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Long Poem Topics

Check out these short poem topics. Find short poems by topic or form.

abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
allegory allusion
america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
april arabic
art assonance
aubade august
autumn baby
bangla baptism
baseball basketball
beach beautiful
beauty bereavement
best friend betrayal
bible bio
bird birth
birthday black african american
blessing blue
boat body
books boxing day
boy boyfriend
break up bridal shower
brother bullying
business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
career caregiving
cat celebration
celebrity change
chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child child abuse
childhood children
chocolate christian
christmas cinco de mayo
cinderella city
class clothes
color columbus day
community computer
confidence conflict
confusion cool
corruption courage
cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
dad daffodils
dance dark
daughter day
death death of a friend
december dedication
deep depression
desire destiny
devotion discrimination
divorce dog
dream drink
drug earth
earth day easter
education emo
emotions encouraging
endurance engagement
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion father
father daughter father son
fathers day fear
february feelings
film fire
firework first love
fish fishing
flower flying
food football
for children for her
for him for kids
forgiveness freedom
french friend
friendship fruit
fun funeral
funny funny love
future games
garden gender
giggle girl
girlfriend giving
god golf
good friday good morning
good night goodbye
gospel gothic
graduate graduation
grandchild granddaughter
grandfather grandmother
grandparents grandson
grave green
grief growing up
growth guitar
hair halloween
happiness happy
happy birthday hate
health heart
heartbreak heartbroken
heaven hello
hero high school
hilarious hindi
hip hop history
hockey holiday
holocaust home
homework hope
horror horse
house how i feel
howl humanity
humor humorous
hurt husband
hyperbole i am
i love you i miss you
identity image
imagery imagination
immigration independence day
innocence insect
inspiration inspirational
integrity international
internet introspection
ireland irony
islamic january
jealousy jesus
jewish jobs
journey joy
judgement july
june kid
kindergarten kiss
language leadership
leaving life
light little sister
london loneliness
lonely longing
loss lost
lost love love
love hurts lust
lyric magic
malayalam marathi
march marriage
math may
me meaningful
memorial day memory
men mental illness
mentor metaphor
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mother son
mothers day motivation
mountains moving on
mum murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
new years day new york
nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
nursery rhyme obituary
ocean october
old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
parents paris
parody pashto
passion patriotic
peace people
perspective pets
philosophy places
planet poems
poetess poetry
poets political
pollution poverty
power prayer
prejudice preschool
presidents day pride
princess prison
proposal psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember remembrance day
repetition retirement
riddle rights
river romance
romantic rose
roses are red rude
sad sad love
satire scary
school science
science fiction sea
seasons self
senses sensual
september sexy
sick silence
silly silver
simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
slavery sleep
smart smile
snow soccer
social society
softball soldier
solitude sometimes
son song
sorrow sorry
soulmate sound
space spanish
spiritual spoken word
sports spring
star stars
storm strength
stress student
success suicide
summer sun
sunset sunshine
surreal sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
teachers day technology
teen teenage
thank you thanks
thanksgiving thanksgiving day
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute true love
trust truth
universe uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
valentines day vanity
veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
voyage war
water weather
wedding wife
wind wine
winter wisdom
woman women
word play words
work world
world war i world war ii
write writing
yellow youth

Long Poets Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Tom Quigley | Details |


Say I:

On the websites I used to share, I was frequently amazed 
     Poems got greeted with silence; it seems eyes were quickly glazed. 

It’s as if I’d morphed into a Pig Latin-speaking warthog.
     My past efforts to share poetry should all be on failblog.

At the time I could not comprehend how it fell on dead eyes.
     On further examination, the why of it I surmise:

          Appreciation of the written word
          Like a dying dodo bird
          Many don’t know why exactly they should bother.
          Why you gotta write so much?
          Give that thought the modern touch!
          Nothing says it like a Facebook Post, my brother!

Says the Humanities Professor:

“You see, there, chap, I most certainly don’t mean to sound perverse, 
     But quite stricken and dying is affection with written verse.”

“Folks like their thoughts concise, not with endless poetic device. 
     Why speak it if you can see it? Please kindly take my advice:”
“If you want imagery, try an image! Everyone knows it--
     Don't waste your time saying it; it’s oh, so much quicker to show it!” 

          A picture’s worth a thousand words
          A GoPro 120 frames per second.  Absurd!
          Thinking about writing so long just makes my hands blister.
          Why would anyone write that much?
          Give that thought the modern touch!
          Nothing says it like a YouTube Vid, my sister!

Says the Psychiatrist:

“As laughter is our culturally preferred catharsis, 
     People would rather see a vid of drunk frat boys on horses.” 

“All those salty tears you poets try to cause people to shed,
     You just make everybody want to bang their heads instead.”

“Wow, did you hear that? I think that's genius!  Totally sweet! 
     Quick, hand my iPhone right here, and I’ll give that bird a Tweet!”

          Who needs form and meter?
          So what if it sounds sweeter?
          Just say your piece and beat it out the door!
          140 syllables and rhyme?
          140 characters max is fine.
          I just can’t see why anyone would ever need any more.

Says the Neuroscientist:

“Overuse of your cortex depletes glucose as a substrate,
     And since we’d rather conserve energy, video is great!"

“Humans prefer images that skip straight to the limbic brain.
     Oh, and YouTube’s got some vids that are totally insane!”

"Read it? No chance! Not nowadays.  This will take folks far too long.
     We want it quick! And this is why your art form is going, going, gone!”

          Poetry to me is dead
          You can just text me instead
          Just touch-type your thoughts super quick and send ‘em.
          Why you gotta write so much?
          Give that thought the modern touch!
          Unnecessary style, well, it’s just so last millennium.
Says the MMA fighter:

“Sorry, man.  No way.  All that reading is a total pain.
     That, and there’s gotta be someone else with a bigger brain."

“Who needs all those stupid kittens and butterflies and stuff?
     All those fancy words are just a bunch of big crybaby fluff.”

“Are you kidding me? Feelings are for wussies.  Yeah, I think I’ll pass.
     No, hold on--I’ve got one--I feel like kickin’ your pansy ass!”

          You can blow it out your ear
          If you think I want to hear
          A whole bunch of sissy rhymes, unless it’s gangsta rap.
          Why would you write at all?
          Grow a me-size pair of balls!
          You’re damn straight that it’s a big old pile of crap.
Says the college kid:

“You say that you’re a poet, but dude, I’m just not interested. 
     ‘Cuz, like, I’ve never seen any of your stuff on Pinterest.”

“And if you don’t have a website, then you’re no good at your art,”
     He opined, with a fist pump and a deeply resonant fart. 

His friends cheered and exclaimed, “Dude! That was a total grand slam!”
      “You video that? You’ll get a million likes on Instagram!”

          Wait, did you just say ‘inanity’?
          ‘Cuz it sounded like insanity
          Which sounds totally kickass and stuff to me.
          I’m gonna eat a slice of ’za
          Care to join me, brah?
          There’s a couple left, and it’s da bomb biggity!

Say I:

Sometimes all this writing feels like banging my head about,
     But every so often, something interesting will still fall out.

And I see it’s the same with you, when I read the poems you write.
     All the beautifully flowing words have become a new light.

This inspiration is no longer so hard for me to find. 
     Even though Videocracy is hobbling our minds.


Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Unquotable quotes: Poets - XXXVI

Unquotable quotes: Poets, Poetasters and Platos – XXXVI

     For James McAuley – in remembrance of a memorable week in Cardiff 1965 

The greatest poet ever is NOT Homer, Lao Tse, Ovid, Dante, Chittalaic Chattanar, NOT Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dryden, Tulsi Das, Archipreste de Hita, NOT Goethe, Pushkin, Pope, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Quevedo, NOT Shelley, Keats, Gongora, Rimbaud, Yeats, Pound or Eliot, BUT as you all already must know: Ern MALLEY, for he draws on a thousand surrealist tongues. To be even greater, just emulate his creators!

The difference between a poet and a prosateur is that the latter is honour-bound – at the risk of exposure – to master grammar while the former is granted the licence to invent his own by those who cannot tell the difference.

The real reason why poets continue to dish out what they write is that no one expects them to be intelligible, much less by those who put their work out.

The less a poet appears rational in his creations, the more he’ll be praised by those who do not or cannot understand his work, for they will read whatever they want into his work to conceal their own lack of comprehension.

The great thing about being a poet is that you can say the same thing a million times over and over again and no one will mind, so long as you are less coherent every time you repeat yourself.

If a poet understood or mastered the craft of poetry, he would still be composing the first canto of his epic at the end of his life.

In other words, the poem is the shortest cut to the epic highway leading back to the first steps of the poetic phantasy which is the fine art of lisping with words without aim.

This is why he who has never died alive cannot know the soul of the poet.

No poem says nothing.

Each word in a poem alters the meaning, if any, of a poem. The more the words, the greater the risk of deranging the sense, unless you really mean what you mean and not just let words mean what they mean anyway.

Poets are born, not made, says the critic who is weary of reading more than he can take.

Poets are born and made, says the poet who takes the trouble to read.

Poets are neither born nor made, says the mad poet drunk with the sound of words.

A poet who conveys exactly what he wants to say in a poem is a mathematical genius who has cracked the riddle of the poem and is eager to record his findings in an equation which he is convinced is a poem.

A poem is like a person you meet for the first time: the more you get to know him, the less you might think of him – unless you remember while you talk to him (or read the poem again) what others who know him better than you have said of him.

The most successful poems are those which like some (wo)men bend backwards to reveal every nook and crotch as long and as longingly as you want them to.

Poems that taste good to the tongue reek often of bad breath and gums.

A poem out-of-shape spilling out of the page is best read in the dark.

A hot poem makes you sweat with joy.

A poem which tickles your fancy is best read in the pantry.

A poem that cannot stop giggling in bed ought to be pilloried and bled.

A not tragically-inclined poem should be read post coitum when omne animal triste est sive…..

Poems never die, only unpublished poets.

Proverbs are poems distilled by the illiterate masses over the ages.

Didactic poetry is the constant attempt to achieve proverbial status.

Even an anthropologically lost or isolated tribe is survived by its sayings, jingles and rhymes.

No great wealth or dominion, no nation, country or civilization can occupy the summits of glory if its heart is empty or even half-empty of poetry.

The human soul is entirely made up of poetry which is when it entirely stops being human.

Every people’s greatest pride is their greatest poets, more than founding fathers or conquering victorious generals who spoke poetry to their wards and soldiers.

The gods people invoke to soothe their woes make them wax poetic.

The stuff of dreams is poetry turned to cash: stop dreaming and you end up among the poor mass.

Even a Cyrano de Bergerac nose turns into a Marlowe’s which launched a thousand ships through poetising with his love.

The Republic everywhere is in shambles due to a Plato’s hardened and un-poetic logic.

Abuse a poet, if you will, with common pedestrian pun, and he will return the kindness with sweet lilting rhyme and fun.

What poets love turn into pairs of lifelong doves.

Skip a meal a day and buy a book of poems every day: Dieu vous le rendra!

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |


                           It is a terrible thing
                           To be so open: it is as if my heart
                           Put on a face and walked into the world.

                                          Sylvia Plath, Three Women, 1962


Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque,

an incongruity, a clever imbalance               
that spins collections her hounds facilitate.  
Failures and fractures she bravely lanced
with noncompliance. Reader, rebuff collars
labeled as forewords, smug introductions, 
for Plath’s voice is tenfold more a scholar 
than those receiving undue benedictions.    
Lofty beggars seek to bookend her words
and that empty space she instinctively refills
with her universe, a mayhem that girds,
unapologetic. Mirror images spill
over margins, searching for identity,
negating preamble, snubbing apathy.   

Negating preamble, snubbing apathy
with language that flickers, catches, combusts,
her volumes of wicks, her lit soliloquies,   
glint behind the stained-glass of trust.
There are those who are not really here,
they wander fault lines then crisscross chasms,
lost pilgrims who easily commandeer
unwary emotions. Some hearts just spasm,                         
pulled by their own nature, their delicacy,
for poetry is a weakness; poets die
between verses. Odes can become elegies.
The thin-skinned hear a snared rabbit cry,
and pray for the moonflower, always closing,
while cursing that page, unmoved and dozing.

While cursing that page, unmoved and dozing,
she corners rigid guides, keeps fingers poised,
synchronicity goes, the flow of typing
disappears, mislaid, that perfect noise
of a carriage return, a sound exclamation.
Joy is inspiration making its way home,
her Olivetti forages like a raven,
gifting found nouns, verbs that glare like chrome,
but love still flits, turns from hoarse requests,
and she longs for more than any man can give
for what snags worn ribbons will not rest,
it emits a strong beat, throbs as it loves.
Bless the bitter of life, all wisdom owing,
curse the open heart, its shadows showing.

Curse the open heart, its shadows showing,
for worldly delights take full advantage
of the wounded, their brokenness growing.
Everyday beauty wrings arteries, dredges
chambers with barbs, a prompt disobedient.
Fact, there’s no folder large enough to hold 
elation’s girth, no ink conveniently
on hand to black out depression. So, scold
the yew, its roots and branches reaching,
then poke at petals for being complacent, 
when all the while a candle is preaching
of give and take, surrender, luminance,
So, carefully archive apprehension,
revealing blue veins to tender lesions.

Revealing blue veins to tender lesions
requires much more than a room of one's own,
hours do dissolve, days lack cohesion 
when milk sours and tantrums are thrown.
Solitude is in short supply, loneliness,
however, is overstocked; her mind tugs      
at busy hands for attention, such darkness
contrasts to jammy smiles and sleepy hugs.
Elusive titles whimper each morning,
and short stanzas steep, so desperately,
all the while a manuscript is scorning
her swipes at dry crumbs, cold pots of tea.
A life sheds its months, gallows take delight
as sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 

As sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 
the moon blanches tidepools, suckles sand,
even the face of the clock is pulled too tight
and the new calendar can not understand
that writing is sex, is fresh bread, is air,
that time is a brute, quick fisted, rough,
that weeks come and go without a care
that a marriage vow is never enough
to mend adoration, repossess bliss.  
Words make better lovers, rarely stray,
upon her lips, the impression of a kiss
feels as cold as sheets then melts away.
Paper sops afterbirth, accepts her all:
fossil and seed, shackles and free falls.

Fossil and seed, shackles and free falls,
unlocking visions, defying any cage, 
art resists validity, upsets stone walls  
to scale the scarlet heights of a rampage,
to breach the barricades to euphoria.
She excavates id, bares teeth at ego, 
plays the parts of illusion and phobia
then infuses rhyme with soft indigo. 
Colossus begins to shrivel as Ariel
unmans him, riding hard upon metaphors,
and will remain strong, constant, ethereal. 
but curtailed are epics that still implore  
like the cusp of dream long after you wake

Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque.


* For Craig Cornish

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details |


Vicki Acquah

Which witty poem
Did you inspire in me?
What sincere praise
Did you give my words?
When I thought
Enough of you
Send a poem your way.
Which line did you write with?
My spirit surrounding you

What song did you sing when?
You thought of my name
Why did you say you loved me?
What have i done to make you smile,
How did you get in my head anyhow?

What part of me did you arouse.
Why do I say I love you.?
Were you sincere when you said "amen"
To the wisdom that I shared
Were you one of those who thought
Your mocking, was more valuable
Than compliance.

I have lived with the resentments of scoffers.
I ‘ve digest your response with a gulp.
To think, I thought so much better of you.

I do not have a real clue-as to why you
would be the one to undermine
and scoff at love-with snide remarks
of false pride;
I was called to this throne
you seek to banishing me from.

However, this can never be done,
no man can put asunder
what was set in motion?
by the higher laws of nature

I speak of the ills in society
I speak of false realities.
What you didn't say holds fast inside.
I saw what you didn't do, and wondered why.

in-spite of your mockery
I still have a love inside of me
That adores the greatness in you
Even if you choose to undermine
This only annoys me strictly
Because of the effect, it may have on you.

Only genuine friends
Will continue to ride on my cloud nine.
Receiving no threats, as
Human I be, human I am
With the attributes, of
Goddesses and man.
Take what you like and leave the rest.
Because of the worth I see in, you
Is why I’m so perfectly tolerating you.
Of course, what is left
Need not be disturbed at best.

One day you will figure things out,
One day you will know why
I’ve shared a part of my life with you.
One day you will see, the value in me.
Through miracles and time.
Love and fate combined
One day reason, will comply
With your finite mind.

I know who I am even
Though you don't
You do not ride on my rhythm
Or step to my drumbeat.
But somehow tweak to my heartbeat.

More will be understood; Bye and bye.
For those who feel, and appreciate each other’s
Poetry or stories
Eventually ...the reason will be revealed

So... when the slippery hand of hope is
Extended unto you; Reach up and grab it
Make sure your grip is firm and hold it.

Who knows, why scoffers scoff.
When one lover speaks with
Concern for another.
Be patient and wait
Sincerity and love
Never needs defending.
All you less callous,
Who seek understanding
As opposed to malice.

I will wait at the mountain top
One day with open eyes you'll come
The slackers shall join us there.
No need to compare, we all need prayer

As long as we are not stuck in ruts
or on the slippery slope of contempt
If we who hold the rope
Are willing to pull our brothers up
With our words, the poet’s words
The message for the masses is hope.

So, I live for the poems you send my way
So, I grow strong in our relationship
Sailed by the winds of your encouragement
So, my poets my true friends,
I truly know who you are, and...
Don't ever think I don't.

Eventually ...the meaning of things will
Be revealed, so... who knows why scoffers
Scoff whenever love speaks out.
Just be patient and wait, sincerity and love
Never needs defending

All you less callous people, who seek
Understanding as opposed to malice,
Wait at the top of the mountain.
One day with open eyes;

The slackers shall join you there.
No need to compare, we all need prayer,
Never wanting to be stuck on the
Slippery slope, of contempt,
If we who hold the rope
Are willing to pull our brother up

With our words, the poet’s words:
The message for the masses is hope.
So, I live for the poems you send my way,
I grow strong in our relationship

By the winds of your encouragement,
To my poets my true friends
I truly know who you are, don’t ever think I don't.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2012

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

Heinrich Heine Revisited

I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.

Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few. 
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!

Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set 
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.

It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!

It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by 
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books 
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!

And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014) 
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)

*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.” 
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)

*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses: 
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)

*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous 
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they 
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other 
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and 
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover, 
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish 
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major 
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than 
reading them!  

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Suzanne Delaney | Details |

Randomlings Contest

The Quality of Mercy.
A mouse doesn't ask for mercy from a cat. It can't meow the syllables.
Though its stomach is full, the cat,being unacqainted with mercy, 
will toy with a mouse. 
Does the tiny heart that beats to bursting point, feel eternity?.... while pinned to the floor by that mighty paw! Any soldier could tell you.
Suzanne Delaney

My cat is so magnificent
Each of his whiskers lies content
His purrs are so benevolent.

Morning Glory
The clouds have on the blush of dawn
And birds give voice to early morn.
Now spreading light pulsates with life
With joy another day is born.

Fairy's Dilemma 
The fairy was stuck in the cobweb
The spider was hungry and near
But she whipped out her golden scissors
And snipped herself free from Fear.

Mind and Heart
Impressions are like footsteps in the sand,
They leave their mark as surely as a Lover's hand
On Mind and Heart.

Teddybear Dreams
My Teddy bear stayed in Toyland
When I out- grew Childish things
He stayed there in carefree moments
And lives on in make believe dreams
Alone on the bed he ponders
He heaves up his shoulders and wonders
Looking and longing for Childhood
That can never come again.

Mother you gave me life and breath,
and yet I asked for more.
Lover you gave me self and worth,
A peace I waited for.

Sense of Betrayal
Lies are a thin veil -
A filmy shield
Through which the heart can sense
The shape of betrayal 

Grains of Truth
Aware of our potential-
We sift the sands of our past
Until huge dunes block our heart
and pile up in our minds
And make a desert of our Souls.

Minotaurs All
We are all separate entities-
Isolated in the labyrinth
Of our minds.

Tuesday, September 22, 1998
Eve's Advocate
With cold eye, beady, dead in space,
Uncoiling with hypnotic grace,
Slow motion skin - an awful lace,
To silent earth, no sudden trace. 

Friday, November 6, 1998
Weed in a Crack
Arid soul with barren mind
Sees desert where oases' stand
In concrete bare, instead of courage,
Sees a weed he should discourage

Poet's Impasse'
Why should I add another word
To words that everybody's heard
To say, "The morning web is hung with light."
Is not to say,
"A spider gathered jewels today."

Eternal Read
Let heaven be a library
Of books a great infinity
And on a cloud I'd fill my need
To read and read
And read and read

Hands of Fate
Sophisticated games 
All aimed at selfish gains
And motives devious and real
Around the mind like strangers steal

Feline Wonder
My cat's back hocks are so comical
She walks like a teen Lolita in her first high heels
She teases all the tom - cats with her feminine, feline wiles
But never intends - to make one of them
The champion of her nights

Gem of Ages
The Earth is a living Opal
A vital jewel in space.

Blue Flowers
Blue petals - Fragments of sky
Notions, emotions
Forget - Me - Nots sigh
Bring me blue flowers when I die.

Indelible kiss.
Blow me a kiss. How intimate it seems to my soul. The memory of it,
 is now stamped in my mind, indelibly. For that instant
 we remained connected across the space between us.

Endless Beginning
Are Eternity and infinity equal? On and endless journey
 in an un-mapped cosmos would eternity run out?... before I reached infinity. Entering a black hole I might find myself ? a dead end in space......
or falling into the threshold of time.

For Randomlings Poetry Contest


Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Inaam Al-Hashimi | Details |

Final Wishes of a Poet

Final Wishes of a Poet 
Arabic poem By: Rukn-al-Din Yunus
Translated into English By: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
(Part 1 of 3)

Lend me a handful of earth
So that I may make you a statue 
You have not seen the like before
In your dreams.
Lend me a breath of spring
I’ll paint you cities, seashores 
And passionate rendezvous.
Lend me some of your crazy letters 
And I will dispatch couriers
To deliver them to gardens
And send elegantly dressed devotees
With a touch of sadness 
To receive them from the gardens
And read them to the river.
Lend me some of the words
Escaping from under your hat, 
Which has no resemblance to Pablo Neruda’s,
To write you an epic 
Spelled out by tyrants
Every night 
To cry their own fates in the morning.
Lend me an evening you could spare
To romp through virtual streets 
Named after living poets 
From different generations
Wherein a river of music goes over the heads of passersby
Drowning all in ageless glamour. 
Lend me the rest of the golden letters
In your pocket
To disperse them over the outskirts of my words
And the lanterns of my dreams
To light up what’s left of the opaque sentences 
In the imagination of the painter
And the wisdom of the poet 
Who is crazed about the clay
On the banks of the Hilla River.

(Part 2 of 3)

I'll die tonight...
O my dear wife!
I’ve never liked farewell ceremonies
In my life
So let things be normal and quiet.
Forgive me! I will not kiss you tonight
Just lie down beside me on the bed
For now.
Don’t tell the boys about my no-return journey 
Don’t let the girls cry with you
Especially the married one
And the little one
The middle one as well.
Let everything be as ordained for me
By those I don’t know
All I know for sure
I will die tonight.
How? ..... I do not know!
How? ..... I do not know!
At what time? …. The mind of the poet is unable to tell.
I will die my dear wife
Don’t forget to feed the dog “Yoyo” early in the morning.
Don’t neglect spraying the garden 
First in the morning
Even if it was time for the funeral.
And don’t forget the seven o'clock news
Listen to it for the sake of your love for me
They always mention news of the lost homeland.
Don’t forget ever....
The chicken feed
I’d like to hear 
The cock’s crow every morning in my grave.
And hide the empty wine bottles
Out of the sight of mourners...
I don’t want them to accuse poets of infidelity.
And if they ask you 
What was with him before he died?
Just tell them:
He forgot to live!

(Part 3 of 3)

Before I died
My wife made me a clay statue 
And cried at it
She and her five daughters did.
But my two sons took no notice
Of their mother crying
Nor of their sisters wearing black 
But, rather,  
They seized the opportunity
And went out to join their peers
In a football game!

Before I died
My friends vied 
And jostled in front of  
Mercenary and non-mercenary newspapers’ buildings
Led by “Riyadh Alghareeb”
To provide their elegies for my immortal soul
Which reminds them of their own
As they greet death.

And since that day
I am holding on to my soul
Lest it slips away 
In a moment 
Of inattention
From me
The poet
Rukn al-Din Yunus
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
November 2013

* Rukn-al-Din Yunus is a poet from Iraq

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Raymond Ngomane | Details |

State Of My Opinion

Once upon a struggle
Songs used to express and define a feeling before reactions struggled to impress a rumbling stomach
Songs used to harmonize our black lips giving away the strength of empty tummies
Lips were diguised in masks of zam-buk aiders
I live next to embarrasment built in power craving bricks

A house that give birth to Load shedded leaders
I choose chocolate skins dressing smart reactions
Choking on words drafted on school chalkboards like Mbeki's state of mind resurection speech
Every second in my creation, 
a hand pulls a trigger to rob souls whats ment for dinner
Get it or dont get me just look at the corner of my thoughts
This is poetry

This is my written confidence conducting a choir of confessions
My mouth craves to shoot military opinions
I choke words to impress my existance attached to all conscious writings
In the midst of wrong times at the expense of our leader's useless time celebrating ignorance
The state of Julius Caesar seized at a nation's heated selfmade selfish awards

Our votes planted rain and forgot muds and mop sticks
Buttocks play suprise jaw gestures as extras with less umbrellas
The Architects of futureless champion times in the back seat of our helpless knowledge
Fear less of your fears
Its poetry in Politics

Poetry pollute ignorance and rejects any dictatorship shipping from goverment pimps
Toilet queues are too strict to jump conclusions
and waisted opinions
I am pressed and oppressed  
I graduated in depression carrying a school bag of my reasons
My black skin will bury my thoughts at your own funerals
I am a walking poem
My education speaks against your numeral straggles 
My political virgin actions exercise mini immortal respect

My mind state is highly pressed 
Lets 6-9 on our parliament doors in atittude
Poetry screams the need for them state of minds
The hunters of truth in rhymes
Verbal exchange battles to change opinions at the expense of my people's change
Verbal violance changed the meaning of an educated homeless stomach
You spoke and littered gallons of spoken words
Tladi, Kgafela, Lesego re feng masego
The pain of giving birth to poverty was never painful for these learders
Leaders Who lead to feed us handwork leaders
Handshaking the success of a visible thief

Bleeders change your scissors
Your poetic blades cannot play polygamy in parliament
These Perpetrators penetrate our hearts from a distance measurement
Adament to show off easyness of playing a nation as a primary school assembly
Bulls determent to press elevations of oppression to the last floor
The evolution of my opinions is high in poetry
The revolution will never be compromised 
Please restore faith in my written oppressions with no humor
The state of my opinion circles around Jakobo's puma 
We need Kwame Nkruma

6-9 = Street slang meaning Urinating
Tladi, Kgafela, Lesego re feng masego = A plea for help from Poets Lefifi Tladi, Kgafela oa Magogodi and Lesego Rampolokeng
Vuma = Agree?

(c) Raymond Ngomane

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by sangam verma | Details |

merry x'mas

I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
December is the month
You have eyes Nagina
one for the sake of your appearance
Winter is the heart of discomfort everyday Titurta
That's why you see Para- Begahe
Inexplicably the right ,
Tongue is silent
Within the cry arises in the heart
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

Sigh fills takes breathe
The heart is the heart , the heart is big plain
Simplicity on the dies
If you do not find anywhere else
That did nothing but rehearse like parrots lives
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

Not around,
How would stir
Then pass
At the heart of the ocean
Tlatum of feelings
Become arises
Does noise
Will hear hear ....
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big artisan
The workmanship is veneer of relationships
Smiling be made
Smiles of the palaces is Nkhshkari
Love of syringe
The spray comes in fun singing
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
The heart is the greatest wizard
Strange is Jadugriya
Has lived in me
Beats on you is to
Dhak Dhak throbbing
That tune is Dhdkata
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big artisan
The workmanship is veneer of relationships
Smiling be made
Smiles of the palaces is Nkhshkari
Love of syringe
The spray comes in fun singing
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
The heart is the greatest wizard
Strange is Jadugriya
Has lived in me
Beats on you is to
Dhak Dhak throbbing
That tune is Ddkata
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big illusionist
Does Bajigriya
Day and night, day and night calls
Ever tells you the moon
Ever tells you the sun
Moment to moment of feelings
Makes many pictures of dreams.Yeah
Worships you
And ritual sings
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big weak
Do not endure separation
Bekhyali stars Counts
To write on a blank paper cuts
Which is descends tide soar
Rundhi c voice call comes in
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
The big colorful heart
Does Rngiliya
Does disport
Adorned on the face Chaubare
Your eyes
In the courtyard of the heart when Jhakti
Corner of the heart
Happily erupts
Say something
Something does
Makes things Puzzles
You only pay Dies
You only have the S?vrta
Smelling like perfume arises

Have you got heart
And love the color Buckle
Then lap in the air
Anklet feet Nigodi
Dancing up and say,
O  that  tambourine playing tambourine
.My punishment quickly stretcher
Then I heart by playing tambourine
To sing the same melody say .....
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christma

Copyright © sangam verma | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

Theatrum Mundi

Theatrum Mundi

Theatrum Mundi, derived from the Latin as: “Theater of the World,” was famously incorporated by William Shakespeare for his well-known metaphorical world-view often referred to under the rubric of “All the World’s a Stage,” as it applied to many of his famous romantic themes and works.  For me, however, beyond the romance genre specifically, I take Theatrum Mundi a step further at a macro level and consider it under its more precise definition* as “the world thought of as a theatrical presentation of all aspects of human life,” while considering all of us who live in this world who are, in a sense, on a stage as our very own actors in different roles.

I believe that many modern day poets tend to follow a multi-faceted approach to compelling and captivating themes and problems that form the verbal and written mosaic of what we call human life or the human experience.  This is not so different from poets of a bygone age; yet, we tend now to be more influenced by the technological age we all live in, but this should not at all detract from our poetry and how we frame and stage human events on paper with our pens.

Despite our technological prowess nowadays—courtesy of the twenty-first century—the genesis and exposition of what we poetically write and how 
we write it should continue to follow the traditional formats and structural methodologies passed on to us from poets of past centuries.  In this sense, 
Ars Poetica (or the Art of Poetry) will always be in the same tradition; yet, 
it’s worth noting that the increased proliferation in the use of “free verse” is
indeed more telling today in this modern literary age. 

That’s what makes writing poetry indeed so special today in comparison to strict prose and journalistic writing.  Really good poetry invites the reader to think, and at times, for he or she to use their imaginations and to venture into the inner sanctum
of allegory, assonance, imagery, metaphor, metonymy, onomatopoeia, and so on.  And so, we poets tend to have a virtual unending group of themes and subjects to consider for our writes when we look at the vastness of the human experience in society today in this century.  

Theatrum Mundi is very much applicable to an all-inclusive view of themes and works across all genres when one considers the veritable magnitude of the human condition in today’s world.  We poets are also actors on this global stage—and we’ll always have much to observe, discuss, and write about—no doubt whatsoever.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (May 3, 2015)
(Narrative Essay)  

*This definition is taken from The Oxford Dictionary of Foreign Words & Phrases (New York:  Oxford University Press Inc., 1998), 431.

(Release Date of this poem in my new book was on February 11, 2015)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Long Poems