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absence abuse
addiction adventure
africa age
allah allegory
allusion america
analogy angel
anger angst
animal anniversary
anti bullying anxiety
appreciation april
arabic art
assonance 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 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 childhood
children chocolate
christian christmas
cinderella city
class clothes
color community
computer conflict
confusion cool
corruption courage
cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
dad dance
dark daughter
day death
death of a friend december
dedication deep
depression desire
destiny devotion
discrimination divorce
dog dream
drink earth
earth day easter
education emo
emotions encouraging
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion father
father daughter 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 friend
friendship fruit
fun funeral
funny funny love
future games
garden gender
giggle girl
girlfriend giving
god golf
good morning good night
goodbye 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 love you
i miss you identity
image imagery
imagination immigration
innocence insect
inspiration inspirational
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
memorial day memory
men mentor
metaphor middle school
military miracle
mirror miss you
missing missing you
mom money
moon morning
mother mother daughter
mothers day mountains
moving on murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
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 pets
philosophy places
poems poetess
poetry poets
political pollution
poverty power
prayer preschool
pride princess
prison psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember repetition
retirement rights
river romance
romantic rose
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
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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 sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
technology teen
teenage thank you
thanks thanksgiving
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute trust
truth 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
write writing
yellow youth

Long Poets Poems | Long Poets Poetry

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Long Poems
Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

SYLVIA

                         
                           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


Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details |

SCOFFING LOVE

`````````````````````````````````````````````````````March 27, 2013
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 DIGEST YOUR RESPONSE WITH A GULP..
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 WONDER 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 BOTHERS ME
BECAUSE OF THE EFFECT 
IT WILL HAVE ON YOU
 
ONLY MY FRIENDS WHO ARE GENUINE,
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 .
BECAUSE OF THE WORTH I SEE IN YOU .
THAT'S WHY I SO PERFECTLY ...TOLERATE YOU .
AND 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 SHARED A PART OF MY LIFE WITH YOU .
ONE DAY YOU WILL SEE
THE VALUES THATS BEEN  PLACE IN ME
.
BECAUSE OF THE MIRACLE--
OF 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 STILL you will -TWEAK TO MY HEARTBEAT.
YET MORE WILL BE UNDERSTOOD BYE AND BYE..
AND FOR THOSE WHO FEEL,AND
APPRECIATE EACH OTHERS POETRY or story                                                      
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.
 
BECAUSE WHO KNOWS 
WHY SCOFFERS SCOFF 
WHEN LOVE SPEAKS OUT OF CONCERN 
JUST BE PATIENT AND WAIT
SINCERITY AND LOVE
NEVER NEEDS DEFENDING .
ALL YOU LESS CALLOUS , 
WHO SEEK UNDERSTANDING
AS OPPOSED TO MALICE
 
I WILL JUST 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 
AS LONG AS WE WHO HOLD THE ROPE 
ARE WILLING TO PULL OUR BROTHERS UP
WITH OUR WORDS,THE POETS WORDS  
THE MESSAGE FOR THE MASSES IS HOPE..
.
SO I LIVE FOR THE POEMS YOU SEND MY WAY 
FOR I GROW STRONG IN OUR RELATIONSHIP 
SAILED BY THE WINDS OF YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT
TO 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 WHEN EVER 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, JUST 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,
AS LONG AS WE ARE NOT STUCK ON THE
SLIPPERY SLOPE, OF CONTEMPT , 
AS LONG AS WE WHO HOLD THE ROPE
 ARE WILLING TO PULL OUR BROTHER UP

WITH OUR WORDS,THE POETS WORDS :
 THE MESSAGE FOR THE MASSES IS HOPE..
.SO I LIVE FOR THE POEMS YOU SEND MY WAY,

 FOR 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.


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)

AUTHOR’S NOTES:
*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!  


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
But....
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
USA
November 2013

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



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
Vuma?


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


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)


Long poem by Kelly Deschler | Details |

The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven - A Tribute to Chan Hurst 1979-2014

A few poems written by Chan Hurst, (Just That Archaic Poet)

I hope that we can find some comfort in them at this sad time.


"A Rational Explanation"

What must I do to see this through-
Unlock the world I never knew?
For all I've seen hath been untrue,
As all I've felt hath plagued me, too!
I am no more, past Deaths before
I've reached the end of Living War-
(to see through eyes both blind and closed)
A life to touch, but never know...


"Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep"

Every day, to God I pray
For answers to Life's enigmas
Patience lays in wait to stay-
To cleanse our Social Stigmas
We pass the time in our idle Dreams:
Like fallen stars in singing streams


"A Happy Ending"

Remorse and regret, I mustn't forget
Remind me that Life is a process of Learning
Indeed for I sorrow'd; 'twas always upset
As the Truth was met with painful discerning

But now my eyes are open-wide,
Grew to love what I once despised
I am no longer sick inside-
I just feel happy to be alive


"A Master's Approval"

No happier could I ever be,
(Or feel a joy's enormity!)
Than to know a Soul as Poe-
Would say he likes my poetry!


"The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven"

I pray that in my Eternity,
I'll meet Shelley, Poe and Emily
That we'll all sit down at a table round,
And at length discuss our Poetry!

And Longfellow, lest we forget
Lord Byron, Shakespeare, and beloved Keats!
If I prove their favorite Poet,
I could accomplish no greater feat!

For all my many silly musings,
This one I covet above the rest
For my Soul's toil- finally proving
That the Masters love me best!





"Heaven For A Poet"  by Kelly Deschler

My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to bed nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.

My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.



This poem was one of mine that Chan had faved, so I thought it would be appropriate to share this now and dedicate it to him.

I will always miss you, BP, my brother in poetry, but I sense that you are smiling down on us now.

I know that Chan idolized Edgar Allan Poe. I remember him telling me that someday,
he wanted to share a table in heaven with that "good ol' E.A. Poe".

So, Chan, if that is what you're doing now, I envy you, my friend! 

And, you said that you would personally invite me to that little gathering, remember? :)







Long poem by Alex Duffy | Details |

life is a risk

4.30 In the morning and I’m writing this
Thinking of how beautiful but difficult of a life it is
Looking up at stars
But doing more than appreciating what a beautiful night it is
Thinking back to when I fell for a girl who didn’t love me back, it was quite a slip
She took my heart
Left it covered in bruises, cuts and scars
But id didn’t put up my guard
Until I got stabbed in the back by a friend and the knife stuck in hard
At the time I’d of sold my soul to the devil just to have my heart back
But I worried what good would it be with scars attached?
That was the moment I allowed poetry to become my advocate
So my pain was no longer hazardous
When you’re going through it you don’t realise how bad it is
When you’ve been through it, it can’t be as bad as you first thought because you survived
And overcame the worst obstacle in your life
And you realise happiness is actually attainable
Be yourself, don’t copy and realise life’s aren’t exchangeable
Enjoy the moment you may never get the chance again
Enjoy the song you may never be able to dance again
Truth be told, if I’m fully honest?
Then I never needed anything I thought I wanted
Maybe I wanted out of greed, or just a case of never having it
Maybe there were many cakes on the plate & I was grabbing it
To get the best out of life you need to be strong through the worst times
Don’t judge because you’ll rarely be happy by what you first find
Everyone’s a working progress, grow with them, realise what a blessing they are
Let them open up on there own, don’t question their scars
I’m not preaching or teaching
This is just a guy who’s been through hell speaking
Now it’s almost 5 in the morning and I’m not even halfway through saying what I need to
You’re wasting time trying to be someone else, while somebody is dying to meet you
Take a risk if you’re willing to lose for it
Sometimes you have to take a step back to move forward
I used to want my ex back
Until I got better
Now I’m happy we’re not together
Don’t pick up a thing from where you left at
Dust yourself off start from scratch
Grow in time; learn where your heart is at
It may take time
But in the end you’ll have a strong heart & great mind
I began to hear hate better and became blind to love
When I was heart broke and I realised every contract is signed in blood
I like to recall the bad as well as rewind the good
It just prepares me
Reminds me I’ve been through the worst so nothing should scare me
Life gives you hardship so you won’t sink easy
The moment you begin to think freely
You’ll see life is a risk but usually worth the gamble
When you stop letting life control you and reverse the handle 


Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details |

TO SPEECH PATHOLOGY

TO SPEECH PATHOLOGY A voice is something to treasure. An expression is nothing without this. You can feel the deep suppression when possessed by another human being. Speaking out and it becomes dubbed. No, you are not a mute. You do have a voice. To the speech pathologist, I ask can you explain this phenomenon. When pure thoughts are taken before they leave the mouth. Heard is the individual speaker but he or she is not saying the words. It is a crime for a voice to be stolen. It is a felony when the individual speaker is the victim of something so palpable. Once you begin to speak, you have learned the course. The passageway that enables it to not be your voice. Why, is asked. Is it because you are being robbed of fame and success. Or, is it because your physicality is being disesteemed... Especially when you are a poet that brings the tangibles of life unambiguousness. Why, therefore, is your voice being suppressed? To the speech pathologist, I ask can you explain these occurrences. That is when pure thoughts are being dispossessed. You are the writer of your prolific verse. However, speaking out and the words becomes dubbed. Therefore, your poetic style is not heard. How is a self-image without being expressed? As the poet or (poetess), gender is non-bias. But, when it comes to voice, you are your gestures. Intonation is, thus, your metaphorical expression. I ask the speech pathologist what is his or her call in this. I am a student from United States public schools that speech had to be assisted. I had a problem with the blend of consonants. I overcame this hindrance. Yet today there is a different kind of interference. Technology is everywhere. A vocal environment is what we have. I can see the cubicle I am within. As I speak, I see a domineering essence. How do I remove this from my presence? Phantasm is the word that is applied. I am my voice profound by pure thought. Is this an airborne disease of some sort? What is it like to be a poet without a voice? I will tell you this - it is no search entity which can capture a voice esteemed. I am the writer that intonation well surpass the eidolon of others' activism. As a political powerhouse, scrupulous and intact. The vision of divinity has manifested. Both together, but the same in separate places, a voice is a voice in the eminence of what is being aforesaid. Once again. Speech pathology should investigate this singularity to the point that it informs individuality! ___________________________________________________________________| Penned June 14, 2015!


Long poem by Alex Duffy | Details |

last call

In your club, it’s probably the last call for alcohol so go and get your last drink
While I sit here and abuse this ink
It’s the only way I have to express what I think
Poetry became my therapist and my pad is my shrink

It’s the only time I let my guard down
Spill my heart out
Lyrically ahead of my time
Laying verses like I’m going to bed with my rhymes

I remember filling a 300 page pad in a day
Funny thing is, I had more to say
Helps me to overcome everything I’m fighting inside
But what will I do if my love of writing dies?

Wait, hold up let me erase that
I hope I never have to face that
I’ve overcome a lot of trauma and struggles
But I have no idea how I’d embrace that

Writing is all I love it’s all I’ve ever done
Like every relationship we have ups and downs
Sometimes wondering if my next rhyme will ever come
Maybe I wouldn’t need to write if my family had just been around

But I’m thankful for my talent of being able to write
Writing at the table at night
Learned that leaving poems half wrote can be hazardous
My ex told me I carry my pad like it’s a bible, sorry if that sounds blasphemous

She thought it was about who’s been through the most and who heals fastest 
And because I’m a man I shouldn’t feel sadness
I was busy studying, straight outta Compton, amerikkkas most wanted, Marshall Mathers LP, blueprint and illmatic
So I can rhyme like the greats and get my pen to spill magic

All I do is write away
Over 400 finished poems that haven’t even see the light of day
Because I speak what I need to, not just what I’d like to say
But I’ll speak my mind and back it up I won’t hide away

It’s more than poetry, more than making words rhyme
I remember age 14 when I wrote for the first time
Trying to be like Eminem
But I was already stuck by the third line

The harder I thought the less I could come up with
A few hours later still no more writ
I thought I was trying to force what couldn’t be
Like I was trying to look for what shouldn’t be

Getting angry ripping up my pad
Never good at talking, so I couldn’t say listen up I’m sad
So I’d suffer alone until my next hit of inspiration
Sure enough when it arrived my pen was waiting

Poetry soon became my passion and coping mechanism
Sometimes you have to look at yourself to get a better vision
While I was in foster care without my mum and dad
I was lucky to be able to use my pen and pad

So while it feels like every story has been told
It feels like all new lyrics are old
It feels like every rhyme has been said
I still have a lot more writing to do and I’ll be writing until I’m dead 


Long Poems