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Long Fish Poems | Long Fish Poetry

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

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Long Poems
Long poem by Dylan Irvin | Details |

Phantom Journals

Phantom Journal Entry 1
 Wednesday 8:03 A.M.
I found Jesus at a bus stop this morning. He recommended that I comb my hair. I told him if I had any nails I would hand them over.  Monty  found a shoe full of vomit by a dumpster. Someone had an interesting night. This apartment smells like stale french fries. Frank is still sleeping on the counter next to Mr. Coffee. There is a stray cat clawing at the windowpane. The town is gradually waking up. The park across the street is filled with shirkers. My mind is still living in last night’s conversation. But I don’t remember it very well.  Shit, I’m going to be late for 

Phantom Journal Entry 2

Wednesday 11:13 P.M.

Work sucked. I think the bartender is an alcoholic. She hides a flask in her bra. It fell out when we were in the stall together. Frank is sprawled across the kitchen floor. Monty steps over him to grab a beer. The stray cat is now sleeping on the windowpane. Nothing ever changes from morning to night. Except Monty is drinking coffee and not beer. 

Phantom Journal Entry 3

Good Friday 9:47 P.M.

The ocean left the brine. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their dreams are living in my beer. The worms are drunk on the stove. Frank passed out hugging the toilet. Monty takes a piss right next to his face. Some girl just asked me what I was writing. I told her that I was rewriting the Bible. She seemed confused. Her hair wasn’t combed either. The guy at the bus stop would be ashamed. I can’t remember his name though. The television can’t stop spewing poorly scripted ‘reality’ shows. This Friday isn’t very Good. 

Phantom Journal Entry 4

Monday 3:12 A.M.

My eyes are broken garage doors off the tracks. I’ve drank too much Red Bull. She keeps waking up and asking me for water. Apparently her mouth is in a drought. A dead soldier lays between her breasts. Frank keeps drooling on the carpet. My favorite ash tray is tipped over next to Mr. Coffee. This desk keeps hiding words from me. Monty wonders how much a plane ticket to Hell costs. He never sleeps.

Phantom Journal Entry 5

Thursday 12:31 A.M.

It smells of raw fish and bleach in here.  My palms are sore. Monty told me to stab myself with pencils to make sure I could still bleed. So I did.  That girl ordered me a pizza. But I forgot it under the couch.  The medicine chest is nearly empty. When Frank wakes up he is taking a trip to 5th Street to get more. I wonder if they sell bandages there? Will Mr. Coffee brew marijuana for us? My brain is starting to throw up. 

Phantom Journal Entry 6

Thursday 12:38 A.M.

This desk keeps mocking me. I offered it to the guy at the bus stop, but he said he didn’t want anymore wood. The dishes are now a chemistry project. But Mr. Coffee is always clean. I can’t get this girl to stop showing me her tattoos. I miss the bartender at work. She got fired tomorrow. So I bought her a new bra. The medicine chest is empty now. Frank is never awake when I write.

Phantom Journal Entry 7

Thursday 4:30 P.M.

I finally got the garage doors fixed. I guess they weren’t closed enough.  There is a ghost that keeps haunting the hallway in my dreams. She is pretty hot. Except she keeps tilting the pictures on the wall.
The thirsty girl still won’t leave. Neither will the cat. We may have found the cure for cancer in our dishes. But probably not.  Frank is talking in his sleep about stepping on rats. Monty is listening to Beethoven while he attempts to write poetry. He is an awful writer. 

Phantom Journal Entry 8

Monday 1:49 A.M.

The guy at the bus stop asked me if I wanted to drink his blood. I told him I wasn’t thirsty. The water was running from the shower. Frank was dreaming in the tub. Monty ate chicken wings with the tattooed girl. I can’t remember her name. I think that cat is hungry too. Mr. Coffee wants to go to sleep. There is broken glass sticking out of my feet. The sky is bleeding white. My mind begins to masturbate.

Phantom Journal Entry 9

Sunday 3:33 A.M.

The brine is looking for the ocean. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their realities are dead on the floor. This desk is growing a face. The medicine chest is full. Monty picks up a filthy habit from the black lake. I haven’t seen Frank for a few days. He must be under the couch. I robbed the guy at the bus stop. Turns out he didn’t really save much. The thirsty tattooed girl shattered Mr. Coffee last night. I will miss him dearly. Now my shot glass is spawning worms. 

Phantom Journal Entry 10

Tuesday and I don’t know what time it is

It’s been 369 days since I last wrote an entry. I’ve simply had nothing to say. Monty is living in the streets somewhere. I think of him every time I buy a loaf of bread. I wonder if he found out how much tickets cost? That cat finally starved a few weeks ago. I married that thirsty tattooed girl. I still don’t remember her name though. Frank went to sleep in someone elses apartment. Never did talk to him much. The worms are all marching in a line. Someone stole my medicine chest. I think it was Monty.  The guy at the bus stop was thrown into an asylum. But somehow vanished one day. The garage doors are now closed on a regular basis. That ghost finally straightened out the tilted pictures. I think I’ve been combing my hair a lot better lately. I am still a phantom to society. But that’s okay. Nobody knows my name.








Long poem by Ralph Sergi | Details |

A Film Noir Movie

By the lamppost at night
with the pale moon shining bright
but obscured by the fog
I saw her in the harbor
standing where my boat lay moored
but she knew that
her azure eyes beckoned me to come
smoke from the cigarette in her hand
trailing upward and blending with the mist
and the gold braid around her wrist
I remembered my gift

I stood transfixed
if only for a moment
then I walked to her slowly
and tipped my fedora 
and the little joke we shared in love
I asked,"Where have you been all my life?"
Waiting for you, she said
I laughed at her resentfully and said
You left me here from this place
without a note, without a trace
I scoured old haunts, you weren't there
you left as if you didn't care

Remember our walks along the shore
your favorite drink,that special place
in the cafe by the window
where the sun would shine on your hair
and leaving a golden glint
like it did on my boat
when it was in full sail

Then one day you went away
our love became a mystery
that was never solved
now your'e here and I ask you why

There was a war, she said
I lost this guy and you came along
to fill the void and share my sorrow

I loved you, Jake,  your silly hat
the way you tipped it, the boat , the cat
who begged for fish after each catch
she paused and lit another smoke  .
took a puff and exhaled and said


Then one day , he showed up , his name was Clive
the guy I mentioned had survived
and left his tags with a guy who died
and he became an MIA
he was hiding out in Mandalay
involved in something, he wouldn't say
but he wanted me there, he promised me fame
I was a singer, you know
and all the dough that I could want
or all I could take
I just had to know how to play the game
Then I thought of you Jake
and what we had
and I told him , No

He got mean, Jake 
and threatened to expose me 
for what I really was
and I couldn't bear for you to hear
my sordid past, my constant fear
we're both alike, you and me, he said
We'll take what the world has to give
and  grab  it by the throat
or I’ll destroy you if you don’t
As time went by,it didn't take long
to see he was singing a different song
His lies and schemes, the other dolls
I lost my respect and I didn't care
I had to get out, I needed a plan
to rid myself of this rotten man

There was this guy, Buck
who ran the bar, he pitied the plight
that I was in, he hated Clive as much as I
I told him I watched Clive at the end of each night
the cash he hid in a special place
no doubt to leave in a hurry in case things got hot
he would check to see how much was stashed
if it was worth the dare, we would split down the middle
and make our departure at the crack of dawn
I knew a Burmese captain who owned a scow
who asked no questions for a fee
he'd have  some cabins for you and me

Just before closing , I feigned getting ill
and called for Clive to aid me somehow
to stay awhile and give me a pill
and while he was there, Buck went to that spot
took the cash and lit out that night to wait for me.
at a pre destined place

My bag was packed in another room
I told Clive I would rest and join him soon
But as soon as he left, I slipped out 
to the back, grabbed a cab
headed for freedom away from that man
thinking of you and to make things right

She paused for a moment and put out her smoke
and I thought I saw a drop of blood
form on the corner of her mouth
she quickly wiped her hand across her face
and continued her story at a slower pace

I arrived at the pier where the scow lay docked
took one look behind me and looked at the clock
of the building where we were to meet
checked my watch that matched the time
I saw a jeep pull up and he saw me
two grips in his hand and a smile on his face
he said, I got his dough, I'll leave his jeep
It's the least I can do for that miserable creep
I said there's no time to waste
just show me the dough
we'll split down the middle and get ready to go
he said, "Oh"
I'm ready to go but my plans have changed
I'm traveling alone
but I'll leave just enough to change your luck
this one's for you and this one's for Buck

I suspected as much and I scowled as he grinned
but his mouth shaped an O as he looked down below
the knife in his  stomach pulsed  blood from his guts
too late I saw his gun come up as he fell
I fell a pain in my side and clutched my coat
I picked up the bags 
and summoned up strength to get onto the boat

I looked at the captain and said
There's double the price
if we can get away soon
get up some steam 
and head for Rangoon
the captain patched me up 
as good as he could
with the aid of some rum and a smoldering wood
to cauterize the wound

I knew it was wrong to take his life
but I was prepared to kill him
to end this strife
as a precaution, I took the knife
that we used to cut bait with 
a long time ago
the knife stirred up memories

that you and I had
that pressed my decision to leave that cad
but the wound didn't heal, the lead lay impacted
I was resigned to my fate to see you once more
before it's too late... and here you are

She collapsed in my arms and I held her tight
with tears in my eyes , her audible sighs
gasping for breath and leaning toward death

And before she expired, her hand on my face
she said
Where have you been all life, babe
waiting for you, I cried
waiting for you

A tribute to the black and white movies and dialogue of the late 30’s and 40’s 

© Ralph Sergi















Long poem by Debbie Guzzi | Details |

Corpus delicti

Close your ears, close your eyes and pray to me for, as close as this, you may never get to God. What immortals have you hoped to see? What espirit de corp have you longed for? Who will guide your earthly plod? Kiss me for I have kissed the lips of Lestat, nipped and pricked, punctured and sucked to husks, occasionally with regret, but more often lust's ascot what once was I, reveling in your taste, your musk. As Louis, I beguile with tawdry tales surreal visages of plantation nights, horror of the color green, Letiche roaming creatures who our trails conceal, the true demons whose glamour goes unseen. Yes, I prayed for death, wrapped in the pain of lost kin but, by God I never wished, I never wished for Him. 2 But, by God, I never wished, I never wished for Him. Eternity alone is such a hollow thing, unripe, never, ever, feeling full, a marrow-less bone, scrim- shaw's sorry surface, a sperm-less whale to pipe. Such as this was He, when him came to me that mid- night, pleading, bleeding, ever feeding morbid life. A cameo on cowry shell, with skin which bid the touch of cheek on cheek to assuage my grief to fill the brother-less gap the lack of wife. This is how he lured me to the kill, the blood spilled how fire and innocence flamed when he arrived. Do not hate me for the fate his kiss instilled Surely, a family is the normal thing to long for alive or dead to long for an espirit de corp. 3 Alive or dead to long for an espirit de corp crestfallen at the lack of hearth and home, pride we hidden monsters kill what we adore, and more ... leaving us in marble crypts with no warmth inside. Then He saw her, the child beside the corpse of mother half dead, the pox upon her face, amidst the tears certainly to save her was His goal, what other? But now I think her savior - a most foul affair. Claudia, the child eternal, bidding, unformed blight, monster among monsters, her wee wicked formed unbudded curdled, curling ever inward, a trickster charming night stalker, dragging porcelain dollies by her side. Daughter mine? Temptress, maker-killer, unformed bride have you killed your father, dumped him in a swampy hide? 4 Have you killed your father, dumped Him in a swampy hide? Years you've planned and plotted, Lestat to defy and I absorbed in misspent fantasy with you; my fate allied. Damned one, poisoner, death angel, do you deny the desecration of the His unmoving vessel, fed to the fishes, the bottom feeders, oh but He made do ... absorbed recaste, laid in wait each hungry cell. We fled the patricide, you and I sought others of our kind. What gruesome, ill bred misfits the world held and so hardening the unbeating heart ... beloved to mankind we returned as if compelled. To the core of life and lore to Paree, to the bloody stage the Theatre des Vampires is home. Mockery's the rage. 5 The Theatre des Vampires is home. Mockery's the rage. Do you see them now? Four hundred years and Armand has not changed. See them lure the human meat upstage with laughter. Reality's the rage and oh the blood coined. "How gauche!" our petite Claudia sighs, the excess in gore and waste. But, the coven has my Armand's grace. For Claudia, Madeleine the doll maker dies, reborn to mother the horrific woman 'neath this childish face. A family formed again when Lestat steps in alive and the coven lets the sun take Claudia and Madeleine. I entombed, walled in, buried alive, if not for my Armand. Their ashes, oh my dears, in death entwined. I burned the lot of them within their caskets, burnt alive; the curtain fell yet there was still Armand and I. 6 The curtain fell yet there was still Armand and I. I could nor forget, would not forget, the fate of Claudia of which he was no small part, it was a small lust easily untied. Home was all I wanted, the damp, the swamp, the bougainvillea sickened of my Old World haunts, all I wanted was home. Never, never would I make another, a comfort I decline. Let the modern age wonder where it is I roam; penance unearned and ungiven in the shadows I hide. I can not live, I can not breathe, death's my only company my wife, my child, my brother, so many others. The living dead is what we're called, Vampire, do you pity me? Lestat "Do you see me? Your sight I dread!" West coast, golden gates Baghdad by the bay in the bars I linger where men are men, aren't they? 7 In the bars, I linger, where men are men, aren't they? I find you here, or you find me? I bare my soul to you of lessons learned, of men, of plays, ah cabarets. "What do you do, what do you say, you writer you ... two footed harridan of clay? You long for the eternal kiss as if the bliss of life was so very little to pay. Fool that you are ... not in life or death would you be grist a waste you are, a mortal led so far astray. No passion's left, no fond memories ... but her golden hair. Perhaps, I'll take a taste of you, foolish fop, and sigh; no immortal will I make. On the floor, I will leave you there refuse beside the pages, the sordid tales as my reply. As my lips close on your throat, heaven's absentee, close your ears, close your eyes and pray to me.


Long poem by Jack Scott | Details |

Monofilamania

It is so hard to let go of love,
lovingly.

It sharks, 
unpeels more gut more quickly
than reel or reeler ever lost
in all those years of lazy inches
in and out:
casting,
winding in and playing out,
hardly fishing, rarely catching
anything
from the deepness out of sight,
hardly ever losing . . .
anything.

Blisters lust into the greedy thumb.
Impatient,
sore,
the startled brake lets go.

It dives full length into the never,
finds the limit of its leash,
pounds against its half-round prison,
demands unknot
at end of end of rope -
Let go!

Got you, shrieks the reel and reeler
cranking in the give and take.
The line is taut,
the weight upon it heavy, 
throbbing,
not docile,
numb, 
and waiting . . . 

. . .waiting for adrenaline:
explosion
against the angry, smoldering thumb.
Caught to catcher,
fish to fisher:
let me go!

It tries too hard to turn to something else: away.
Away and bottom still beyond the knot,
the creature climbs toward the light, 
the something.
Easy,
free,
her leap, an alchemy:
silver unto gold.

Sun shining.
Sea smiling,
crinkled all about.

Sad,
slow motion 
flight
of glints 
and droplets,
arcs,
returns,
displaces,
splashes;
gone, 
the yesses.

Million mile amnesia.
Buddha flashback:
a flash of tooth,
then placid lips close over any sign of youth . . .

. . . as if the fish had never been.
Gone?
-the fisher wonders:
gone?
gone forever?
Gone?

The line is limp
as if . . .
for all the years of it,
nothing at its other end.

A flash of recognition:
she leaps another time, 
not knowing if what held her holds.
Silver fish scales golden ladder
a sunbeam at a time,
and all the rungs of memory -
so slow,
breaks air an instant.

The line has held
and as she leaps, it claims her,
a thunder clap.
Arrested in her flight,
and broken,
she drops deadweight into the bucket sea-
fish to air to gold to water,
too bad.

Of the gold,
an afterglow centered in the thumb.
Did it happen?
Was she really there?
Was I?

Air turns to air once more, 
the fisherman to memory,
pig-a-back the job at hand,
because-
one slender monofilament insisting: no! 
Monofilamania,
and memory, another plastic,
refusing to let go.

Another time:
Kite,
my pretty lovely,
so flying and so softly spun,
you seemed the air to me.
So high and free,
so very near the sun,
my tears dissolve the earth’s connection.
The line my hands are holding:
to limit freedom at its height,
impossible without restraint-
the line between us,
  	subtle and so gossamer.
 		There, it glinted,
there! So very real.

Real . . .
The hook is realer.
Tangerine transfusion from the fastened lip,
transfuse dilution
bleeds unreckoned into the larger blue.
The sea - as wide as weakness -
sucks the strength without a hunger.
Tired, the hooked,
and tiring even more,
the line grows stronger, 
shortening toward the bobber boat.
I’ve got her, cries the fisherman,
orgasmic,
raping at dead weight,
dragging mystery toward the kitchen
-on his mind is steak.
Slaughter, separate from supper,
passion with a knife, 
the knife . . .


. . . the knife is ready
held tight between the skinless thumb,
and vendetta fingers -
five Sicilian brothers 
waiting for their sister to come home.

The other hand around the rod
is closing on the lover’s throat.
The rod’s erect,
the reel is angry.
Come, my dear, come, come.

She hears the music of the end,
the bowstring whine of gut
still lean and taut from her weight alone,
hears the rhythm of the reel
and tries to run once more
-provoking lust to snatch still harder-

but can’t . . .
. . . is free at last
of strength
surrendered with the last of blood:
quicksilver nearing zero-
and two dollars worth of ice.

Maiden fish,
(a virgin: never dead before)
betrayed and penetrated,
(it’s time now to give in, enjoy)
rests her weight upon the line,
sinks upward,
drowning,
unrebelling
toward the bottom of the boat.

The whore! I see her in the water!
She gave me quite a fight.

The captain, ready with the gaff,
the lover, in his rented swivel chair,
seize her from the water.
The maiden’s heartbeat
is faint and futile as a final cry of rape.
Her breath is fear, yet sounds like passion
at the very end.
Her swoon is now complete.

Her swain is prickled with his heat.
His blood pounds within his thumb.
He gloats,
is left alone with her.
He ponders . . .
. . . while he does,
she pales and sheds her rainbow.
Her eyes turn glassy from the air,
and death.
She’s turned to meat.

He lusts at memory for a moment,
then dries the little sweat
and goes forward for a beer,
and band aids.

The captain’s seen it all before,
surgically removes the hook
and tidies up the gear.
He and the mate carry her to the ice 
and lay her out within the cold.
The mate disinfects the deck
with sea water and a stiff brush.

Returning with his second beer,
a badge of gauze and Vaseline upon his thumb,
the lover is confused.
The deck, shipshape,
so bare 
of scales and blood
it all might not have happened.
Then there would be hope.

The mate calls him to the ice chest
for the viewing,
opens it . . 
I’ve lost her. There she is.

The smell . . . it must wash off !
Time to go home.
The sea is empty.
It is over.
Done.
My thumb!


Long poem by Mario DE PAZ | Details |

Divine Comedy translation, Hell Canto XI

On the extremity of  a tall bank 
Of big broken stones in round circle done
We reached up a more cruel clutter flank;

And there, for the horrible and strong stun
Of rotten stench which the deep abyss throws,
We then approached, from back, a stone lid dun

Of a large grave, where written words arose
Telling: “Pope Anastasio I see,
Who to Fotin the wrong way could impose”.

“Our getting down suitably slow should be,
So that we use not sense at first too much
Toward bad souls, and then at high degree”.

So my master; and I “No fee as such”,
Told him, “Finds the one who obtains that time
Is not lost”. And he: “My thought you touch”.

“My dear son, inside this stony grime”,
He started to tell, “Three small circles are
Grade after grade, as the one you just climb.

All are full of souls accursed by far;
And even if their view enough be might,
You may know why they have such a bar.

Of all evils, which blame in God ignite,
Hurt is the end, and any end is thus
With force or fraud to else a stinging bite.

But since fraud in man is wrong built in plus,
Displeases God; and for this are more low
Fraudulents, and have more sorrow and cuss.

Violent people have all the first bow;
But since three kinds of forces are in act,
It is shared in three turns I shall show.

To God, to oneself, to else is impact
Produced, either to them or to their things,
As you shall hear and feel quite well in fact.

Death with wildness and painful stings
To else are given, and to what he has too
Ruins, fire and whatever losses brings;

Thus killers and any who wildness grew,
Robbers and raiders, harasses them all
The circle first just for damned not a few.

A man can in himself roughness install
And in his goods too: but in the doors
Of second circle he has then to bawl

Whoever self  deprives in world of yours,
Bets and destroys his goods in full indeed,
And cries just there where joy ought to have corps.

One might too against God roughness mislead,
Within heart denying and cursing him,
Despising his nature and his good deed; 

For this reason marks in the lowest rim
Both Sodoma and Caorsa with his sign
And who, with heart against  God exerts vim.

Fraud, for which any conscience has to pine, 
Might man exert against whom gives him trust
And when a loan return has to decline.

This way of acting looks as breaking just
Even the bond of love which nature did;
So that in the second circle stay must

Cant, flattery, and who uses cheat bid,
Deceitfulness, theft, and simony too,
Pimps, fences and similar degraded.

Such way of acting then that love cuts through
Done by nature, and the one which adds next,
Which can a special form of faith accrue;

Thus in the minor circle, at the plex
Of universe where Dite happen to dwell,
Whoever deceives is forever vexed”.

And I: “Master, progresses clearly well
Your reasoning, and it shows clear  indeed
This abyss and folks which here live and  fell.

But tell me: that people in the swamp decreed,
Windswept, and hardly swept by rain,
And with harsh words to ever fighting cede,

Why aren’t they in the red town domain
Punished, if are that much in wrath to God?
And if doesn’t feel so, why in that bane?

And he to me: “Why is your mind so flawed”,
Told, ”your genius from usual is so far?
Or your mind by something else might be awed?

Don’t you now remember those words which are 
The ones your Ethics then well knows and wants
The three provisions which heavens bar,

Incontinence, malice and also taunts
Of mad wildness? And how incontinence
Less God offends of  people who it flaunts?

If you consider well again this sentence,
And recall to your mind now who are those
That just up there outside have penitence,

You see well how for such sinners it goes 
A different way, and why worried less
Divine revenge hits them but then less close”.

“Oh sun which aids any sight under stress,
You can fill so much my hope when you solve,
That, more than knowing, I like  doubts to guess.

Yet back just a little you should revolve”,
I told, “where is who with usury hits
The divine goodness, and the knot  resolve”

“Philosophy”, he told me, “If  brain fits,
Notes, and not only in one of its parts,
How nature always hers good pattern gets

From divine mind and also from his arts;
And if your Physics are perceiving well,
You shall find, and not after many charts,

That your art, when possible, to excel
As scholar with master, follows that one
So that your art can almost God propel. 

From these two, if your thought can also run
To Genesis from beginning, is right
To get  own life and surpass the outdone; 

And since the usurer chose a way trite,
Neither nature nor what it follows yet
Prizing, to pose his hope in else he might.

But follow me by now, I like sky set;
Since Fishes flicker on horizon up
And Dipper above Chorus is to get

And the flounce above there is our down step”. 


Long poem by George Zamalea | Details |

WHILE REMEMBERING

Brazil

As I drove through the heavy snow of Manquiville,
Deep in silence back to Grandfather's house, all frightened faces
Full of solemnly dreams, I remember the smell of the sea.
	The unseen Grandpa's hands, pulling and pulling
	The full net of fishes.

I remember my Grandpa at this moment haltered
His muscles so tight that I was able to see the thin 
Veins become heavier, healthier, richer,
While his sternly eyes ahead like two brighter poisonous souls,
	Waiting and waiting and waiting, whatever the reason
	He had in mind.

I remember just to follow him where the wide sea even powerful
As he was growing now calmed through the tide waves falling
	Behind his horizon. I love see him like this,
	Where the dreadly underworld as unique as mercy
	Could not control him.

	I'm driving slowly now, and I can see the road,
	The sea behind, the trees old and shadowless,
	The town of Manquiville quieted, deathless, soundless,
	All gone and dumb, behind the weaken sun.

I remember I looked down satisfied in the way it is going,
	Who guarded the visitor’s hope, who greeted
	The intruder who more than 25 years was gone!

	What a delightful remembrance to see the dangerous
Floor through my mind beginning to murmur thousand
	Of happy slaves soon or later be caught!
	How close we are listening by the jealous Visitor,
	Always in circle, still far away from the smell
		Of the fisherman!

But there was no one. All empty and in white,
	Cobwebs everywhere, the insects had come and gone,
	Birds' nests are there, a snake emerged and hissing away,
	All seem that they don't care who I am and why
	I came back. It has been so long since the Fisherman is dead!

I remember the sea...that day, I think,
	Oh, how wonderful is the sea lyre that you are dreaming 
	To hold underneath the stormy afternoon.
	I remember the sea...the sea! Seeing the sky-blue crown
Give to my Grandpa and Me, almost tremble, the unknown pray
	Of God, which carrying golden fishes, your treasure wall,
	Deep, enormous, cold and deathly, we are still afraid of you!

	I stop my fancy car, all around is the designed 
	Of muddy roses, birds and horses, wild squirrels,
	Like a feast of yellow swamp, and I stand there,
	Dressed by tie and fancy suit, a lawyer,
	A sucked soul, coming to see his Grandfather deepened
	In the muddy ground, filled with nasty fishes.

I remember so suddenly, the nets of that day
	Became tensed, like our hearts and our eyes,
	Which it was unable to handle by myself.
	There! There! I cried all along inside the small boat
And here and there is when my Old Man becomes only one
	Where body, soul, mind, wisdom, and energy --
	Become one forcer to kill
	And as he was pulling and pulling. His old arms,
	Still strong like two brawny-whited iron pistons,
	Pulling and pulling, and the fishes as ghastly eye,
Jumping and jumping, coolly frightened, exposing themselves Completely under the half-light of the moonlight!

	Now I cannot move. Why I am here? Why did I come?
	With love, with pain, with doubt,
	All I cannot say, behind the muse I have,
	How I can explain myself the beauties of my Grandpa?


But I remember that day. Oh, what a shining light!
	What moonlight! 
	I was there, with the oak wood, deathless,
	Like tiny hands, but the spirit of some old Song,
	Helping my Grandpa.
	I remember I was wondering if those fishes have any souls.
	To live, listening the other side of my head,
	Where my Grandpa told you're not born being a Fisherman
	But as a blending poet as myself.

I remember I caught his mouth full of smile, with a promise
	To die anywhere except here in the sea.
I bend my knees, with his nostrils stealing
Of his arms, pulling and pulling like a long sound
Of violin which I never knew why he had told that.

	And I remember, you could not play with the sea
Or the hungry fishes, now handsome and wilder,
To survive like me, to become a stranger
	In the middle of the sea.

	Now here, I am growing smaller
My smile fading, no reason to be here, who before the infant
Archer who crying freedom, ready to a man,
	I bring shame to the place of Fisherman;
	I smiled sadly, looked ahead, with wishes to kiss
	The Old Man's face drawing by the ocean air
	And let that old hands of fisherman carried my hair
To my blending soul,
	And tell him I made a city boy under the sunlight,
	But never as a dream piercing through the dimly sea.
 


Long poem by Valentine Mbagu | Details |

Nigerian Independence Celebration

As October 1 approaches, HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY……………………
I have enormous tracts of land and vast volumes of water, but cannot feed myself.
So I spend $1 billion to import rice and another $2 billion on milk.
I produce rice, but don’t eat it. I have millions of cows but no milk.
I am 53, please celebrate me.
I drive the best cars in the world but have no roads,
so I crush my best brains in the caverns,
craters and crevasses they crash into daily.
I am in unending mourning, please celebrate me.
My school has no teacher and my classroom has no roof.
I take lectures through windows and live with 15 others in one room.
All my professors have gone abroad, and the rest are awaiting visas.
I am a university graduate, but I am illiterate. I want a future, please celebrate me.
Preventable diseases send me to hospitals without doctors, medicines or power.
All the nurses have gone abroad and the rest are waiting to go also.
I have the highest maternal and infant mortality rates in the world;
and future generations are dying before me. I am hopeless, hapless and helpless,
please celebrate me.
For democracy’s sake I stood all day on Election Day.
But before I could ink my thumb, results had been broadcast.
When I dared to speak out, silence was enthroned by bullets.
My leaders are my oppressors, and my policemen are my terrors.
I am ruled by men in mufti, but I am not a democracy.
I have no verve, no vote, no voice, please celebrate me.
My youth have no past, present nor future.
So my sons in the North have become street urchins;
and his brothers in the South have become kidnappers.
My nephews die of thirst in the Sahara and his cousins drown in the Mediterranean.
My daughters walk the streets of Lagos , Abuja and Port Harcourt;
while her sisters parade the streets of Rome and Amsterdam .
I am grief-stricken, please celebrate me.
Pen-wielding bandits have raided everything in my vaults.
They walk the land with haughty strides and fly the skies with private planes
They have looted the future of generations unborn;
and have money they cannot spend in several lifetimes,
but their brothers die of starvation. I want a kit of kindness, please celebrate me.
I can produce anything, but import everything.
So my toothpick is made in China; my toothpaste is made in South Africa;
my salt is made in Ghana; my butter is made in Ireland;
my milk is made in Holland; my shoe is made in Italy;
my vegetable oil is made in Malaysia*** my biscuit is made in Indonesia;
my chocolate is made in Turkey and my table water made in France.
My taste is far-flung and foreign, please celebrate me.
My land is dead because all the trees have been cut down;
flooding kills thousands yearly because the drainages are clogged;
my fishes are dead because the oil companies dump waste in my rivers;
my communities are vanishing into the huge yawns of gully erosion, and nothing is being done.
My very existence is uncertain and I am in the deepest depths of despondence, please celebrate me.
I have genuine leather but choose to eat it.
So I spend billions of dollars to import fake leather.
I have four refineries, but prefer to import fuel,
so I waste more billions to import petrol. I have no security in my country,
but send troops to keep peace in another man’s land.
I have hundreds of dams, but no water.
So I drink ‘pure’ water that roils my innards.
I need a vision, please celebrate me.
I have a million candidates craving to enter universities,
but my dungeons can only accommodate a tenth.
I have no power, but choose to flare gas,
so my people have learnt to see in the dark and stare at the glare of Unclad flares.
I am shrouded by darkness, please celebrate me.
For my golden jubilee,
I shall spend 16 billion naira to bash around the bonfires of the banal.
So what if the majority gaze at my possessed, frenzied dance;
drenched in silent tears, as probity is enslaved in democracy’s empty cellars?
I am profligacy personified, please celebrate me.
Why can I not simply reflect and ponder?
Does my complexion cloud the colour of my character?
Does my location limit the lengths my liberty?
Does the spirit of my conviction shackle my soul
Does my mien maim the mine of my mind?
And is failure worth celebrating?
I AM NIGERIAN, PLEASE CELEBRATE ME.


Long poem by Shadow Hamilton | Details |

A Journey Through Time

Two friends were travelling to the east seeking unexplored lands
eventually they reached some grim looking tall mountains
slowly they made their way up to the summit and stood there
Breathlessly they were amazed by the panoramic view before them

Vast areas of open lands stretched out with lakes and forests dotted about
"what a wonderful place" said McLeod "lets climb down and explore it "
they set off it took a long time to get down to the valleys below
they set up camp by a crystal clear spring full of big fat fish

"Supper" said McBram "lets try to catch some" with only their hands
they set about fishing, soon four
 fat silver fish had been tickled out
lighting a fire they found a good flat stone on which to bake the fish
the teasing enticing smell of the fish soon filled the air

They saved two which they smoked to carry with them
that night as they slept a bear raided the camp stealing
the smoked fish. Luckily sated it did not attack them
"Drat no breakfast" said McLeod " lets catch and cook some more"

Finally ready they set off following the stream down to a lake
there were plenty of familiar fruits and berries for them to gather
also many strange ones that tempted them "best not eat them" said McBram
"They could be poisonousness". "No look the birds are eating them"

Reassured they tucked in eating a few and collecting some for later
suddenly with a mighty sound a mound rose up with a cave in it
the two friends looked at each other in bewilderment . "What's that
where did it come from?" asked McBram as slowly they entered the vast entrance

An eerie light flooded the cave, it was  being emitted by some red crystals   
they looked at each other and going over to them they touched them
with a flash they were suddenly spinning through time itself
crashing down they found themselves many moons in the past

Before them they could see strange looking people that bowed before them
a weird man dressed in skins with a stick that was shaped like a snake
pointed it at them it seemed alive as it hissed at the friends wreathing
"These are the promised ones" he said "The ones foretold of in prophecies"

"They have come here from the future to fore-fill the ancient legend"
the friends were feted by these people who treated them like kings
and the following day they were led to an ancient monolith
and strapped to it. "What is going on" asked McLeod "why have you tied us up?"

"To stop the dragon carrying you off" said the shaman "The prophecy foretells 
you must defeat it to rid our lands of its evil purpose. At full moon it takes a maiden
and some of the children and feasts on them. You with your swords of iron can
defeat it." "Well we have never seen on before" said McLeod

 "How are we supposed to defeat it" "I have a magic potion" said the shaman
"drink it and its fiery breath will not harm you. With its protection you must
then strike the dragon in both its eye then its heart" Giving them their swords
the villagers scurried off to hide. Soon there was a mighty roar and the dragon
flew down breathing fire, its talons outstretched to grab them. McBram went 
for its eye running his sword into it sending it blind, while McLeod struck it deep
in its heart. The dragon fell to the ground and laid there dead. The villagers 
came out of hiding and prepared a great feast in their honour

Towards the end of the celebration the shaman gave them both a bowl
"Drink this, he said "It will return you to your own time" So they drank it
and found themselves again spinning through time. They saw many different times
and strange places as they were whirled back to the present

Unconscious they laid on the ground slowly coming to, they were back at their camp
on coming to they looked at each other in puzzled bewilderment. Talking about
what had occurred they decided  it must have been an illumination. Until they saw
lying on the ground some dragon scales collecting them up they returned home

Their friends scoffed at their story saying they had dreamt it all, there were no
longer dragons in this land. The two friends showed the others the dragon's scales
which were stared at with awe and amazement. Right there and then the two
friends decided they would stay at home safe with family and friends
 


Maybe to be continued


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Dreams I Translation of Etiemble s poem Reves I by T Wignesan

The Deception of Free Verse: Dreams I, Translation of Etiemble’s L’imposture du vers libre by T. Wignesan 

(From René Etiemble’s only poetry collection: le Coeur et la cendre: soixante ans de poésie (the heart and the ash sixty years of poetry). Paris: Les deux animaux, 1984, pp. 123-126.)

Yet He, who contemplated his incandescent world
and the sterile streaming
of the lava,
drunk with the swirling of the primal incense
dreamed on…

His shape, during that period, took on all forms
ten thousand beings milling in him, inexistants;
the amoebas mixed with gigantosaurs
awaiting the hour
of the amoebagigantosaurs.

How you were divine, God, before the Creation
of your own non-being,
before your sacrifice, your suicide,
how divinely monstrous:
I see you such as I was you in your entrails
all the bodies of all the fishes in all the seas in all ponds,
blossoming on greenish scales of mackerels, the fins
shining on roaches
						and red fish,
in all the wings in all the albatrosses feathery
						in all the skies,
		the wings of all the chicken,
walking on the thousand feet of all the scolopenders
on the four hairy columns of mammoths,
				of rough rhinoceroses
on the four legs of lambs
on the two feet of all pterodactyls
             					of all ducks,
of all humans,
on the rings of all the earthworms.
Your voice which charms deaf rocks more
			than songs of future sirens
sometimes raucously roared;
your caresses bill-cooing turtle-doves
trumpeting strident
when your ten thouand mouths opened.

Therefore,
hermophrodite inseminated by its universal sperm
the Being
bearing plants and beasts, all
and the woman whose womb as yet to be formed
dreamed in this way:

The scintillating effervescence of granite, of basalts, 
                                                          of diamonds
freeze into position thus:
Mountains of rock, organs of Titan, cristals of fire.
Collapsing clouds, rapid cataracts
tumble down abrupt stony walls.
The earth swells valleys
mother earth made pregnant by ferns of great shadows.
Ocean rivers sweep along continents
open into flanks of mountains’ heroic holes
pour a freshness of love on thirsty roots…
the first pollen grain pollutes the first pistil.
The first flesh dazzled by the light
sketches the quiverings of joy that will be.
Two lives lie in the wet clay
two lives
ten thousand lives.

The eye – without becoming the enormous dreamer –
closes over this total image of its death
sees the saurian ichthyophages
horned beaks with sharp teeth
shivery mammoths
all the theory of winged horses
winged men
men without wings
Me
And I, on this earth where I was dropped by mistake
									In your dream
however much I raised my eyes higher than the clouds,
however much I scrutinised the celestial transparence
however much I could recall the person who in your 
                                   entrails I was as you
no more do I see your face in its ten thousand true 
                                                                 Facets,
nothing more do I hear 
the rustling of so many snowy and metallic scales over
						so many feathers.

Nothing
nothing more…

“No! No! Not this reckless Golgotha!
God! You are mistaken.
God! I surrender myself (only) to you yourself.”
But the winds wailed with the wolves
“Tough luck!”

“Just as well!”
At last my egoism refuses to accept the cross the spear
		                                      and the sponge
with the venom
Why then every evening the same stars
entice themselves into the self-same ponds?
Stars, make yourselves scarce!
I know all about you and your promenades.
Too docile, horses offer their jaw bits on flanks where
				spurs caress the necks.
Water which flows so miraculously so fastidiously servile:
seas part themselves,
alcarazas freeze lips. 
Every night when fatigue overcomes me with sleep
the sun
retracts its golden claws in order not to derange my 
                                                                  sleep.
Drunk with power
like a Ceasar like a Nero like a Caligula
I make myself small
“O! such as I was you in your entrails
allow me the remembrance and the regret.”

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014


Long poem by Stephen Kilmer | Details |

The Job - part 4

By 9:00PM I was ready to go.  Dark pants, shirt, shoes, and watch cap.  The classic night on the town combo setup for a not so hip killer.   But these days you could get away with it because gothic was a style.  I didn’t bring my girl with me.  I never kill on the first reconnaissance.  I did pack a knife and 32MM Walthers just encase things got dicey.  I took my time and slowly slipped up into the hills, no need to get pulled over by LAPD.   As I closed in on the house I turned off the lights and the engine and glided to within 50 yards of the target.  The upstairs lights were still on and I could see one or two shadows moving around.  I would have to get closer.  I figured I would give it about an hour after lights out and break in and get a lay out of the house and see who was there.  It was dangerous but I had done it before and learned that moving slow was the key.
  
Lights went out at 11:30 PM on the nose.  A man of habit I liked that in a mark.  I smoked and waited another hour and then slipped out of the car and moved quickly toward the house.  I went over the back fence and stopped and waited.  No dog.  Even better.   Staying in the shadows I moved to the backdoor and picked the lock.  Once inside I settled down for a few minutes to get my bearings and listen to the sounds of the house.  It is very important to know how the house sounds, how it breathes, moves, and lives before you start to move around in it.  It can give you away in heartbeat.  I calmed my breathing and started moving slowly through the kitchen.  I could smell fish and vinaigrette.  Some one had been eating healthy.  A bottle of wine was corked on the island.  The dishes were put up and everything appeared spotless.  Either there was a woman in the house or this guy was gay.  I settled for the former and not the latter.  There was definitely someone else in the house.  A familiar scent caught my attention and then faded away.  I needed to be careful.  Something wasn’t right about it this hit. Once through the kitchen I made my way to the master bedroom, which would no doubt hold, my victim.  He was asleep with a CPAP machine by the bedside and a mask over his face.  Apparently he had sleep apnea, which means he was probably taking Ambien and a combination of other sleep drugs.  I crept over to his bed stand and slowly took his medication bottles to see what he was taking.  I was right.  He was sleeping with the prince Ambien.  He was out like a log.  And even if he did wake he wouldn’t remember a thing.  Suddenly I heard footsteps upstairs.  I lay flat on the floor and froze.  Within a few minutes I heard the toilet flush.  He definitely had a friend.  Time to chill and then go upstairs.  I didn’t want to have to kill two people but sometimes it is necessary.

I don’t know how long I lay there on the floor but it seemed like an eternity.  I checked my watch and it had been 30 minutes.  Time to move upstairs.  Stairs can be tricky because they always creek and groan.  I have found that quickly but lightly moving up them causes the least amount of problems.  I was on the second floor in a matter of seconds.  Again I smelled a familiar odor.  What was it?  It seemed so familiar.  There were three doors in the hallway one closed and the two open.  I assumed the other person was behind the closed door.  I quickly checked the other two rooms and nothing.  A bathroom and a spare bedroom turned into  a study.  With the patience of a cat  I slowly tested the knob on the third door, it opened without any resistance.  I slowly pushed it open and stayed close to the floor.  I could hear gently breathing in a slow rhythmic pattern.  From the sound and the aroma I could tell it was a woman.  I was beginning to think I new this woman.  As I got closer I realized it was Anna.  I hadn’t put it together the last name of Collins but there it was, right in front of me.  I pulled up a chair and watched her breathing.  All I could hear was her and the clock ticking out the seconds.  Time seemed to stand to still.  I had a problem.  I needed to think. 


Long Poems