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Long International Poems | Long International Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Suzette Richards | Details |

SUMMER, WINTER SOLSTICE - 2010

It was a visit long overdue by most people’s standards. I had last seen my daughter two years prior to that during a whirlwind trip which she and her fiancé had made to Cape Town. I had an unexpected financial windfall and the money was burning a hole in my pocket. On the spur of the moment, I called my daughter and asked her to source accommodation for me in London over the Christmas season. A few days later, she called me back with the news that all the hotels had been booked up, save for the Ritz. I chuckled at the idea of having to spend my entire holiday budget on just one night at the Ritz. Then reason asserted itself and we put our heads together to come up with an alternative solution. I could hear her flatmate in the background, chipping in with her penny’s worth of advice. My daughter hung up and I was feeling down in the mouth about the plans for the trip being derailed in such a fashion. Later that evening, my daughter called back with the offer that if I did not object to sleeping on the settee in the lounge, I would be most welcome to stay with them at their London flat. I gladly accepted. She is a chef at a top restaurant and I was looking forward to gourmet meals prepared by her - including the Christmas turkey.

screeching seagulls dive at sushi scraps on a plate - the urchin watches
The evening of the booked flight to London, arrived. It was an uncomfortable hot day and I showered and dressed with only minutes to spare before my friend took me to the airport to book in the statuary two hours before international flight departures. At the airport everything was in chaos. We were given the unwelcome news that our flight had been cancelled. This was the third direct flight to London which had been cancelled that week due to London experiencing the worst weather and snow since records began in 1890! We were offered alternative flights and had to stand in queues for hours in order to procure a new airline ticket. Some people became very verbose and insisted on being granted passage on other airline carriers (at the cost of our local airline carrier). I do not know whether it was due to the weather or the disappointment I was feeling, but when my turn came at last to book a new flight, I readily agreed to fly on Christmas Eve ( three days hence) to London. If I had been given time to reflect on this date, I would not have accepted it. Arriving in London on Christmas Day would have been disastrous: The tubes and other public transport would have been curtailed on Christmas Day and shops and other amenities would have been closed for the day. This I knew from previous trips to the UK over the festive season. To add insult to injury, taxis would have charged triple for cab fare and no amount of quibbling would have swayed them. I phoned my friend to collect me and when we got home, I poured a large glass of Merlot and retired on the sun lounger in the garden. It was *full moon that evening and it was almost worth missing the trip to witness its beauty. I left my bags in the hallway and retired early – after phoning my daughter and giving her an update on the status quo.
moths dart between moon flowers - lunar eclipse
Six am the following morning, I was woken up by the phone ringing. Sleepily I took the call. It was the airline inquiring whether I could get to the airport by seven am. My friend was dancing up and down in agitation and already had the car out by the time I had brushed my teeth. I offered to pay any speeding fines which she might incur during our mad dash to get to the airport on time. The flight was an additional service which was laid on to get the backlog of passengers to their desired destinations. Heathrow had given our pilots permission to proceed, hence the call to me that morning. We were a total of thirty six passengers on the Boeing 747 – it translated to two passengers per crew member. We were treated to five in flight movies which were current and could eat and drink as much as we wished to. By the time we landed in London at seven pm that evening, there was a festive spirit among us. A radio taxi (which my daughter had organised) was waiting to collect me at Heathrow airport. It was a chilly four degrees Celsius below zero and I was grateful for my leather coat and wool accessories.
steep steps to flat shut out the bitter world - a heart pounds
**************************************************************** *The December 2010 lunar eclipse occurred from 5:27 to 11:06 UTC on December 21, coinciding with the date of the December solstice. It was visible in its entirety as a total lunar eclipse in North and South America, Iceland, Ireland, Britain and northern Scandinavia. "bitter" means piercingly cold..... A term commonly used by Britishers... "flat" means apartment. The Londoners I know, refer to it as just "flat" with no adj or possessive noun or article. Please see the About section for explanations regarding the 1ST AND LAST haiku. Haibun(literally, haikai writings) is a prosi-metric literary form originating in Japan, combining prose and haiku. The range of haibun is broad and includes the autobiography, diary, essay, prose poem, short story and travel journal. ~ Wikipedia


Long poem by Elaine George | Details |

Tea and Poetry in the Ides of March - PART ONE


Beneath a misty veil of ‘Euphoria’ by Calvin Klein, she dares to dream of acceptance in a world of wanna-be Literary Giants who are members of an elite writer’s group, as she drives along a winding road studded with potholes smaller than most of the ones that have rutted most of the roads she has traveled in the past—

Potholes created by a harsh environment that made it impossible for her to move in a straight line. Potholes so big, that at the age of 16, they forced her to detour from University Row to the foot of King in Saint John, New Brunswick, where at the end of the road, she found a way to earn a living working in a tea factory; where her ring finger was nearly severed as her dreams of a better life gushed red streams, high into the air with every beat of her heart.

Where through the eye of a needle, her life hung by a thread, a life-line that pulled her back from blackness as pain radiated in that pulsating flesh, as those rough edges were forced back together behind a fence of snipped, spiky, black barbs (remnants of that thread), left to remind her there was no escaping from the foot of King.

Yet she was grateful. 

Grateful she had survived.

Grateful she was able to return to work the following day to operate a machine that required using her feet instead of her hands.

Grateful  she still had a job and a roof over her head after the door to the place she once called home locked her out and left her to lie in a lumpy bed in the seediest part of the city in a dilapidated rooming house with all the luxuries a minimum wage could buy.

 It was winter and the room was cold. 

With her can of stove-oil having long-since gone up in smoke, she put her coat on and pulled the thin bed-covers over her. 

In the gloom,  she saw a ray of light (a small white slip of paper) lying on the rickety nightstand (a doctor’s prescription) yet unfilled that would have to wait until next payday. 

 Eventually those black barbs were pulled out, one by one, from their crusted, ***** pockets, by a doctor who told her not to be such a baby as her screams ran out into the waiting room. 

She relives these visions, as she has a thousand times before as she rounds the bend on Regional Road 45 that runs between soggy mud-clad fields covered in pig manure from where a willow weeps tiny green leaves in this record-breaking heat of March. And she wonders how something so beautiful can grow from something so ugly. 

And she knows why the willow weeps as she contemplates this strange phenomena in the Ides of March and chooses (like Caesar) to ignore the warning signs. And like the willow, she bends in order to follow the winding road; her hands gripping the steering wheel until…

The wide shank of her wedding band (designed to cover the past), catches on the thick, calloused scar tissue of her ring finger, reminding her again of who she really is. 

 And she asks herself, how she dares to dream of acceptance in a world of intellects, when the truth is she never even finished high school.

But she did graduate from a Bookkeeping program at Vancouver City College, when she was 22, and took all those night school courses while she worked during the day.  

What about all those correspondence Law courses she took when she was in her thirties (graduating with honours) and the night courses she took while  working in an insurance office to become a Licensed Insurance Broker? Surely they must count for something? 

 Yes! But you didn’t graduate from University; no prestigious initial follow your signature, and the only Master’s degree you can claim is ‘A Master’s degree in Disguise,’ says the little voice inside as sweat begins to leak through the foundation of the Revlon mask she wears today in an attempt to cover the thin skin these intellects will otherwise surely see through.

“But I have proof I am worthy of their acceptance,” she replies. Sitting there on the seat beside me, in my briefcase is my self-published book of poems; some of which have won International Poetry Awards and money, some that have been published in other books and magazines. Surely that is enough.

Up ahead, an enormous metal, hexagon-shaped, red flag wearing white letters says STOP. She stops and looks in all directions and, seeing no danger, crosses the point of no return to an afternoon of tea and poetry with what she hopes are birds of a feather.

***
CONTINUED IN PART TWO...


Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

Punished

                            ~ Punished~
                        
One evening with her dad she met this man at a bar very
handsome well mannered visiting from England.
After a few visits she started feeling him approaching her 
with nice compliments.

His attention made her fall In love with him
For months he took her out running to the beach 
shouting out loud I love your body i love your eyes
you’ll never belong to nobody but me.
 
On a moonlight night he was holding her so tight 
kissing her lips caressing her tits expressing his 
desire to light up the fire that was burning in their
entire body and soul.

As he was her first this is what she thought at the 
beginning she was very reserved yet she liked the 
fire she was feeling they were new to her his kissing 
was sensuous he smelled lovely he was caressing her
hair while sitting on the sand she was so taken by her
thoughts suddenly she heard.

Oh my darling let me love you my way let me make you 
my woman without any delay I beg you to give up and 
stop the fight I am promising at the same time to marry 
you very soon I will ask your dad that you will become my 
wife next Sunday at soon.

She wanted to believe him her head was spinning her heart
was beating to the sounds of his powerful movements
she was reaching the sky so quickly sensations of ecstasy 
she was feeling with his compliments whispering his love 
to her out loud while she was dreaming of the marriage 
as being lifted up on a carriage listening to the horses 
tapping on the course to the hotel room where they will 
spend their honeymoon as she will become that bride 
at noon.

Before even her dreams were over she felt him suddenly 
role over and ran away with no delay she could not understand
why ? Why? Did he leave with no good-bye.

Not realizing she was undressed hurried to get dressed ran to look 
from side to side asking herself why did he hide he promised me 
to be his bride? even if she was yet a child.

She sat where they loved each other looking at the ocean maybe
he will come back he must he told her he is in love.

Already it was dark in a low voice having no choice she ran 
home straight to her room wiping her running tears and fears
covering her feet to feel some heat and fell asleep not to see
her dad as maybe tomorrow he will come back with an 
explanation to his act. 

Hoping not to be deceived and very soon to be relieved
when he ‘ll knock on their door and swipe her off her feet 
tell her dad to fix their marriage.

She waited for days and days but that day never came 
she knew then it was only a game and she`ll never see 
him again and will never be the same.
                          
That early morning she woke up before her dad to cheer up 
herself for him not to doubt she had maybe made a huge 
mistake.
Having her coffee she pulled the newspaper and screamed
Oh Oh the man she loved was an addicted rapist being 
searched from the Interpol in England, he had convinced 
everybody doctors and nurses that he was cured.

Continuing to read she read his history that he was battling 
addiction of raping teenagers for the past twenty years. Lived
most of the time in jail.
She cried and cried she was raped by an addicted rapist who
was never cured.
                             
She could not eat or drink not knowing what to think 
while running to the sink that’s when she found out 
but couldn’t shout that she was carrying a rapist child. 

Where are you? She thought you were honest
But you were only an ordinary man still battling
your addiction.

Forgive me Oh My God! Her dad
forgave her out of love to his innocent daughter.

She had to keep her child and trusted herself
to bring him up not like his father.
And she did her son became an international lawyer.

   Therese Bacha
      27/5/2013
Contest for PD....Any Poem Goes.


Long poem by Gerald Kithinji | Details |

Give Peace A Chance Part 2

Yet Africa is
expected to fall in
line 
With speed and
alacrity 
Or be headed back to
Europe 
For much deserved
censure
And sanitization in
the heart
Of brutish Europe!
Have we not seen
them in action
At Treblinka and
Auschwitz, brother
With their atomic
bombs in Hiroshima
With their weapons
of mass destruction
With their napalm in
Vietnam, Vietcong
With their sjamboks
in apartheid South
Africa

I plead not for
impunity, a term
recently coined
For Africa, but not
for Syria, or Korea,
or Iran
I plead not for
that, no, I plead
for my country
For I can see a
finger I distrust
pointing at us
And I know it is
time for the
neo-colonialists
And their myopic
followers to hit the
road
To proclaim once
again that they have
come
To pacify and
civilize the savages
of Africa 
Africa must know
that the Sword of
Damocles
Has never hung so
close to the African
head
As in this day and
age of African
impunity!

Knowing full well
that that is the
biggest lie
Who was it that
caused Africa to
adopt
Dictatorship or a
clone of
dictatorship
Shortly after
national
independence
In the second half
of the 20th century
Oh, that is history
now, forget that.

Was the Cold War a
creation of Africa?
Was communism the
brain-child of
Africa?
Were these disputed
borders created by
us?
Why then do we bear
the brunt of your
wrath?
Understand me my
brother or at least
try to
For this pot has
been simmering since
dawn
It is now well past
its time to retire
and rest
 
Why, they ask,
should Nairobi boast
a skyline
That has not even a
single colonial-day
edifice
Having been dwarfed
by modern
skyscrapers
Kenya cannot be
allowed to be a
beacon, no
They have done
enough damage to our
claim
That nothing good
can come out of
Africa!

Having painted all
Africans with one
brush
They now seek to
justify that
misconception
For they can claim
that South Africa is
special
Anything north of
the Limpopo is in
shambles
And must needs
European talent and
wisdom 
And control, control
and more control,
brother
And having recruited
sycophantic
followers
To sing and dance to
blind impunity songs

They, like the
greedy mouse, will
hear no cat

Is it now a crime to
change one’s mind?
When Kenyans said
yes to The Hague
Did they know that
the warring people
Would embrace peace,
bury the hatchet
And vote together in
peaceful elections?
Did they know that
sense would prevail
And banish anger and
retributive clamour?

What is in it for
the international
community
If internal and
regional peace are
anathema?
What is in it for
Kenya if we win the
battle
And lose the war-
the long term war we
crave
Is it not the wish
of Kenyans to live
in peace
Is it not the wish
of Kenyans to
embrace each
And every community
as brothers and
sisters
In the new
dispensation that we
have created?

Who is this then
that is urging us to
harden our hearts
Who is it that is
hell bent on
re-sowing seeds of
hatred?
Who is this that is
courting disaster in
the name of justice?
Who is this that
wants us to believe
that the community
The region, the
country, the nation
is now subordinate
To the individual
and if the country
burn in the process
So be it, so be it,
so be it, so be it.
You are lost, my
brother?
We lost so many; we
cannot afford to
rock the boat again!
It was a war that we
ineptly got
ourselves into, my
brother
It was Kenya’s
moment of shame. But
it was also Kenya’s
Moment of renewal,
rebirth. Such
moments are painful!

Give Peace A Chance
In Kenya, too, Ban
Ki Moon and 
All those wise men
and women who know
what it means!


Long poem by Lea Hela | Details |

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Long poem by Marvin D. Schrebe | Details |

What Ever Happened to Fire and Brimstone Preaching

As I sit here on a Saturday night and prepare my heart for the Lord’s Day tomorrow I can’t help but reminisce about the days I spent in church as a child. The one thing that stands out about the difference between those days and now is the style and topic of preaching in churches. It seems that Hell is a topic that preachers neatly avoid in their list of sermons these days. Perhaps that is why sin is so rampant in our society! Hell is a very real place. So why do preachers avoid this subject like the plague?
	I have a general idea that it is avoided in part because of the new mindset in the church that God is nothing but love. While it is true that one of the characteristics of God is that God is pure love, God also has other characteristics. Among those characteristics is justice. God is Just and by His very nature He has to judge sin. Therefore it is incumbent on preachers to remind sinners of the price to be paid for denying Christ Jesus. 
	Another reason preachers may avoid the subject of hell today is because many preachers are career preachers. Therefore they do not want to disturb their congregations too badly!  The Apostle Paul warned us that these types were eventually coming along. He says “For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths”, II Timothy 4: 3 New International Version.
	Hell is a very real place. It is imperative that the world wake up and realize that God wasn’t Joking when He gave us His word and demanded “…be holy because I am holy”, Leviticus 11: 44.

As I sit here on a Saturday night and prepare my heart for the Lord’s Day tomorrow I can’t help but reminisce about the days I spent in church as a child. The one thing that stands out about the difference between those days and now is the style and topic of preaching in churches. It seems that Hell is a topic that preachers neatly avoid in their list of sermons these days. Perhaps that is why sin is so rampant in our society! Hell is a very real place. So why do preachers avoid this subject like the plague?
	I have a general idea that it is avoided in part because of the new mindset in the church that God is nothing but love. While it is true that one of the characteristics of God is that God is pure love, God also has other characteristics. Among those characteristics is justice. God is Just and by His very nature He has to judge sin. Therefore it is incumbent on preachers to remind sinners of the price to be paid for denying Christ Jesus. 
	Another reason preachers may avoid the subject of hell today is because many preachers are career preachers. Therefore they do not want to disturb their congregations too badly!  The Apostle Paul warned us that these types were eventually coming along. He says “For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths”, II Timothy 4: 3 New International Version.
	Hell is a very real place. It is imperative that the world wake up and realize that God wasn’t Joking when He gave us His word and demanded “…be holy because I am holy”, Leviticus 11: 44.


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

FREE POWER - Part Two

                                            from press confounding conférences                                                                                                     

                                                from the Security Council colluding combine

                                            from the General Assembly showy-mugheadedness                                                                                                   

                                                                       from secret international pacts

                                                                                  from noseyparker-ness

                                                                      from the international monetary fund

                                                                from partychairmanship-ness

                                                                              from multi-national-ness

                                        from Fort Knox Reserve Bank Swiss numbered accounts

                        from Wall Street self-indulging perks to whoppy self-given salaries             

                                                                  and billion-dollar bonuses

                                                             from electioneering charitable-ness

                                                       from taking more than giving-ness

                                                 from absent inaccessibility

                                           from highly guarded hifaluting-ness

                                     from bypassing-ness

                                              from sanctimonious peacefulness

                                                      from viagra sterility

                                                          from bleary-eyed self-satisfaction

                                                                from save this to spend that-ness

                                                                       from take a crap on others-ness

                                                                            from stratified doddering hierarchy 

                                                                                   from smirking hypocrisy

                                from foie gras state dinners under candelabras in coattail-ness 

              from promising full-employment save the forests children and old-aged-ness

      from so-called full medicare social security lower taxes & more paid leisure-ness

          from housing for every no-one to no parking ticket-ness

                   from HIV indigestion

                            from AIDS constipation

                                     from putting-on airs-ness

                                          from marauding menacingness 

                                             from mièvrerie

© T. Wignesan, Fresnes-Paris, May 14-17, 1997.  From the collection : « Poems Omega Plus : a less than obvious sequence », Paris, 2005.                           


Long poem by Annalise Brigham | Details |

Girl Rising

Based on a true story from a television documentary on Human Trafficking...an international crime with participants from a broad spectrum of society...occuring on a daily basis. I have only seen documentaries on the trafficking of young girls between the ages of 5 and above!! Law enforcers, it seems are fighting a losing battle against the men and women who sell and enslave young girls and I have no doubt, young boys as well.

Somewhere this day on planet earth
A Mother-to-be, while in labor, cries
Not so much for the mounting pain
Nor the fear of possible death
So many fears for the future…
“What lies ahead in the coming years?
What “fate” will meet my child?”
And added to all her heightened fears is…
Will she be there to protect her child?

Those dark years have now passed into decades
When Tanya walked the shadowy streets of the city at late night 
While kids her age slept peacefully in their beds
They made her dress up so she’d looked twenty one
Days were spent locked in a room, under watchful eyes
She was fed cheap fast food to her young heart’s content
Soon she'd lose all hope of liberation
This was the second man she had been sold to
And after a while she’d adapt to the situation 

Still fresh in her mind was that last day at school
In her backpack was her favorite teddy bear
Her Mother had chosen to believe her step-father again
Now that her twelfth birthday would be in a month 
As no one cared, she decided to run away
While at the bus station she met this “nice” couple
Who listened to every word she spoke
They promised her a ride to any place she wished
And she’d always wanted to see Disney land

“Maybe, she thought, it’d be a birthday treat”
 However, that would be another promise broken 
Weeks dragged on and they bought her “stuff” 
Although treated well, sometimes she still felt alone
Then one day came the grown up clothes and make up
That night her innocence was stolen once more
Later she’d try to make an escape
Only to be caught and tied to the bed post
‘Make it easy on yourself and accept your “fate”, she was told

That was years ago, although it seems like yesterday,
When arrested by a new officer on the vice squad
Who saw the flaw in the picture before him
The pimp gave no reasonable answer to the simple question
‘Why are you parked late at night on the street corner with a minor?’
 
Looking back over the years, she came to conclude that “Fate” is just another word, made up to cast aside blame; when we do not want to see the path we’ve chosen which has led us to our present state
When Pilate symbolically washed his hands, though he had power in that moment to act..
When there before him stood truth and innocence, 
Yet, he chose to make a comfortable bed for his conscience

Today, Tanya is a college graduate and a Mother who has vowed not to leave anything to “fate”. She’d teach her children to take responsibility for the choices they make… 
She would teach them that no one is of lesser value than another..
 Male or female; black or white, all hues; rich or poor 
All have a God given right to live free!
~*~
8/03/13
For:  Richard's "Girl Rising" Contest

(3rd Place Win)


Long poem by Elaine George | Details |

Tea and Poetry in the Ides of March - PART TWO

Bring two poems is what he said. 

She chose a Personification, ‘Violin’, (the proud recipient of an International Poetry contest award), and a narrative, ‘The Rise and fall of an Empire.’ 

***

A Raven greets her.

She follows him, up into the nest where he retreats to the far side.

A young Bald Eagle sits on a long orange perch. 

She sits at the opposite end of the perch.

Seconds pass.

The Bald Eagle asks her not to take it personally, but she must fly elsewhere as the ‘Euphoria’ bothers her, and flies to the Raven’s side.

Rejection begins to throb in her ring finger.

A Crow arrives and perches beside her.

A Crane perches across from her.

A Turkey arrives and perches to her right.

What a strange gathering of birds, she thinks to herself.

Copies of poems are handed to everyone. 

 What is going on here?  She wonders.

 “Did you bring copies of your poems?” one bird chirps. 

“I didn’t know I was supposed to,”  She chirps in reply. 

 Bring two poems is all that the Raven requested.

The Raven caws his poem first, then sets an alarm clock to go off in 14 minutes as each bird proceeds to chirp about his poem. 

 The alarm rings. 

 The next bird chirps her poem.  

Again, the alarm clock is set and again the birds chirp about the poem.  

Eventually she is asked to twitter her poem.  

With a mixture of pride and uncertainty, and all the emotion she can muster, she twitters ‘Violin.’	

 Silence threatens to break her eardrums. NO adulation, NO acknowledgement whatsoever. This poem that has brought tears to many a bird’s eye, this poem that a poet, on page 142 of his book of poetry, referred to as the most beautiful poem he has ever read, a true masterpiece, is met with complete indifference.

The Raven finally breaks the silence with…

 “As you didn’t bring copies for us to read along with, twitter it again.” 

She twitters it again, and the pecking begins.

No longer bothered by her ‘Euphoria’’ the Bald Eagle flies over to her side and hovers over her ‘Violin’, and proceeds to peck away at it, egged on by the others.


“What do you mean I started in one style and ended in another? What do you mean I should consider revising? It is the way I wrote it. ‘Violin’ is a Personification, a poem that gives life to an inanimate object. I didn’t intend it to have any particular style,” she chirps, as she dares to defend herself and her beloved ‘Violin’ in the only way she knows how. Then, she boastfully blurts out that ‘Violin’ won An International Poetry Contest with a cash prize. 

A maple-sugar-coated tongue ejects from the sharp beak of the Bald Eagle, and spits “well congratulations,” spattering her Revlon mask with droplets of sulfuric acid spittle that burns her eyes until all she can see is red.   

“You didn’t make any revisions when you wrote it?” caws the Raven.

 “No”, she chirps.

“That’s talent,” he caws in reply.

More silence.

More poems are twittered, more alarms go off, as the pecking continues.

Until the Bluebird announces tea is served. 


CONTINUED IN PART THREE...


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

To a Public Prosecutor, Translation of Paul Verlaine's A un Magistrat de boue

To a Public Prosecutor or a Judge of Mud*, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s : A un magistrat de boue*

                     Remembrance from the year 1885

Dedicated to the late internationally-famous Franco-Vietnamese lawyer : Jacques Vergès (1925-2013) who likewise defied/despised less-than-upright judges and was not afraid to say so in court. 

(Here, one should bear in mind that when the persona of the poem apostrophises, he is using the French second-person familiar or rude pronoun « tu » aimed at the Public Prosecutor)


Bugger off, make yourself scarce or rather much sooner 
	From our land of decent folk : chaste Ardennes
Go to your equally virtuous Auvergne where meander
	The sluggishness of your chugged up veins.

Idler ! get out of this Public Prosecutor’s Office to polish
	In the literal sense
Feet of others to the letter instead of anchoring slavish,
	By filthy Caryatid’s frozen stance,

In this court where you hammer away at the innocent
	Demanding banishment to the penal colony and jails
Here where in your summing up expressed through frightful accent
	Worse yet than can be thought droll,

Despicable lawyer who amassed, the least they tell me,
	For himself nothing but his inherited fortune
Without which he could ne’er have earned but a penny
	Indeed even a thune,*

You insulted me, You ! from the safety of your stage,
	Rude, trivial, peasant !
You dared insult me, Me ! a Man solely by Beauty bound in 
                                                                                bondage,
	Me, whom the world would with fame anoint !

You talk of my morals, you insignificant chatter-box,
	Bereft of the slightest eloquence,
Yet insults when they emanate from such a rascal’s voice-box
	Can hardly be thought of as being of any consequence.
	 
The consequence of all this, first of all you’re a sod
	Who knows not how not to be but a beast,
Well without further ado – whereas, due to your shameful assault
	Pinning down a poor poet

A naïve poet who may not be blamed for having done any wrong
	But for being this poet,
Victimsed by him, subject to the laziness in him throng,
	Common, ugly, in his boëte*,

(Exactly as you pronounce it, double and triple auverpin*)
	That in the centuries to come
That you be damned ! your name, Grivel (be bathed in shame)
	By virtue of this little poem.

•	Magistrat de boue : literally «  a judge of mud », in fact is a play on the word : « debout », that is, to stand up. In France the Bench is distinguished by judges who speak while standing up or those who prosecute in the name of the People, and those « juges de siège » who speak while being seated or rather the judges who pass sentences.

* thune : a five-franc coin, that is, a inconsequent sum
* boëte : a fishing trap
* auverpin : or « avergnat », an inhabitant of the province of Auvergne

T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013







Long Poems