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you want to know a secret
when I write a poem and it's perfect
i dont share it
i bury it
deep inside of me
where no one else can see
i mean its perfect
not like this shift
it's elegant, poignant,
simplistic, bueatful
trucking perfect
its not erotic
but i read it
mentally masterbate to it
a euphoric chorus
straight form thesaurus
its just that great
im not being egotistical
if read, it would become universal
a meter tethered in clasical measure
a rythmic flow
with many metaphoric undertows
an iconic harmonic tonic
to make you feel like an embryonic hedonic youth
im not being napoleonic
its an actual truth
factually accurate
high in heaven
it produced a tear in the eye of god
who proclaimed
not a single flaw
not a single flaw
and he only saw what i wrote
well, because hes god
me being me i like to tease
allow me to be inclined to share a few lines
blow your mind
redefine your collective defective perspective
realign your ineffective respective connective tisue
"all my cows milk is homogenized
all my crows are well organized
all my sheep like to stare and creep
like to stare and creep"
but you'll never see
the rest of my secret poetry
that only exsist inside of me
cows will always moo
crows will always ka kah
sheep will always go baah baah baah
and the perfect elagance
of my literary inteligence
will die with me
never being seen
qouted, memorised or plagerized
as i will say with my last gasp
the next line being twice my last
all you super-duper-soupers can kiss my ***
ok all you super-duper-soupers have been slammed. if you want to slam me back just a few things. make it funny. make it a little nonsensical and definitly make it over the top
and if you do slam me back send me a soup mail or leave a comment so i can go read your slam.
Copyright © Nathan D. | Year Posted 2015
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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!
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
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Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainess risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good!"
Literary devices
Alliteration
Allusion
Ambiguity
Assonance
Asyndeton
Written December 29th, 2015
For me Poetry is food for the mind, sometimes it is an appetizer to whet the appetite, or it can be full course meal that takes a while to digest. Other times it can be a sweet desert that tantalizes the senses. I hope this piece offers some mental engagement and nourishment.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
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our beloved brother from India
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold
board his magic carpet
woven with wit, intellect and insight
soar through sagas steeped in mythology
captivating revelations on cultural tradition
unique perspectives on historical events
clever concepts conveyed with humor
psychology, philosophy, behavior observations
materialize as “Mehtaisms”
stirring the soup
adding spice to the broth
supporting work of members new and old
our international melting pot
enriched by the work of a Literary Doctor
salute a special sage who graces us with gifts
Dr. Ram’s words are better than gold
* Dedicated to Dr. Ram Mehta in honor of Joe Maverick’s “Better than Gold” contest
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
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SPELLING TEST (there are over 30 words contained within this poem that are often
misspelt by the common man)
We all do on occasion temporarily misspell.
Amateur or connoisseur of language,who can tell?
Conscientiously piece together,peculiar bits of rhyme.
Manoeuvre letters gorgeously for others to refine.
Discipline and experience,all apparent to you and me.
Pronunciation not enough to spell linguistically.
Skilful realignment of the letters needs addressed.
Paralytic implications quintessentially expressed.
A ricochet of rhythm,sabotaged in a queue of verse.
Cacophony of tone with their spellings unrehearsed.
Is your spelling kamikaze,a haemorrhaging of ink.
A karaoke nightmare,communication on the brink.
So literary geniuses,i am all apologetic.
If my utterance is rabbled and my spelling is pathetic.
You see,many words i utilize in this poem i create.
Have been misspelt for centuries,the most common is
separate
Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011
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Are you the Victim of a Word Place Accident..?
Couplets buckling like a rickety bamboo scaffold
Slippery When Wet Guy's taking a fall
Don't he look baffled
Are you the victim of repetitive stress injury..?
Maybe you said DAH-dah a million times
When POESHA standards clearly stipulate dah-DAH
No matter how it rhymes
Have you been exposed to volatile verbal material..?
Improvised Poetic Devices in a booby-trapped room
You won’t even know what hit you
When nano-onomatopoeia goes kah-BOOM
Are you the victim of backstabbing defamation..?
Sharp barbs between scapulas, a dastardly slit
Then call our Dream Team and remember:
If the Word Don’t Fit, You Must Not Acquit!
Hello, I was once a promising, puffy-sleeved poet
But I lost my Muse at a deconstruction site
Now, I’m stuck mixin’ metaphors like cement
Nothin' some literary damages couldn't set right
You came to the right place, sir
Our legal experts can help with your claim
We'll just need a copy of all your poems--
Plus a list of who's to blame!
_________________________________________
For Contest: Let's Have Some Fun
Sponsored by: Casarah Nance
Written: Mar 21, 2016
Copyright © Brian McClain | Year Posted 2016
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When my spirit was fogged in gloom
After i impacted concrete; like a lead balloon
It lifted my strength as i started to write
Of a beautiful girls toy; on its maiden flight
Intended for a contest by souper trouper P D
But i wrote it wrong in "form" if you look you'll see...)
Yet on its immersion in "the soup" i felt satisfied
It seemed to numb the pain; i had been feeling inside
Its not winning or losing while on "the soup"
Though neither string bean; or minestrone (i feel) in "the loop"
There are many places to spend a while,
But the "draw" for me is "the soups" unique flavor & style
It has content..) that's peaceful, stimulating," its fine"
Yet words versus" its essence is exercising my mind,
Let its writers and their themes be the answer to why
I extol "the soups" virtue; that's my definitely my very best try..!
Copyright Joe Maverick 2012
in support of Carol Browns what you love about "the soup"
amended 19 02 2012.
Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2012
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The talentless, envious, plagiarist’s dream
Was to find someone’s ‘Works’ on a shelf or a beam
In a Pub, in a folder, alone and ignored
As the author lay slumped and as drunk as a lord
Stealthily taking those coveted sheets
He rushes off home via dimly lit streets
When his doors were all locked and the curtains drawn tight
He copied his windfall well into the night
First thing next day, not long after he’d phoned
He went to his agent with the stuff that he’d cloned
Dreaming of royalties and acclaim by his peers
But for him it was destined to end up in tears
There’s some gentlemen waiting for him in the hall
(His agent had asked two policemen to call)
“These poems aren’t yours, they’ve already been done
By that drunk in the pub, who is also my Son!”
So, if you aspire to a literary style
You should write your own poems or books but meanwhile
Twixt penning a story, blank verse or a rhyme
Keep your hands off my stuff or be Shamed for your Crime!
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Once there was a fairy by name Linda “fondly Alice”
Falls down a rabbit hole into a fantasy world pretty nice!
Literary nonsense genre
Influential fantasy genre
Bloody the fairy of my fantasy world “Alice”?
Copyright © POET. UNDERTAKER | Year Posted 2013
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Have you read a poem lately; they're all written in ‘free verse’.
Like the murmurs of a hippy high on drugs or something worse,
They're a dangling meander through the tulips of their time,
Where the last thing that they care about comes on the second line.
Seems the weirder that you make them, the more you are adored;
Proving anyone can write them, stringing words of scant accord.
Like a drug-induced arrangement, spewing text because you can,
And as I've yet to try and read them out‘s a clue - I'm not a fan.
At first I thought it must be me; I've been so out of touch,
So I searched for poems said to rhyme, and not found very much,
Just a few odd bits of free stuff with a rhyming paragraph
Bereft of lines to make you think or even make you laugh.
Then next I read that publishers look down on rhyming bards,
And say their work’s just fit for kids or lines in birthday cards.
These leaders of the literary world are steering us to ruin;
Poem’s fate is in their hands, and they don’t know what they’re doing.
Try this: give new poems to a regular chap and bid him read to you,
And he'll be in 'free verse freefall' before he’s half way through.
I further bet he’ll raise his head and ask you, “What’s the plot?
I can't go on; this makes no sense - is this a joke or what?”
Oh no, old son, you’re doing well; it's from a leading poet.
It’s top class stuff, renowned by all - but you wouldn’t frigging know it.
I've written poems fifty years and never planned to cash them;
Just my damn luck I go to try – to find they're out of fashion.
Copyright © Dennis East | Year Posted 2015
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What a slap in the face!
It’s an international disgrace!
(Descriptive distraction)
and (subversion in action)
It’s now commonly used in parlance by judiciary
while in literature this prevalent (lie) I see.
With a bland, enough face?
or is there the hint of a trace?
Could there be in its origin, a.. motive? or motion
created to infiltrate a nations notion?
A.. (sort of sufferance)
involved with its utterance!
So (abused & misused) is the category
I must zero in all my batteries,
Now I am clearing my decks,
here I go, what the heck!
For I have admiration for a Francophile
would converse with a Russophile
I so enjoy your work Faberge
and appreciate the charm of the Gallic sway
But for me there is no third way!
(now) without any doubt I am coming about
And stoking all my fires
for full ahead’s my desire.
On the literary beach
I see a very (rotten peach)!
And it was ‘hidden’ in full view
Hmm.. let’s see what some firepower can do
For the doting parents who pray
keep our kids safe today.
Hardworking moms & dads who care,
find time that is to spare
From extra help with early reading
to painting nursery room ceilings
Some working 14-hour days
it makes me angry I say.
Aunts & uncles, grandparent, teachers
of calm nature and reason
With motives pure and in step
with life’s seasons
And the name of the paedophile should by rights be theirs,
its been hijacked, does anyone care?
It’s too good a description, just not the depiction
to be bandied about, LISTEN
AS I SHOUT WITH TRUE INDIGNATION
CHANGE THIS DECEPTION OF NATIONS
© Joe Maverick 25-04-2011
Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2011
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A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown thrown to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of impozter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward. While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!
This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
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It’s not fully accredited for all and to the extent
A teacher does
For a child, all that will be and for an adult,
All ever was
It should no longer be ignored that a teacher
Shapes a life
The scope within the duty far extends
Degrees of rife
They are literary prophets that instill a
Code of ethics
And they equally accept both the “norm” and
The eccentrics
Despite common theories, there is no
Teacher’s pet;
For, judgment not they pass, but it’s the
Willing that they let
They earn and deserve much respect; yet, they
Do not demand it
What morally they teach, imperfect homes steal
Like a bandit
No, they are not supreme authority on how
It’s supposed to be
But, they try damn hard to teach our children
For you and me.
Copyright © Kim Hilliker | Year Posted 2010
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When I was young the broom sage grew so tall
It towered over me, fuzzy tickling
Right there in front of momma harvesting
Harvesting just enough sage for a broom
Broom sage to sweep the hearth clean of debris
A hearth white washed with Georgia kaolin
Nothing to cover the dirty black sooted bricks
In summer even the inside was white washed
Taller now towering over the sage
Whose sick sparse shoots reach up to claim sunlight
Purple hues shimmer in breeze, wait for spring
Renewed to live again, again, again
Like sage cut, fashioned into a hearth broom
Life is short, wears away the youthful joy
Soon the end in sight, retired to kindling
Laid down upon the white washed inside brick
Awaiting morn when a spark will ignite.
A roaring fire will spring forth ablaze
While all the family gathers around
Warmed by the hearth of a happy snug home
Written:December 9, 2015
Definition of Blank Verse
Blank verse is a literary device defined as un-rhyming verse written in iambic pentameter. In poetry and prose, it has a consistent meter with 10 syllables in each line (pentameter); where, unstressed syllables are followed by stressed ones and five of which are stressed but do not rhyme. It is also known as un-rhymed iambic pentameter.
•Blank verse poetry has no fixed number of lines.
•Blank verse can be composed in any kind of meter, such as iamb, trochee, spondee and dactyl
I chose this form because I did not want to rhyme..
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2015
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An episode of birds hovers beneath
a marmalade moon , just for a while,
as cotton-clouds sweep
the brushed limbs of a sky ready
to cradle the cloaks draping avian settlers;
those who like us ascend on hammocks
of dreams windblown by heady seasons
gliding through embroidered spring, the livid
lust in summer, on to a pious psalm come autumn,
soon... opal stalagmites of winter:
how abrupt and immediate this leaving!
Here we are, beyond shadows tasting
the song of evening walks soaring with
Aurora’s mist vanishing into a world
where permanence of cycles returns and repeats
the refrains from humming rivers growing frail,
until buds explode into leafy twirls
sweeter than the scent of parsley
on a fresh daylight…. icy, spicy, tangy.
Birds tweet, to swivel back into ancestral nests
much like us... wandering then yearning to kindle
the fire and oil of sweet home. Somehow,
seasons change… but our children’s dwellings
and god ‘s grace do not.
............
1/28/2016
For Cyndi Mac Millan's Contest
FIVE PROOF: FREE VERSE
THAT SHOWS IT AIN'T NO PROSE
......................
Literary devices: Assonance, Alliteration,
Imagery, Mood, Synesthesia
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
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Clouds hang low, muffling the maple-covered mountainside.
Fog rises from a saturated earth, weakly wetting a soft breeze.
Mist maintains the connection 'tween earth and eternity.
Within the gloom, where barren treetops scrap the sky, twigs green.
Hope springs with random bits of color to the opened mortal eye.
Soon, soon, a brighter pallet will appear, light will live.
A gray day lies upon the wane and weary eye of morn.
Soon, wind-born blossoms wipe the cinders from the pale eye of sol,
melting the chill of fog and mist, warming the home of man.
First Published by Mused: BellaOnLine Literary Review 2015
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2016
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An Echo Through Time
An echo through time follows all now in kind;
It’s the moment when poets find their rhyme!
Past-Present events give us a mirror to see from,
Of what Present Perfect events have now become.
Poets must write to truth what surely they mean;
With such wondrous verses the reader shall glean!
Writing with tone, tenor and syncopation is grand,
Giving poets that mellifluous effect desired by plan.
The echo quality of a great poem bespeaks its passion,
Whilst its literary panache shall always be in fashion!
An echo reflects a poem’s true resonance by intention;
Ensuring one’s mind shifts to an intellectual dimension.
Poets’ rendezvous with this echo through time is divine;
It helps us enshrine our thoughts now in continuous time!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 27, 2015 (Rhymed Couplet)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
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Nyx opened black arms
threading her twilight fingers
and cradled my awe
to turn my hair, white
she filled my eyes with stars
firing a comet to
the core of my heart
my second breathe
carved dragons of fire,
as Aeolus filled each lung,
Terpsikhore sang music
into the life and death
of this epic
~~~~~
I taste a southerly breeze
catching it on the tip of my tongue
rolling it into my lungs
I sing appegio
to throw a shadow of night
the circle of her arms
has tightened,
and the nebula
in my eyes,
threaten to shoot
from their sockets
I have finally
felt the meteor
lodged in my heart,
move in its longing
for one last blaze
of release,
only the breath of God,
holds for revelation
~~~~~
TERPSIKHORE (or Terpsichore) was one of the nine Mousai,
the goddesses of music, song and dance. In late classical times
--when the Muses were assigned specific literary and artistic
spheres--Terpsikhore was named Muse of choral song and
dancing, and represented with a plectrum and lyre.
AIOLOS (or Aeolus) was the king of the winds who kept the
stormy Anemoi Thuellai and Aellai locked away inside the hollow
heart of the floating island of Aiolia. At the command of the gods
he released these to wreck devastating storms. Since the Winds
were often conceived of as horse-shaped spirits, Aiolos was titled
Hippotades, "the reiner of horses," from the Greek hippos ("horse")
and tadên ("reined in tightly").
Copyright © Jayne Eggins | Year Posted 2010
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~I Believe~
(Rhymed Anaphora)
I believe in God more than anything that's true
I believe in his divine love and sacrifice that too
I believe that true love can make things brand-new
I believe also that much depends on you
I believe in thousands of things that are good
I believe that many beautiful creatures dwell in the wood
I believe that love faith hope dreams n' peace are necessary to each man
I believe that God has for every man, woman and child a great plan
I believe in goodness and kindness for all
I believe we need to stand tall after we fall.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2012
July.03.2016
~Author's Notes:
-The Anaphora -
In writing or speech, the deliberate repetition of the first part of the sentence in order to achieve an artistic effect is known as Anaphora.
Anaphora, possibly the oldest literary device, has its roots in Biblical Psalms used to emphasize certain words or phrases. Gradually, Elizabethan and Romantic writers brought this device into practice. Examine the following psalm:
“O LORD, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure.
Have mercy upon me, O LORD; for I am weak: O LORD, heal me; for my bones are vexed.
My soul is also sore vexed: but thou, O LORD, how long?”
The repetition of the phrase “O Lord,” attempts to create a spiritual sentiment. This is anaphora.
It is common for us to use anaphora in our everyday speech to lay emphasis on the idea we want to convey or for self affirmation.
Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2016
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Splatter painted, Pollock blessed, leggy I stand,
among the green grass and healing Plantain
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
A walking canvas in the meadowland
stems, humorously stippled to entertain
splatter painted, Pollock blessed; leggy I stand.
Blush brushed by daylight, a cheeky garland;
a stand bloomed within thin skinned constraints
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
Pistils between petals unknown unplanned,
joyous the sound of honey bees restrained,
splatter painted, Pollock blessed; leggy I stand.
A plantigrade intrusion, a new brand
surface mounted digits adorned prearranged
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
So bright the upright parts, so very grand
one can but dream the crown gloriously manned
splatter painted, Pollock blessed; leggy I stand
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
Mused: Bella online Literary Review Winter 2015
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
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There are I'm sure
people
who
will
tell
you
to
stop
I'm also sure
you will persist
in your literary
efforts
Some may say
its only poetry
but we know
different - don't we friends?
Poetry can change a life
It can even change societies
You might not achieve fame until after you are gone
Poetry is for the ages
People may be reading you
in a couple of millennia
Sobering thought
After we disappear
our poems may very well
bring a smile
to people who love the genre
Copyright © Matthew Anish | Year Posted 2014
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Literary Poem
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It’s dusky and smoky in the room.
People are talking too loudly,
laughing at a joke of which
the punch line was lost in the din.
I shift my weight on the stool –
the dimensions not quite fitting my shape.
My skirt rides up my thighs.
I leave it there and pick up a stare
from across the room.
Not quite sure if it was meant for me,
I notice a slumped punter
lift his glass in a salute.
I nod and turn reluctantly back
to my half empty glass on the counter.
A cautious tap on my shoulder
quickens my pulse.
It is late and my head is fuzzy
from the G & T’s, but this attention
is most definitely meant for me.
He mumbles sweet nothings.
Well, that is what it sounds like
through his whiskey breath slurring.
He picks up my flimsy wrap
and drapes it over my shoulders.
The touch from another human being
feels good on my naked skin.
I let him kiss me on the lips
and do not protest
when he calls for another round.
I cannot remember when last
someone has sweet talked me.
It is getting very late
and the prospect of being alone
fills me with dread.
In the dark corners of the bar
people are trying to expel
the mutual fear of being lonely.
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GLOSSARY
Persona Literary Term refers to the narrator or speaker of the poem, not to be confused with the author - a narrative voice other than the poet tells the entire poem. The expression derives from the Greek word "persona" meaning mask. When the poet creates a character to be the speaker, that character is called the persona and the poet imagines what it is like to enter someone else's personality. This is an example of a poem where I have used persona.
It usually reflects the thoughts of the speaker and they are not necessarily the personal experiences of the poet, ie the poet places himself in the shoes of the other person and comments on a scene observed. It is a difficult format to write in as as the poet needs to keep in character throughout the poem and it tends to deviate from the usual voice of the poet.
Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013
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Literary Poem
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My heart is breaking
Great write
My demons are waking
Great write
My heart is abused
Great write
My body is used
Great write
I’m going under
Great write
Deafened by thunder
Great write
I cry night and day
Great write
I can’t find my way
Great write
I’m lost and alone
Great write
I’m sick to the bone
Great write
I’m going to give in
Great write
I’m guilty as sin
Great write
I’m going to die
Great write
I just wonder why
All you can write is…
Great write, Great write!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
People share so much heartache and pain in what they write. We read and see a literary work and not the person from whom the words flowed. It's sad. SO SO sad. When did we become so desensitized to pain? When did we just see the poem and not the poet? I had to vent.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013
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Literary Poem
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Patradoot or The Messenger29 /Many
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
These young boys and girls, were brought up,
By their parents, with great love and affection,
Now they are mad, in love for their motherland,
To show the splendors of their youthful energy.
They are ready even to sacrifice their heads,
What to say of body pains and tortures inflicted on them,
By seeing such fearlessness and energy of their youth,
Even the enemy gets ashamed of, dear letter.
Triloki was one of these young boys,
Who happily took bullets on his chest, dear letter,
And kept on moving ahead without withdrawing,
Keeping the dignity of our nation and Satyagraha.
DESCRIPTION OF MY CITY ALLAHABAD
You will find my beautiful city Allahabad,*
In an ecstasy and full of rapture, flowing in it’s air,
When you will move on its roads and streets,
Along with the Postman, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 12th August 2010 to continue in 30
Clarifications:
* Allahabad Also know as Prayag or Triveni is the most ancient city
of India, where river Ganga and Yamuna now meets at
the holy place called Sangam.
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on kapoor_skk@yahoo.com
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010
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Poetess she is, whose magic is cast with great ease
Opulent in words, charming to the utmost degrees,
Engraving hisses, silhouettes, images of natures surreal
Trespassing horizons never stretched out to an ideal
Destroyer as known for, although she's here to compose
Enchating poems and songs her beautiful soul bestows
Such a fusion encourages poets to hold their inks and quills
To write 'bout nymphs in seas or orchards filled with daffodils
Rampantly defeated by her as what often happens, except
Of all practiced skilled writers she's definitely the most adept
Yielded in a words-battle having a single acknowledged end
Efficacious "She" is by far a star who can simply transcend,
Reproductions of literary stylistic forms in her magnificent way
A lady I know as Linda with a pseudonym Poet Destroyer A!
© Guru Jad 2013
Dedicated with Admiration! :)
Copyright © Guru Jad | Year Posted 2013
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