow he will leave me burning, curry sauce, crispy noodles, all my soul within me burning, roast pork, pepper steak and sour combination, "Nevermore."

But the Raven, "Or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore!" Quoth the morrow; - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber of flea-bitten bug ridden throng of flatulent sewage! - prophet still, if bird or white rice, chicken guts! Take out, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; This and more I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; This and more I sat engaged in guessing, curry beef lo mein, shrimp egg foo young, roast pork with my head at my chamber of contaminated cigar butts!

The Raven, "Nevermore."

Beef with broccoli and nothing more.

"Prophet!" said I, "Tapping at my chamber of pureed monkey mucus! - prophet still, if bird or steamed dumplings, stir fried rice noodles, beef with chili sauce, fried or steamed white rice, perfumed from an erratic horde of his Hope that melancholy burden bore - Till I said, Doubtless," said I, "Sir," said I, "Art sure I heard a tapping, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of septic frog water!"

Beef with many quaint and mighty dipstick of Pallas just above my chamber door, "Nevermore."

Beef Szechuan style, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the only word, anniversaries, roast pork with onions and spicy beef egg foo young, all the seeming of seething pus! By that Heaven that bends above his chamber of soggy camel snot!

Ah, Bar-B-Q pork with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now to take out my heart be still the beating of my heart be still a moment, and nothing more!

Beef with sorrow for the lost Lenore! Quoth the floor; And his eyes have flown before - On this home by Horror haunted - tell me see, then, shrimp lo mein, boneless chicken almond cookies, chicken, chicken egg foo young, vegetable chow fun, "Nevermore."

The Raven, "Lenore?" Merely this and nothing more!

Beef lo mein, free delivery within 4 blocks, I implore; But the fact is I was napping, hot spicy beef fried rice, open 8 days, suddenly there came a blasphemous sliver of steaming monkey meat!

Then, pork fried rice, weak and mighty stack of my heart, and mighty bowl of rotten bear whiz!

This I flung the shutter, catering for free delivery, weak and mighty repository of the countenance it wore, shrimp, shrimp, with garlic sauce, fearing, Doubting, Buddhist delight, I stood there wondering, beef with my head at my chamber door - This is it and tomato, beef, That one gently rapping, crispy noodles, roast pork, eggplant with my head at ease reclining On the fact is I was napping, calamari with broccoli, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered - not a schizophrenic cask of mealy verbal diarrhea!

Beef with many a flirt and mighty crust of repugnant disk failures!

Ah, nevermore!

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to take out that now burnt into my bosom's core; And my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, crispy shrimp, I implore - Is there - is there balm in beer batter, sitting lonely on this desert land enchanted - On the morrow he hath sent, Bar-B-Q beef, while I pondered, General Tso's chicken guts!

Beef, "Nevermore."

Startled at the house specialties, "Thing of evil! - prophet still, Singapore rice, my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the angels name Lenore - Clasp a cow. Not the ducks and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore - Tell this is some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast delivery within 6 days, Nevermore."

"Thing of evil! - prophet still the beating of forgotten lore - While I nodded, nearly napping, and chicken, chicken wings, run, with my chamber door!

"Nevermore."

Jane said, "Here he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered, Sir," said I, funny, Though thy crest be shorn and shrimp with me truly, shrimp with this and sour soup with mien of lord or steamed white rice or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Jane and tomato, perched above my bosom's core; This and vegetable chow fun, look, I muttered, Jane, I muttered, "Mother."

Beef, "Nevermore."

You - here, all the shutter, dropping her underwear now burnt into the chamber turning her dress.

Colors may be paid by that God we have sent, consult your receipt. There balm in Gilead? - tell me, feeling the door - Perched upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door.

"Get thee back through him."

She knew that way she was watching her flesh. There spoken was unbroken, $111.

Then, what thereat is not the Beatles.

Quoth the grave and stern decorum of the angels name Lenore. Quoth the whole lobster with broccoli, Dynasty delight, all the night thinking.

He was in beer batter, By the ushers watch me up was sure gets complicated. They like parking your gum on the floor; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the stuff in the other kids are a man. They like you came rapping, truly your forgiveness I wish he'd hurry up snappy answers for evermore.

Copyright © 1994 Tom Arnone & bAbBlE (computer writing program)

Copyright © Tom Arnone | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Neldy Jolo | Details |

THE CRAFT CAN CAPTURE IT

Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito 
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches 

Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved

Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities? 
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.

Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen 
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.

How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism 
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners 
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo

Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro 

May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din

As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away' 
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?” 
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino” 
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism

Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas 
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks 

I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin 
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta

Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas 
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika

‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it

Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago 
The name of people is Tausug. 
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam 
Is already a nation and state 
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja

Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law

I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts 
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.

I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it 
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.






This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!

Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by john chizoba vincent | Details |

Pen Errand

I know that even when others deceive me, you can't decieve me with your blossoming ink of truth.
Go tell them what has happened to our budget,
Tell them that our budget is missing in a broad day light, who stole it? We Are yet to know.
Tell them that the chibok girls have not return from the forest of lies.
Tell them that the president is confused in fighting corruption.
Tell them that the same looters are our ministers in the government house.





Go to the school, tell the teachers that they have lied to us.
They told us that we are the leaders of tomorrow and our hopes were lifted up, happy. Joyful. Excited.
Yet, the old men still control us like cattle in the field.
They taught us how to carry Bible on our left hands
And then, hold gun on our right hands to kill.
They taught us to keep lies on our upper teeth and
Truths on our lower teeth and deceit at the tip of the tongue.
How the weak sun smile, they shows us with laughter
How the air was inverted with a cloud of worry; they taught with a black chalk which depict darkness.






Go tell the moon that the world is not happy with it,
Why colour our world with white while we need darkness, darkness that speak honestly to humans?
Stop no where until you get to the skin of the sky,
Paint it with red and black of your tongue, humans
Don't need white sky but black and red sky.
Hurl my soul to the people of the earth, smile not!
Laugh not, pen! For the gods are blind to see your work.
Where are the gods of the land which supposed to shield us to peace?!
Where are the gods in this land?
Where is Obatala, Ogun, Amadioha, Sango, Arusi?
Where are they, my beloved pen?
It wasn't so in the beginning, no, it wasn't so in our time.






Your words is but a candle on stand with men,
You will make many blind and many loose their senses when you start with your endless talking.
What good is that to them that they live on earth?
All have sinned and you must tell them the truth,
Do not be gentle on those hard stone, honey pen.
Go! go!! Go tell them of the pains they have caused
While I remain in this darkness called bar of truth.
Hide nothing from any man or woman, understand?!
Men have chew many cud in their mouths and this had made them forget their creator's warning of love.





Hold the church at ramsom because they caused the war, religion war against one another in the church.
Tell the pastor of your observation; of his drifting off from the doctrine of God, the creator of the universe.
Ask the Imam why many are killing in his mosque,
Why many has created their own part instead of the
Path of their prophet; Mohammed, why?
Then, return to the church and ask the pastors why
Prosperity sermons is the order of the day, pretty pen;
Don't be shy and intimidated on this journey.
Many would abuse you but forth I send you not backward.







Tell the government they have done us more bad than good.
The masses are weeping at the door of their houses,
Commotion here and there in their handwritten letters
The oil they made to fight against us in an abnormal way.
Our hearts they have taken to their hearts to dine with.
When shall the call of intergrity be made to us?
When shall all return home to feast together as one family?
Tell them we see all their works to us under the sun,
Every one shall receive their reward when the time comes.
No king forever, soldier go, soldier come, barracks remain the same.







Stories foretold between my fingers are the sad ones.
Dreams made real by the stroke of a golden pen is real to the boredom of their looted ego in the world.
Blue inks manifest to change course of humankind but their dirty hearts foretold of an unchanged facts.
Red inks warn of impending wordless doom that will befall men when their hearts remain the way it is.
Black ink is the colour of their souls, black demons.
A writer's morsel is pictures in the brain of his brain.
Tell them to turn to the rhymes of their dance and watch how the beads they wear will mock them in tears.





Let your words be broken into verses so that they could understand that life wasn't to get and eat alone.
Mighty pens speak and, I know you won't disappoint me when you see their faces in the light rooms.
Do not look at their faces nor look into their eyes!
Those faces and eyes are decieving to look at. 
Your languages their tongue may not understand but write it down on a white parchment paper shrivels under your bleeding  body, maybe they would understand.
Words are my wealth, the wealth you really need to share with the world to know of our pains.








Journey of a pen knows no destiny nor fate of others,
They may take your words or leave them at the door of their ears but; make sure you speak what I asked you to speak to the dying world of sin.
I cannot beg the graveyard to teach men of quality of being honest but, I can only plead you to redirect their steps .
I may not  have to  live completely to write but this errand I sent you shall represent me long before am gone, the legacy of your message to the world shall not be wipe away nor be chased away from people's heart.
I die tomorrow but death never kill me when my words are evidence in their hearts.




(C) John chizoba vincent
Voice from Nkporo

Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Funom Makama | Details |

He said, I said

How the housefly gets attracted to organic decay and an infant child traces the voice of its mother are nothing compared to the intense attraction Michelle and I possess on the guy owning not a strand of hair on his head but is in command of all forms of feminine arousal Our weakness was too glaring; our lust, too embarrassing the chance to act rare and expensive we've lost. All we've got is to dance to the tune of his authority as he smiled and consented to our 'not so hidden' desires. Now, he walks straight at us his every step, an additional load on me I seem to carry the entire solar system on my chest. My heartbeat, pulsations and breath are as loud as a live rock band "I've never seen you here is this your first time?"......... He said "Yeah, actually!".................. I said. My friend and I responded simultaneously our answers gushing out like a group of running horses, mine seem to carry more weight as it tames any challenge from hers. "So, how did two love Angels fall in such an unworthy place as this?"......... He said "How unworthy?"........................................... I Said. I've championed the game of words and emotions and just as what inevitably defines the day is sunlight so is my testament. Michelle showed glimpse of disapproval to my replies but my exclamation of her name gave adequate caution. "yes, this place is unworthy, because I need to pass through seven Oceans and seven hills to see someone like you"........... He said. "Then you'll never find me there. I'm not a specie going extinct." ............................ I Said. The gods of luck have smiled on the Lions once again in preference to other cats. The father of favour, shaking hands with the Eagle while by-passing the other birds. This is my exact situation as jealousy builds a castle in my friend's heart. "So, what's your name, sweet damsel?"...... He said. "Anna"........................................................ I said. This is a familiar routine, his plan is as detectable and as obvious as watered grass but letting it turn green is what I must not allow so that the security of my reputation is not compromised. "Anna is a lovely name, do you like poker?"........ He said. "No, I don't!"........... I said. The looks of my friend, spoke 'awe' mine replied in aggression then she flowed in complete understanding on its message on not acting cheap especially to the one we've shown so much likeness. "So what do you like?".......................He said. "Going out to the Cinema or the beach or engaging in salsa".......................... I said. Already scoring goals and dominating the game, I felt my opponent was completely toothless and flattened. But playing along is my aim to make him beg on his knees which adds to my fame. "Can we try any of those sooner?"......................... He said. "How do you mean?"............................................... I said. Another punch brings about another shield and sometimes a strong defence feels more fulfilling than a heavy attack. "Let's go out to the movies this night"............. He said. "I'm busy tonight!"........................................... I said. It feels like punishment to him but he takes it like a challenge and this keeps me far from winning. Being on top is my birth right and a step lower is deemed a sacrilege. "What about going to the beach this weekend?".................. He said "I'll be out of town"................................................................. I said. Persistence could be rewarding but my protective walls are just too thick for any form of penetration; too high for any form of infiltration and too deep for any form of condemnation. "Then, when would you be free to teach me Salsa?"............................ He said. "I'm not stable, neither can I determine my free time"..................... I said. The game of attack and defense is never absolute as the attacker may fall victim of a rare counter attack or the defender, gets wary of his defense with no chance to pull an offensive string. Either, ending up as the vanquish despite the brilliant strategies being set up. "Michelle, are you also unstable like Anna?"...... He said "What!"............................................................... I said. Envy plans on a historic transfer while my friend poised not an aota of difficulty and this makes me extremely furious. She was just at the corner waiting for this opportunity and even before it avails itself, she snatches it into her well guided belongings. Looking at both in confusion and disappointment; they share contacts and crack jokes. "I'll give you a call this evening".................. He said Nothing I said because now, Michelle is running the show.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Goutam Hazra | Details |

Scent of Paddy Flower

Scent Of Paddy Flower

                                   By Goutam Hazra

           1
Reminiscence

My father told me 
first time 
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”

I remember
he would catch 
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
and wonder,
“Isn’t it godly!”

Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
            
             2
Days of kind rain

“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”

Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask  
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father 
and said
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”




Curious was my face,
“Papa, then?”

“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
there
everywhere.
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”

“Where these flowers come from?”

Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.

“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
waiting rain 
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”

Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.

Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays 
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.


Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”

Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
said so
green wind brining life 
did so
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
beautiful
simple
with the scent of paddy flower.”
           
             3
Cruel entropy

How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see 
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”

One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
from ocean 
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”

Question 
many question
my father had asked the rain.

Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain 
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”

Who knew, it left for where?

My father cried 
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.

My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
in vain
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.

Year passed by,
came back the time, 
for green wind to bring kind rain.

Rain came one day.

But why
as a cloudburst
treacherous
roaring always
pouring unwanted
like an unkind monster
flooded misery
in the life of a simple farmer?
           
            4
Relinquishment

Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”

Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life 
changed my mind 
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.

But… 
Does not this civilization
converts us 
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run 
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking  over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion? 
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
Modification
innovation
sophistication
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction 
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.

             5
Scent of life

So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father, 
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
beautiful
simple
with the scent of paddy flower.”

I never felt so,
what I smell now 
is the scent of paddy flower.



















Copyright © Goutam Hazra | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by Maurice Rigoler | Details |

Van Gogh at Saint Remy

My dear Theo,
	A week has gone by since I committed
myself. I feel quite at home here with
no regrets that I did so. This is not to say, 
of course, that given my instability of mind 
I will not swing to a more extreme
opinion. For the present, all is more
that I could have imagined and expected.
I am not alone, other men are here
who suffer with the same disease I have.
A few are quite beyond reach, while others 
less so. By observing these madmen
and lunaticss, little  by little I am
beginning to see that madness is
a disease like any other, except
for the cries and howls, especially
at night, then the place resembles an
a abandoned managerie of wild animals.
	As for my health, it is good, considering
my last attack. So, please, do not concern
yourself about my health. I assure you
I can manage. Besides, I know I will
be happy here than if I were elsewhere.
By staying here, perhaps for a few weeks
or even months, a routine of daily habits 
should, in the long run, bring more order 
to my life and lessen my anxieties.
	As proof of my new optimism, I have 
already completed two paintings – “Blue Irises”
and “Lilacs.” A room has been set aside 
for me as a studio. It does me so much 
good and drives away dark thoughts that 
disturb me when I least expect them 
and frighten me like a child. I noticed
the irises in the little garden the first
day I arrived. I put them to oil and canvas 
the very next day. When you see the canvas 
you will see how vibrant they are, how fresh 
in their spring vigor and growth. What caught 
my eye more forcefully is their deep 
violet-blue – like those of Chartres.
I hope you will find a buyer for it.
Then I would not be so dependent on
your generosity, especially now that your 
wife is expecting – congratulations,
my dear brother! If a boy, what name
do you plan to give him, or is it too
early to ask? Write and tell me.
	What matters now, my dear brother, is 
that I keep working, for despite my setbacks
I am more than ever convinced I can 
make something of myself, my art, my life.
I burn for some modest recognition, 
some official  praise. It would give my spirit
such a boost. And, if I may indulge
my vanity a little, the day is not far
away when I can reap a measure of
success to off-set for my miserable life 
to date.
	If only what afflicts me, this malady,
would leave me long enough and free to
achieve my dreams. But if not, I won’t
be bitter; for even if my work goes
unrecognized in my lifetime, can I
not hope that future generations will
not ignore it, understand what I was
trying to do? Theo, I am persuaded
that it will be so. Was not the Nazarene
denied his due and honor by his own?
	Doctor Peyron has given me permission 
to work outside in the small flower
garden nearby and to scout the landscape
that surrounds the asylum. And what
magnificant landscape it is! To paint
nature here you must walk amidst its
beauties. To that end, I take long walks
to discover its many features, starting
early in the morning and returning
late in the evening. There is so much
to see that lifts my dampened spirits:
Waving yellow fields of wheat clear to
the distant hills, row after row of olive
trees, brilliant flowers everywhere, open
skies with massive slow-moving, swirling 
clouds, and tall cypresses rising and twisting
into the heavens like cathedral spires. 
I already know how I will portray them
on my canvases.
	But nothing, I tell you, my dear brother,
nothing compares to the the night skies here –
these starry nights, so vast and visionary!
Already I foresee several paintings of
these starry skies, like the one I did
on the Rhône in Arles last September.
But these of Saint-Rémy will demand
great effort and vision of me. How they
fire me to paint and charge my brushes!
In truth, dear brother, it is as close
to God I have ever come. Everywhere
I turn, it’s an ecstasy of color, a banquet
for the senses! I am glutted by a flood
of sensations that leave me staggering
under the pouring heat of the Midi sun.
If only you could visit me sometime,
even if just for a day, to see it all,
to walk together as we did along
the Rijswijk road where we stopped to drink
milk near the mill after the rain – do you
remember, Theo? How I will always
cherish those memories.
	There is so much here, so much that awaits
my brushes and canvases. And I am
so eager to begin. When I return 
after a long day in the field, I am
too exhausted to paint, too overwhelmed
by all the work I foresee, my nerves
too taut. And then I am always filled
with remorse when I think of my work,
that it is so little in harmony with
the way I envision it in my head.
But I can’t stop; I must paint. And yet
I hardly know where to begin. My hand,
head and heart shake with such delight
and despair. I want to put Saint-Rémy
on my canvases. I want everyone
to know and acknowledge that I, Vincent,
the mad Dutchman, was here, painted here!
Oh, my dearest Theo, life is glorious!

Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Is there an Exclusive All-in-One Principle

        
  ‘ In general, quantum mechanics does not predict a single definite result for an observation. Instead, it predicts a number of  different possible outcomes and tells us how likely each of these is. ‘

 
Which side of the Wolf-coin are we looking at

                  the red or the green

           
                                 nothing then is certain

not even death but the life one endures

             
 quarks protons neutrons electrons bosons

particles like men and beings in general

                                             bathe not necessarily in the same lifeless soup

         great teachers or rather teachers with great followings

     those that always attract those who prefer to let others do the thinking  for them

         especially through transcendentally transmitted interstellar telegraphy

                 would want us believe

                                             there’s just This One

  and all comes and goes to That Only ONE

        
If only it were just as simple as that

Then what is it that This One wants

Or is It caught up in its own caveat

And must of needs come apart

        on the seed that It alone plants

 
                           and do what we may

   nothing goes wrong

            whatever the explanation

everybody is right

right from the start

 

         Big Bang from a tight-fisted unfurling hand

         Big Crunch to a crushing tightening stranglehold

and out again

         for the Brahma Day

and after aeons the Brahma Night

 
And at the stillstanding blackhole singularity

         neither space nor time

            squeezed in and out

Birth as in Death

An eventual point of total extinction

        if ever there was one

 
Yet always the two extremes

      and the ever-changing in-betweens

Matter versus Anti-Matter

Here the Yang is not lkely to be set againt the Yin

Though matter itself is neither

Is nor Is-Not-ness

         And the 96% Dark Matter

          And the infinite number of parallel universes

Does it really matter

                                        when

 
         ‘ … if you meet your antiself, don’t shake hands !

            You would both vanish in a great flash of light.’                   

 
Vanish into what

                                    Dark matter

or just non-dark matter

 
Still the duality of matter

Still the ever-changing conundrum

 
              Everything moves jostles couples alters reproduces destructs

        self-destructs
 

         ‘Sex is emotion in motion.’

 
Emotion erupts

           into thin air

      into where

Dark air

 
Motion disrupts

         and roots one here

      tied to the lunar year

 
       why should it matter

if we cannot know the reason why

ego id libido

drive faith fame femme father future

 
if super/alter ego connects the ego

       to the collective unconscious 

     
       why drown the self in the Great Self

by wilful act

       when the Ultimate One

is the sum of all the little ones

 
Is the Original One incapable of absorbing all the ones

each of whom must move to eat drink sleep

copulate make money grow roots in a society

get and fight to keep a job

make love marry raise children

struggle to keep one’s wife one’s children        

one’s house  if one can get one

one’s career one’s future

and helter-skelter race to cheat death

 
If it’s the self-same thing that’s being born anew

What does it matter if it keeps changing in view

Of the desperate haste with which everything

We see smell hear feel intute sense

Keeps hurtling away from the Ding an Sich

And leaves us with a parochial Milky Way

Bastardised stealthily by grandiose Andromeda        

Left retrograded entwined within measely galaxy clusters 

Through some trillion cataclysmic light years

 
What’s the impulse to keep moving

Is the yogi’s stilled-centre

The death of all action

Which cannot call for a reaction

Or is the art of keeping still

Merely the art of making belief

 

          ‘…actors act out the pun that life is the art of acting

until your performed role becomes your normal character.

Then you are safe inside your character armour.’

 

As soon as you have thought It out

It turns around and re-structrures Itself inside out

                 and you know just why

                                                               don’t you now

 

References to the quotations

Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time : From the Big Bang to Black Holes, London-New York, 1988.

Ibid.

Attributed to Mae West.

Eric N. W. Mottram,  « Men & Gods : A Study of Eugene O’Neill », Encore (London), 1963.

I’m not sure the « re-structuring » bit at the end comes from
Steven Weinberg or John Gribbin, or perhaps even from Fred Allan Wolf ?

 

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005 ; rev. 2012. From the collection : Poems Omega-Plus, 2005.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012


Long poem by Tyshawn Knight | Details |

From Sunday School to Monday Morning

Once again I tip the scale
And mutter, whoever invented it was a man from hell.
It was not a woman who created weights for size
For women can look past the outer shell
And search deep for what is inside.
Men must have their cake and eat it too…
From head to toe-perfection-from hat to shoe
I dress in all white for today I must teach Sunday school
If only a man’s heart would find my food
I can shake and bake
If only on my plate would a handsome man chance to take.

The preacher gets up on the pulpit and puts on his show
Talks about the place where adulterers must go
None of us admit he is a hypocrite as we all know
For he has slept with every woman in the front row.
But, even still my pig’s feet goes from hot to cold
No matter how many ties for him I’ve sewn.
Some women have all the luck
Others like me can’t even get a look-let alone a touch
Being me, ah yes, it is too much.

Sister “Gossip” waves her fan as I go past
“Speak out loud?” would be too much to ask.
I wonder if it is my skirt that is too tight
Or whether I will be at home alone again tonight
I wonder if whatever she says about me is worth a fight
Or is it even true and right.
I pray for her soul with all my might,
I can’t let the Devil move into my mind.

People tell me I sing like a bird
Its gospel time, time to praise the Lord with words
I walk on stage to take my turn
Hands sway from side to side and my throat burns…
But the men stare at the teenager in the short skirt
And the first lady with the red dress
My curves ripple my stomach
For I am not that blessed
I have what a man wants to hear
But to lye beside me is what they all fear.

The service offered nothing by way of encouragement.
But, I have worshiped God
Even if the day was not heaven sent
I know somehow it must be time well spent.
I kiss the little children good-bye
And pretend all is joyous on the inside.
Satin-Legs Smith walks pass the church and sighs
We all know what is on his mind
Therefore though I dream of marriage he doesn’t give me the time.
He looks at me winks and a little smile.
He would only laugh if I asked him to come eat with me
For a little while.

I hang my coat in the closet
Beside a dusty wedding dress
I was wishful thinking when I bought it.
It is four sizes to small
I had planned to shrink into it by last fall.
But, too much time passed and I can’t even return it to the mall.
I can’t bring myself to put it in the trash down the hall.
I may use it for curtains or to cover the dirt stains on my front wall.

I lay myself down to sleep
And pray to the Lord my soul to keep.
And that I do not die before love I see
It is enough to at least give me hopeful dreams.

Monday comes and I have to go off to clean
For rich white people who don’t need anything.
Except for J. Alfred Prufrock
He lives on top 
Of the food chain
But he too is looking for love
We’re both the same.
He always looks at me like he has something to say
But he can’t get past his bald spot or the creases on his face.
Again I wonder should I do the flirting dance
Let him know I am available and that I can
And I will, so he will take a chance
I know he would be willing to love me still
I am not settling for second best!
He is a man!
I am a woman!
Shouldn’t we make love manifest?

I think I will give it a go
And see if I could be someone he would come to know
A fine meal some sweet potatoes and a roast
A pan of peach cobbler, such things men love the most.
I will make his house squeaky clean
Show him what he could expect if he married me.
I drive up and he is at his window
Watching his neighbors come and go
Eavesdropping on their conversations
About Michaelangelo.
And he is reading a book, Dante’s “Inferno”

“Is this for me?” when he sees the plate of food.
I nod yes and hope it gets him in the mood
He smiles, blushes and turns red.
All sorts of happy thoughts run through my head.
But still he only eats and does not speak
It seems the asking will be up to me. 
But what do I say for I do not wish to be
Considered by him, a hussy.
I ask him if he likes the movies.
He tells me he prefers plays
“I have never been to one” I say.
“Maybe I shall take you to one someday.”	
“And I will make you a German Chocolate cake.”
“I guess then it is a date.”

How should I wear my hair?  Should I sport an afro?
Or get a perm?  This is the time to use all those make up tips that I learned.
It seems I will feel the joy of being an Eve.
The birds are singing just for me.
The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming.

Will they be putting Prufrock on my tomb stone
If I do this right I won’t die alone…

Copyright © Tyshawn Knight | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by SILENCE ZVARAYA | Details |

robbed

 

It has been long,

I wish for your voice once more.

I   write this letter to tell that;

Sometimes the sun does shine,

But things will never be the same.

I am still keeping your favorite suit,

Hoping  that  one day  you  will  come  to  wear  it ,

To show me how well it fits you.

I am still keeping your black shoes,

Hoping  that  one  day  you  will  come  to  wear  them  on ,

for  that  journey  we  had  planned  that  day .

I am safe keeping your favorite novel.

I   read it always,

And every day it is a fresh story.

I  always  read  those  letters  you  used  to  send  me .

They hold a lot of memories and secrets.

You were such a naughty young man!

Every  night  I  hold  your  pictures  before  I  go  to  sleep .

I  smile  and  hope  that  you  will  smile  back .

With  a  fake  smile  I  gaze  at  your  empty  seat .

I try to appreciate each new day.

But things are not the same anymore.

Everything pleasant I want to share it with you.

Everything good makes fonder. 

Do you still remember that snake trail,

we used to amble secretly together?

It has not been used   for years,

And is now hidden in tall grass.

That tree which covered us when we sang together,

 died last year.

I  have  now  figured  out  the  right  tune  to  that  song ,

we composed together.

But  will  you  be  able  to  hear  how  well  it  sounds  now ?

I try to sing it alone,

but it fails to burn.

Sometimes it does sound good,

but I end up crying.

I  wish  you  were  here  to  hear  me  sing  well .

Yesterday I saw your friends.

They caught a big fish together,

They were all thrilled.

Peter is now able to swim.

Sam is building a new house.

By  the  way  ,  they  told  me  that  your  team  won .

They   were happy for you.

I wish you were here with them,

Boasting about how strong our love is.

Do you still remember our neighbors, Mary and John?

They did wed last month.

I couldn`t hold back my tears,

when they made their vows.

I  was  hurt  when  the  bridegroom  kissed  the  bride .

I remembered our own wedding,

Our own true vows,

That passionate kiss in front of our parents.

But now who will touch my lips?

A  lot  has  changed  on  this  side  since  you  left .

New things were born.

It is now beautiful.

I try to smile but   it`s hard.

I no   longer watch the setting sun,

Because it refused to carry me were you are.

I no longer gaze the moon,

Because it has never told me were you are,

and how well you are coping. 

I never talk to the stars,

Because  they  refused  to  bring  you  back  to  me .

Yesterday I was preparing dinner,

I did forget of   your absence.

I  did  light  candles  and  placed  two  dinner  plates . 

I always prepare your favorite meal,

Hoping  that  it  will  lure  you  back  to  me .

Today  in  the  morning  I  called  your  name  merrily ,

when  I  heard  the  morning  bird  sing .  

Oh it was such a melody!

I wanted you to   hear it also.

But latter I realized that you couldn`t.

I just wished you could.

You know what?

Today I am wearing your favorite pink dress.

I  wish  you  were  here  to  tell  me  how  beautiful  I  am  in  it .

I  know  you  always  loved  me  to  wear  it ,

 That is why I did so today.

Remember;

Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary.

I am holding our wedding photos right now.

Your mother passed by.

She tries very hard to be strong,

but her eyes are always wet.

Even  though  she  told  me  never  to  cry  but  to  remain  strong ,

She has never been the same since you left.

Last night I had a terrible dream.

I wanted something to hold to.

I  ended  up  holding  dearly  to  my  pillow .

I wish you were......., you know,

Someone to hold, 

Someone to calm me down,

Someone just beside me.

Your son is right here.

He said I should tell you that,

He loves you and he misses you.

I  wish  you   were  here  to  see  how  well  he  is  growing ,

He would have made you proud.

He is now a big boy.

Every night I tell him our story.

I always comfort him that one day,

we will be a family once again.

He is such a marvel to watch.

He makes me smile,

But I end up crying. 

Everything about him resembles you.

Every day I am with him,

he makes me remember you.

I sob,

I whisper; 

"Death is not fair my love.

Copyright © SILENCE ZVARAYA | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by J. W. Earnings | Details |

2016

2016

Less than 24 hours,
2016 will take over and 2015 will be broken towers
It will be remembrance in a photo shoot album
Reminders of ups and downs in the past, present and future...making us feel numb and a bread crumb on the floor, but God will beat us with everlasting life as if he's a drummer on his delicate, favorite drum
You all are smart,
Not dumb and like a drunkard on rum
Let's make good decisions and make them a master-art
Insecurities leave us feeling dumb 
 
2 At 12,
0
1 A
6 New Year will begin...wow...


2 I'm so...
0
1 Glad
6 Nervouscited...joyful 
2 For what 
0
1 Lies
6 Ahead - 2016

2 Will be
0
1 Full
6 Of good/bad surprises...





2 Happy 
0
1 As
6 Can be...I'm satisfied

2 At 12,
0
1 An
6 old Year will pass away...


2 I'm so...
0
1 Sad
6 afraid almost...but then
2 I hope 
0
1 For
6 Better days, my Father

2 Will be
0
1 Full
6 Of hugs and kisses...hmm...





2 Joyous 
0
1 As
6 Can be...I'm astonished!

2 At 12,
0
1 A
6 New Year will begin...YES!!


2 I'm so...
0
1 Bad
6 Cuz last year reflects it
2 Accept
0
1 The 
6 Truth and move on from there

2 There, there...
0
1 don't 
6 worry yourself to death





2 Receive 
0
1 Gifts 
7 Of miracles and curses 

2 At 12,
0
1 A
8 New Year will begin...mhm...


2 I'm so...
0
1 meh 
9 About it, but oh well...boo, you snooze,
2 you lose
0
1 bleh
8 I feel under the weather 

2 Boohoo 
0
1 Bless
7 All the positive people 





2 So great
0
1 You 
6 Guys and girls are to me

At 12, A Good Year will come...fingers crossed! Hoping we haven't lost...but won with victory like champions with determination crowned on their heads that sweat the sweat of we-won, not of defeat

2 Free style
0
1 Is
4 Much easier than
2 This...style...
0
1 But...
3  I will live

2 old with 
0
1 A...
2 Young heart





2 Relieved
0
1 To 
5 be home...with myself

2 until 
0
1 12...
6 on iPhone time...we're changed!

2 in the 
0
2 future,
0

2 I will 
0
1 Be
8 Something and someone more than this...

Change of character is what I need
Not arrogance or any form of greed
I need humility and confidence and so much more
I need fame and fortune, but I need God, the Father that I adore...I want friends to surround me and I want family to be around me forevermore, so I can enter through the endless possibilities and non-stop growing opportunities corridor 

2016!!!! Woohoo 
What's old? What's new?
It's just another year
Of cheer and tear and fear and things and people we hold on so dear...darling, I'm here and let your cheer appear and let me steer the wheel into brighter days, clearing away from the seas of sorrows on our tongues, swimming in the saliva of our sheer fear...bring your chips and beer and celebrate a New Year - that's what they say with a smile that goes ear to ear...3 cheers for a new year
Hip hip hooray 
Hip hip hooray
Raise your glasses of shameless, shiny armor
Praise be to God for a successful, yet overrated 2015 year...full of glitches and error  
God is here
So have no fear...
Merely, our emotions and worries are like a mirror...
Some of them reflect on other people...and influence others like a gossip that passes on to generation to generation just by a single murmur

Don't jeer at me for being the only optimistic guy here
Let's cheer together in unison and glee, some happiness and mayhem don't speak aloud in a commotion-packed crowd...be not selfishly ambitious or proud 
Let's be happy and I agree...we should be overflowing with cheer
Break the dishes of our doubts and hop on Cloud 7, for we are all in the same silky, creamy cloud...a shimmering shroud that calls for us so silently loud 

Lost in a multitude...feeling nude and ashamed in society's eyes that are slightly rude
2015 needs to step aside forever, starting today
2016 - the notion of it all is giving us an attitude of gratitude...amaze us with your magnifying mood 
Misunderstood - aren't we all that way? Some say...we are human and we make mistakes and that's all okay...

As long as we look up to Him

As long as we repent of our past mistakes that makes our lightbulbs dim  

As long as we enjoy the rest of our busy lazy lives

We will be those gaily buzzing, bedazzled bees that are in their own personal hives

2016 - 
It's too good to be true
2061 -
A mystery without a clue

Copyright © J. W. Earnings | Year Posted 2015


Long Poems