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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 Writing Poems

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

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Long Poems
Long poem by JW Earnings | Details |

The 996th Poem

Fulfilled fantasies and legitimate realities…you do know how to please…
Are you listening to my voice of longing and yearning?
No, don’t backstab me with your broken promises…stop being a horrid tease…
Do not worry, Lord, I am still constantly…learning…

God is here…

I’m scared, so unprepared… my flames are flared…
I’m impaired by depression wars I have fought over the years
Just a hair, faced this nightmare and no one cared
Slayed by the mocking sanity of society…reduced me to tears…

Healing is near…

Exceedingly exasperated by your empty empathy 
Vacant stares flood the room in despair and envy
I adore you, you’re my door of countless opportunities and yet, time flies
Play me on the radio again and again and you’ll find where your heart lies 

Don’t worry, dear…

Rising in the moment of remarkable letdowns
I had a miscarriage of misery a long time ago
You blew up my cellphone with texts, calls and happy frowns
I can do this, I have done this before, I…know…

Cower away from sheer fear that veers the head…don’t let it appear…
 
Yank away from my dreams…
Turn me on with your musical talents and interests alike
Broken by the useless seams…
Ride me like your favorite, childhood bike…I let go of the mic

Therapeutic aftershocks draw near to me…honey, don’t shed a tear…

Get off of my chest, heart attacks of our love from below above
I’m chasing the water under the bridge over you, can’t you sea? No possibly…no possibility…
Can’t you just leave me be?
I swear without cussing, I was being sincere with my speech you knew not of
My flow is far from yours, so don’t intertwine with my flow of ecstatic me, in need of being free
Can’t you leave my side for now?
Just leave my presence somehow…

Jealousy is key to the gates of selfish ambition, so don’t have the spirit of jeer

You served as a distraction more or less
Sorry I got you in this hell-heaven of a mess
Everything can last a while, but not forever
It is impossible to say what is on my mind whatsoever
I’m a Positive Poe and a Silly Seuss all over again…so, cheers! 
Raise up your wine cups and bubblin’ beers…

My request is to kiss your lips, so warm and lovely
In my tamest dreams, I’ve looked all over for you…you were lying on stones and stix
I am raptured in this love affair; barely breathing, baby...
Do it again…do it again – the verbal abuse is a bruise I fix…you are as hard as billion brix

Going Justin Beiber on you...disappointed, you scoot away from me…drove me to laughter tears…

Plastic reality can’t undo what has happened to me in the past…I’m the mast in Antarctica, left behind at last 
It is the captive soul that needs some healing…I seek something more than what meets the eyes
You are Australia and I am America…opposite directions…we drifted our separate ways oh so vast and fast
Cast away this sorrow from my sullen cheeks and these eyes that are like mood rings daily…it’s best if you don’t ask your what’s and why’s

Instead, you go Lady Gaga on me – good one! At least I’m not going Demi Lovato on you, my wandering deer

Wipe away these lament drops from my cloudy eyes
Because they won’t even consider my cry for help, but hopeless like withered kelp 
Ripen me with radiance and reveal to me no sly lies
No vulgar talk please…he speaks genuine words and hear my helpless, muffled yelp 

If I was your man, I’d be the happiest man alive…like Rihanna that arrives in Los Angeles for the first time…I’m getting it on poetically and popically up in here

I got you in chains in my heart…you feeling it? Are you ready? Do I need to feed you regretti?
You ain’t coming out of my ribcage
Try to plan an escape route…just try and give up already…here’s a celebrated fail with confetti
You make me feel this painless rage

I bit my Cyrus Tongue…hold your tongue before the fire consumes all…or if you whisper it in my ears, you’ll reduce me to ashes...nowhere to roam it appears…

You shelter me with laughter and peace disaster
I don’t understand the words you utter, but I know it screams out those hear-me-out’s
I can’t make out how we made it through this hardship that has torn us asunder 
My ears will listen to you acutely, so I’ll be your butter on warm toast when you let out your desire shouts

Killing me alive by your sensual and passionate nature that give me dream infatuationmares…my obsession towards you is dastardly, disturbingly serpentine to my evanescent heart of stone in a sight’s gleam

I need saving, for I am caving…fell victim to lustful, ugly craving
It takes me to levels of languishing hopes
I know I was unfaithful and misbehaving…force-fed your raving 
My voice of angst anguish…it still mopes

I know my rights and wrongs…
Catastrophe connection lost its link and my positivity peace is in the brink of spring – so, in winter, I sing these sad, sad songs

I was the class clown…in pointless, humor town 
Now, I’m the loner in class
Let’s not categorize others and put everyone down 
I am lost in a multitude alas

Inside and out, I have the hearts for you… and you had no clue
Through silence and shouts, I’m blue without you… so true…

I freaked out suddenly…
It puzzled me and bewildered you too…I’m sorry for my cyber-outburst
Dating goes bad madly…
Needed you really badly, but you were…oblivious of it, it seemed at first

Whistling to myself in a blissful moment of musical, magical muse…
I speak mindlessly with my imaginary friends and it’s amusing because I have some good and bad news…
My Silly Seuss released from my writing of childish conniving
Emerge from the volcanic vanity, scorching…warped-up writhing… 
After being verse-tracked, I have some good and bad news: 

I passed for being the biggest loser on Earth
I failed on being a good leader…
Mirth gives birth to a rebirth of faith hearth 
Okay, fine…I’ll be a follower…

Remember, I am titaniumb and I am Rated R for Recovery 
December, the month in embers…January is a new discovery

Hang on the ceiling, chandelier fear 
The spotlight is on me…once and for all…
After all I’ve said and done, I’m of cheer
Because I fear no more…996th poem, y’all…

Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Dorian Petersen Potter | Details |

The Book



Shhh...Be quiet! please...or you'll wake up everybody... Did you see what that young man did all this evening at the table while taking some of his notes? Yes, sure we did, and so what? a "Poetry for a Lifetime" replied quietly. After all, we are all books and we are very important to mankind, everywhere.Yes, we are all very important, no matter who we are. Yes, but did you see, that he was only going through those old, dog-eared magazines, that are piled at that left corner table? I am telling you that most people are just browsing through all those computers.I think that they're kind of forgetting about us.I know I should be happy to take this dream vacation.No more prying eyes and hands touching and knowing my most privete thoughts.I should be in heaven! The Gone with the wind" book, just frowned and started laughing.Look at me and remember my lines. Tomorrow is another day! You should all be quiet, and go to sleep! Merrily a voice said in a whimsical manner.Everybody looked up at one of the highest shelves, where the voice seemed to have sounded from. Yes, it is me, you knuckles heads! A "Grim"s Complete Fairy Tales Volume" book, spoke in a playful tone.He opened up one of his pages and showed one of his most beloved fairie tales. Come all over here and pay me a visit.Which one you would wanted me to read you tonight? What about me reading you, Little Red Riding Hood or perhaps you would prefer, The Sleeping Beauty" I am just telling you that I am a very important book indeed.All my stories make children all over the world very happy and parents love me since they find my services more than welcome every night at bedtime.I am very important, yes, Sireeeee.And aaying all this,he chuckled with a most contented sight of relief in his very merry and child-like voice of his. The rest of all the books just fell silent for a moment.A "Pride and Prejudice" snorted loudly all of sudden, and retorted in his very conceited and masterful voice.Well, they all say that, they all think that they're important.One of my sisters " Wuthering Heights" thinks the same too, I am telling you.She's always scoffing me and thinking that she's better than me.But I tell her that she's wrong,because I am better than she is.That's for sure.I am a much better classical read than most of you here, just laying around gathering dust. Wait a minute, hold it right there! A very thunderous voice just said that.Everybody book shuddered at the sound of that very ntimidated voice.I am very old, and I am very important too.I am much older than many of you, just gossiping around, wasting your time and mine.I can't fall sleep with all the racket you're making down here.Can you have some consideration for the ones that need a little more sleep everyday? A " Tale of Two Cities" volume, took a royal bow to everybody around, while paced back and forth in his most comfortable upper shelf.I am a very important book too.Iam considered a classical among book readers all over the world.So now please go to sleep! and let's end all this nonsense about who's more important or not.Saying this, he yawned so loudly, that he woke up some of his other books that were before dozing in either side of his shelf. Who dare to do this and woke me up like this in such a rudely manner? A " Cronicles of Narnia" volume in a roaring voice moaned.How dared you to to do this and believe that you are more important than me.Well, let me tell you, mister, than you're not and never will, more important than me".A tale of Two Cities", let me tell you, that "Romeo and Juliet" think the same, and are spitting mad about your delussion of grandeur and self- pride.You know you got a coming anyway, even "Hamlet" thinks that is better than you are.Take that for a change! Now saying that, I can go back to sleep now.I bid you all good-night ladies and gentlemen! I don't really care, if you are young or very old, perhaps you may be older and more experienced than me, in many ways, but still I believe I am the most important of all the books in this library, and elsewhere in the world too.A very comanding voice, and full of authority said.Everybody turned around to see the "Half Blooded Prince" lifting one of his fingers in self- importantance, and saying "I am the most important book in the world and all my brothers are too.Look up my ratings and my movies too.Everybody wants to know about me, from beggining to end.Everybody wants to read me and know all my most hidden secrets in every chapter I have and possessed.So you see, people of all ages like me a lot and bring me to their homes.So that settles everything now, be quiet and go to sleep and stop all your shouting and whispering about.I am the most important book ever! Is that understood? I guess it is... Not so fast, you fat head! I am the most important, not you.No way! it can be you.I am the most important book in the whole wide world.I am the "Lord of the Rings" and I am very full of adventures,wars, death,heroism,magic,betrayals, self-sacrifice, love, and mistery too.I am the one that saves mankind and the whole world from darkness in the end.Remember that! One of my greatest citezens saves the world.His name is Frodo and is a Hobbit.So you see, I am the greatest among all the greatest here in this whole library and all the libraries in the whole wide world. So, please, go to sleep now! I see you tomorrow, my brothers and sisters.Saying that "The Lord Of The Rings" closed all his pages quietly and with a big smile went to sleep. Meanwhile in one of the main upper shelves in the library, a very old and worn out "Holy Bible" just chuckled softly under his breath... Dorian Petersen Potter aka ladydp2000 copyright@2001-20005 09.18.2014

Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Ian Howard | Details |

Phobia's

     Phobias
	A Bluto is not that Disney dog
	It was when a mewling 
	that I would scream 
	Should they wet my body
	And then apply cream
	
	Ablutophobia – fear of bathing, washing, or cleaning
	
	Achluo the demon that lurks
	In darkened corners
	The long toothed life suckers realm
	I am scared as the sun dims
	It seems to bare my soul
	
	Achluophobia – fear of darkness
	Acro what did they do 
	They called me acrobat 
	This will not do
	I get giddy standing on a matchbox
	Please get a net to see me through
	Acrophobia – fear of heights

	
	Agora just shut that door 
	I am staying here forever more
	Bring me food put it on the floor
	The letter box is just for you
	Don’t, Don’t,  try to get through
	
	Agoraphobia,  Fear of open spaces or of being in public places. Fear of leaving a                    safe place
	Agrap stole my feelings 
	He caught me unaware
	I am now afraid of sex 
	don’t ask me anymore
	It frightens me that’s for sure
	
	Agraphobia – fear of sexual abuse

	Agrizoo an angry gorilla I knew
	Wild as hell was kept in a cell
	As all his kind, even a timid Hind
	They scare the crap out of me
	Please let them run free

	Agrizoophobia – fear of wild animals

	A gyro is just what I need
	I will fit it to my trusty stead
	He will fly straight across that band
	A tarmac nasty throughout the land
	I cannot face the walk you see
	Agyrophobia –fear of crossing the road

	Aichmohe got in a hell of a fight
	They killed him with a pointed knife
	It will come for me just you see
	I cannot even mend his cloth
	Won’t  touch a needle at any cost
	
	Aichmophobia – fear of sharp or pointed objects (such as a needle or knife)
	

	Ailuro he lived next door 
	The bastard sits on the fence
	To me he snarls not a purr
	A Persian he is supposed to be
	Frightens the *****out of me
	
	Ailurophobia – fear of cats
	
	Algo, Away, I am pain free
	This morphine is the best
	First day of pain free rest
	Been told that it will return
	Got some gas, peace I yearn
	
	
	Algophobia - fear of pain

	Andro I’d rather be               (android)
	I am metal and plastic you see
	Electric person not man or woman
	That would be so sad
	If just a man I would go mad

	Androphobia – fear of men

	Antho the pologist got the plan
	He put concrete throughout the land.
	Not one shrub or flower seen
	Not one blade of grass green
	A flower would make me scream

	Anthophobia – fear of flowers


	Anthropo was a lonely man
	Wouldn’t mix with others so
	He lived in a cave, well just a hole
	You would see his eyes peeping out
	A shaking frame if people were about
	
	Anthropophobia – fear of people or the company of people, a form of social phobia.

	Aqua marine or even the wet stuff
	Is enough to drive me mad
	I stay in when there is rain
	Just wait for the sun to shine again
	A damp tissue that’s quite enough

	Aquaphobia – fear of water. Distinct from Hydrophobia, a scientific property that makes chemicals averse to interaction with water, as well as an archaic name for rabies

	Arach no, and know the score
	Those creepy creatures on the wall
	Send shivers up and down my spine
	Six legs and venom to drive you mad
	I am running already it is sad.

	Arachnophobia – fear of spiders


	Astra my name you would think of the stars
	My gaze goes up but not that far
	To the first cloud there in the sky
	If it’s the shape of an anvil I will fly 
	Fear grips me and I don’t know why
	
	Astraphobia – fear of thunder and lightning
	Atychi that was about the size of me
	The others would just make fun
	I was no good to anyone
	A failure of the first degree
	Nothing my goal, was all I could see
	
	Atychiphobia – fear of failure

	Auto matic I will seek people out
	To touch to play as long as they are near
	Don’t leave me in this place alone 
        A singularity is my biggest fear
	I will hold anyone you see I care

	Autophobia – fear of being alone or isolated
	
	Automat o no it’s not true how could you
	An advert that’s telling just lies
	Don’t all the others realize
	What you say is not true, put it right 
	It will drive me crazy I’ll keep out of sight
	
	Automatonophobia – fear of anything that falsely represents a sentient being

	Aviat o if you think I am going in that
	No I am not a scared ***** cat
	If we were meant to go fly
	Wings we would have from him on high
	Fold your machine and put it just so.
	
	Aviophobia, Aviatophobia – fear of flying
	
	
	
	
	Chaeto he was a Greek of old
	Bald as a badger so the story is told
	But why you say is there no cure 
	For him to grow some lovely hair
	For him it would give such a scare

	Chaetophobia – fear of hair

	Chemo therapy keep away from me
	Chemicals scare me I know they are free
	But to have them coursing through my veins
	No matter how good they are, and that jar
	The fear of everything for what they are 

	Chemophobia – fear of chemicals

	Chirop to or not too so I am told
	They stick in your hair best to be bald
	Now I find that my nails are made of hair
	Chirop is what I fear not chiropodist is that clear!!
	Just shave my head and cut my nails dear

	
	Chiroptophobia – fear of bats

	Chromo shines bright in my eyes
	The fear of all colours  I realise
	Now I am safe from a troubled day
	Into my dark room, I have found my way
	Knock when that sun has met its demise

	Chromophobia - fear of bright colors

Copyright © Ian Howard | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Joel Lee | Details |

Unfinish

A Dark Identity

Days into nights... time without time
Normalities of everyday life beckons to remain
Shadows with lights.... to find to define
I am he who goes by without a name

The world is only up to date
And I’ve decided no more to follow
Bearing time to finally relate
Yet a self I’m to find to wallow

He who walks without an identity... walks alone
And he who walks alone needs be proud
Yet walking forever without finding a home
Have I that heaven beyond the clouds?

I cannot see either far or near
I cannot be to be neither nor
I’m listening... I cannot hear
I’m at peace... I’m at war

I did not know... am I suppose to?
I know I’m alive... is that enough?
Yet, rather not to know than knew
For knowledge shall never last

A mystery if not yet to be
That one mysterious hope to be searching for
I have dreams but what did I see?
I have no one... not one I can call

A darken need shall heed not words
For the dark shall rise as light
The fade will be a promise to be heard
For shadows are without night

And I started to listen distractedly
Hearing for what my eyes cannot see
A hallucinatory moment ever constantly
As I began to believe that of what cannot be

The instant my eyes close
My mind drew as suppose
Sketching a stand alone amid a world once seen
Of ranging fires to have had believed as a dream
And there I was... a lone figure enveloped in darkness
With crossing flames alight yet from a distance as useless
Left as I was before... I am to return as I am
Reliving once more this beginning with never the end
Thus did I continue my path away from the bloodshed
Carefully as one had hoped where a darker darkness be led
No more do I wonder what transported me here
To only know for certain I am riddled of constant fear

“Fear is a fire
To temper courage and resolve
Be it desire
To quench the thirst for one’s unfounded lost”

And there it was... words barely a whisper
Where it came from... no longer matters
For the intended vigor were already cast upon
Serving me with renewed purpose for a sense to belong
Before long, beyond doubts... my callings were clear
The source from where it first began was indeed here
Almost startled, I looked around knowing I’m blinded to see
Too dark as it was, had it not been a lighted green to be
And there it was... a single light beyond the almighty dark
That one greenish light to aid one’s lonesome heart
Rather peculiar for I haven’t notice it before
And naturally I am to walk towards the green grandeur
Flickering and wavy as I drew closer to my destination
Seeing finally for what appears to be the least of expectations
Astonishingly, it was a lantern where within was the sighted fire
And simply the fiery green alone ignites ever on in dire
Levitated in midair, it stands rigid with its haunting presence
With an aura more deserving then welcoming of essence
So mesmerized I was... I wanted to behold
That of warmth for perhaps deliverance from cold
A dare if not, if only, if I must
A flame to embrace, a curiosity to engulf
And surely... I lifted my hand with only a wanting touch
Surely but unknowingly... the flame itself is to parch
Sparkles of green eludes and transcends about
As well an aria, an ancient tune goes aloud
To only see to believe, perhaps my life to perceive
Yet the question being... what did I achieve?
Smoke arises... wavering, quivering, settling...
My time... misgiving, misguiding and misleading
And there he was... rather it be
A human?... isn’t to be I see

“A dark wanderer, perhaps a lone wanderer alone
Regardless... a stranger afar returning home
Have you the teachings bequeath upon you?
From a once being of a knight who knew
For he alone stands unnerve by another
Serving a purpose to hold true forever
The resemblance I see forth leaves me incertitude
Both as mortals... though only he remains in servitude
Yet... my appointment upon you is clear
I am to you drawn as you to me when you hear
Nevertheless, far too long were you of absence
And once more I am in honor to be in your presence
It never is clear what the heavens contrive
For this unsung war... humanities were birth to strive
Every one mortal given birth were forged for war
To ensure the survival of humanities and of peace to befall
For many years this bloodshed wages in dire
Almost as certainly, the spirits of men responsively tire
No more are there ideas nor hopes they are to see
Battling on for pure survival remains what leads them be
Your return however, will perhaps set the tides in our favor
Though I know not the intention, I do not disregard altogether
Do not let the reasons why you have returned cloud your mind
I ask of you rather to remember who you once were to define
The land of The Ancients is never a quest for truth to seek
Purely for good to triumph over evil is the only idea you will need
Prepare yourself well stranger, for good will always be in disguise
Treachery and deception as often will never in itself be a lie
The unforgiving way is still a long one I’m afraid
However well is Heaven to plan... evil as always will await
And until out time will once more cross between us
I assure you... your time in this world will outlast”

Copyright © Joel Lee | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Emma Willden | Details |

Crown of Sonnets - part 2

Yet there in the mist is the stories tusk
There full of the hidden secrets of men
The men and fairies who are full of lusk
They do hide them away here in the glen
Here they are hidden away in this place
A place so full of both the spies and lords 
We shall find the women adorned with lace
Yet they so clueless to the hidden cords
As here men or faires that walk about 
Hiding the truth or them in your plain sight
Yet here I do create a stage of doubt
As men of faires care not for the right
Looking I find I can't be overthrown 
Oh wait, I find you sit upon that throne

Oh wait I find you sit upon that throne
You try to create, rule that which is mine
Waiting and watching as you take the zone
Creating something of your own design
Waiting I watch you as you take control
You the character seems the master now
You do dance away you do take your scroll
Down and about you do start to bestow
From afar you do grow and develop
Yet  soon do I learn I do not create 
You leap out over land to envelop
Now only a king can control your fate
Fighting to create I find in your eye
So high, so mighty  you feel you might fly

So high, so mighty  you feel you might fly
As you the master of your mighty fight
Seem to be in the line of that dark sky
You seem to think your fate is not a knight
You choose to dare and to defy my words
Transforming my words to air it doth seem
You reason with the story not as a byrd
You discover that you do like that stream
You follow that twisted path to the north
You go not alone but so full of those lies
The lies and spies of fairies that do go forth
Out ,about your followed by silent cries
You wrote a path yet if  you could of known
Yet you do not know that I in the zone

Yet you do not know that I in the zone
Can still control this path if I so choose
So don't you dare try to cry or to moan
You do choose to ignore those hidden clues
Oh dear character of my heart, my soul
You did leap, bound farther than any before
Although far in mystery here is the troll
That you did not see upon your dark shore
As here I sit counting down those long paths
That will lead you to my desired one
For inside I do fight that wicked  wrath
So free and loved you do think you have won
After a battle fought I stand nearby 
Can create the path that causes you to die

Can create the path that causes you to die
Quietly I do watch you be so mighty 
Totally unaware you feel so high
You do sit, you laugh feeling almighty
Yet I the writer is spinning this tale
You see you did catch me when unaware
Although I did figure out that it was frail
It that was my idea I’m  in despair
As those hidden small words did launch so far
Off this silk pen and down this blank white page
They did land to create something bizarre
Hidden and unknown they did upstage
That plan I had is now in a debate
With my passion and love doth I create

With my passion and love doth I create
A character that of his own design
who was a knight did design his own fate
Now on that throne you're all but intertwined
The writer had believed to know it all
As the seconds fled upon a lost thought
To find that only you who was so tall
You could conquer all that was so distraught
There in that place you were so far of path
Following your mind fate did lead you to
That path I had fought with a writer's wrath
Here in this end we sit long overdue
I the writer now do open that gate
My world so full of stories that doth await

My world full of stories that doth await
It is full of those things only in dreams
Things created by those who don't debate
Between that which is created by schemes
If only I the writer had only known
That a character of such strong design
Will not be made to be only outgrown
But shall develop into that which will shine
To shine like this brave character of mine
Is something we all seem to all but lose
When we the writer choose to cry or whine
We then take a risk at being confused 
Yet here I chose to choose and then apply
I created in the blink of the master's eye

Doth create in a blink a master's eye
Gold painted not for the eyes to behold
So beautiful created not with dye
 My words they seem to create something bold
 Something that I shall spin upon the moon
As the fairy doth dance into the dusk
that I create a story of a loon
Yet there in the mist is the stories tusk
 Oh wait, I find you sit upon that throne
 So high, so mighty  you feel you might fly
 Yet you do not know that I in the zone
 Can create the path that causes you to die
 With my passion and love doth I create
 My world full of stories that doth await

Copyright © Emma Willden | 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 |

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

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by John Beam | Details |

Dotting i's and crossing t's

I come from a family of high dots                                                                                                                                                                                                                  We did the same kind of things                                                                                                                                                                                                                        We look alike but they call me the underdot                                                                                                                                                                                                  Then I was used like a common comma                                                                                                                                                                                                          Like I could not make a statement                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Calling my brother the distinctio working with clauses                                                                                                                                                                              He is their center but I think he is just an interpunct                                                                                                                                                                                 Do I have the right to question                                                                                                                                                                                                                         I think yes and that is the bottom line                                                                                                                                                                                                        Invaluable to computers at .com  everyone knows me                                                                                                                                                                                    I go on excelling in math They call me the radix                                                                                                                                                                                         but they use my real name in their rings and rows                                                                                                                                                                                     My point is without me there would be no decimal point                                                                                                                                                                                 and I also work at times with foreign languages                                                                                                                                                                                                 They seem to understand me better than my own family who just belittle me                                                                                                                                           I think I will confront them and make a full stop of this                                                                                                                                                                            Tell ya the truth I think this will be                                                                                                                                                                                                                     a maturing point for me in around about way                                                                                                                                                                                                 For I am used more than all the other marks Period

Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Unquotable quotes Writers - XXXVIII

Unquotable quotes: Writers – XXXVIII

     for Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra and Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoieski  
     who let not even hope sustain them and who used their own last   
     drop of blood for ink

The time is at hand when robots tutored by “how-to-write” softwares are ready to take over from creative-writing teachers.
Successful “robot writers” won’t need penthouse apartments nor mountain resort hideouts to produce their masterpieces.

The cut-up and fold-in method, the stream of consciousness and surrealist techniques are mere bird-formatons broken by airplane wings or shoals of sardines shattered by sharp shark strikes. 

Every living creature espies the world through a tiny aperture in its eyes. The writer perceives the same world with himself in the principal role.

Writing unlike painting or composing music requires full-time living and for which you don’t get paid: it’s like living in limbo and you get paid once you’re dead.

A writer who has attained “sacred cow” status through, say, the attribution of a Pullitzer, a Booker or a Nobel, produces thenceforth manna and ambrosia fit only to be consumed by the Gods.  

Even the most prolific writers have only a few much-talked of books to their name, but the greatest only leave one – at the most two - to be remembered by: The Odyssey, Ramayana, Shakuntala, Manimekalai, Silappathikaram, Genji Monogatari, Monkey, Don Quijote de la Mancha, Gullivers Travels, Candide, Canterbury Tales, Crime and Punishment, Ulysses, excepting Shakespeare, of course, for he certainly must have had three pairs of hands.

The self-published writer still perpetuates the hallowed lineage of the great writers of yore.

You can always tell when a writer has nothing much to tell: the book gets catapulted into the eye from every bus-stop and train station platform.

Isn’t the best writer of prose always the poet at heart.

Who is the true author of the book? Experience or the educated eye? Or both?

Can a man or a woman who hasn’t lived dangerously nor be in constant danger of being overwhelmed by life, itself, author a work of lasting value?

Writers who autograph their books at a book launch can be assured the buyer will not read beyond the autographed pages.

Post-colonial writing is exactly what it says: after the fashion of the colonial-canon: historical fiction, magical realism, anthropological travelogue, diary diarrhoea, testosteronal feminism, poésie à la mode de bourgeois sentimentality… War and Peace, Dr. Zhivago and Cien Anos de Soledad beget Midnight’s Children, etc., and A Suitable Boy; Greek tragedy – The Road. And a good deal of what passes for poetry in South Asia and Southeast Asia where Eliots, Yeatses and even Horaces abound!

The successful prize-winning author - in the eyes of the media –  is a prophet: by rights he/they may pronounce and declaim on the fate of the world.

The unquenchable dream of all unknown writers, not represented by top-notch literary agents: an Ayatolla FATWA!

The facile tongue often betrays the true métier of the author: ACTOR !

The pecking-order for authors in the limelight is ordered by the number of books sold.

Writers who have made it into the eight-digit royalty class tend to shed wives like moulting skin: fill in the blanks – Arthur _______/
Marylyn ________.

Don’t “enfants terribles” writers let late starters walk all over their backs as “fast finishers” ? 

A wise writer will hold on to his best work while he lets the literary agent and publisher’s editor re-write his juvenilia, until the hooked public acclaims his name.

When you have finished reading a novel, and you are not totally and abysmally disgusted with every living human being still standing – including yourself – then, ask for your money back !

Writing is like eating: what gets digested must of necessity be absorbed; the rest must be expelled. It helps to have sturdy Hemingway legs!

If you became a full-fledged writer by following creative-writing courses, then you have no right whatsoever to your name on your books. 

Who said: “Don’t ever (let your shadow) darken the portals of a university if you want to be a writer!” Tom Wolfe?

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by betty njie | Details |

In my head

This is not a perfect story, its a feeling that i just want to share with you. I need HELP

The love i show to everyone in my surrounding, its just rediculous the way have trained myself to become or should i just say its my character thats how i am. I hate it when i cry for nothing, its just that i cant get it, do i have to be perfect to earn something in life. Am a good dancer, a good writer as well as a good person, but what have i earned in these living nothing absolutly nothig. Have plied myself to be thee who loves all and never attempt to hate any even thoes who have shown me hatred. Deep in me i feel the agony something somewhere in my daily living is not satisfied have allow my instincts to believe that its just the human strategy we are never satisfied and can never truly and pratically be satisfied, but in my case its a bit different. I miss love, looking at the whole situation properly i cant tell who loves me and who really hates me devastating anomly. The history of my life carries untold stories within its path, i dont even know who truly i am. One thing that am very sure of is that i am always there for thoes whom i feel am bound to be there for although i could be somewhere else. In tears i sometimes sit to ask why, why do i have to be these way. Am so mean to myself as the ones am so hardly trying to be a help of, at a moment i hate myself so much that i dont want to exsist anymore, i wish to be another somebody of somewhere. Just because i couldnt once make it right to the ones i feel bound to help. I am a lost soul screaming loud for attention at some point i can explode if i could, there is such much going on in my head i have issues that i want to talk about things that i just cant keep to myself. Thanks to writing i can state it down. This is a rapid that have ever since search to write about about but i  just could figure it out. I really cant tell weather my own mother loves to talk less of my dad or my boyfriend. My motto, never have up the fight for love, deep inside me am gone, empty and lost, but in my heart i know i can make things happen and watch myself work wonders i believe that. It might be hard to understand if you cant feel what am feeling in me but am completely lost. Do i even have talents? i dont know i have no idea, what i think is am just that loser that dont want to accept her destiny. There is nothing i repeat nothing in this world that cant be solved, my soul is longing for satisfaction love and nothing but the truth. The big thank you i always carry around in me goes to thee the almighty thee who created man from a thick clot of blood and gave hime life despite all what he know that would happen, who has given me the chance to live a life. Suddenly am starting to see life with a different eye than i normally used to as i am writing this,have just figured out life is me, i am my life its only me that can make myself feel just the right way i deserve to feel. Have made so many wrong dicisions, gone through so many hard ways that i could have actually safe myself from. Have given away my last penny to make another fellow feel happy and like me for thoes moments, have thrown my pride away to make a boy fall for my adventurious way, have hurt someones feeling to make another one like me, have done so many harm to myself and others. I just dont know where to head to sometimes i just feel like i should just kill myself and free my thoughts but then I always have this tiny voice in my head that always reminds me of Gods love and it works everytime, thats just what keeps me moving anytime i want to turn back. Have written a manuscript that carries living in it but its still in my laptop. At a certain point i thought putting down 28 pills in my tiny body could save by story, totally wrong thought am stronger than that.   SAVE MY STORY.

A Dream
What happens when you feel so lost, so devastated knowing that no one seems to be understanding your situation. When the whole world turns their backs on you, you feel empty, its a terrible feeling.

A Wish
Wanting to become a somebody to make a certain person in your life happy, a wish that appears not to becoming true, wanting to publish your first book at the age of 20 but you almost 20 and nothing.

Copyright © betty njie | Year Posted 2013

Long Poems