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Best Literary Poems

Below are the all-time best Literary poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Literary poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Literary Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Literary poems are below this new poems list.

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Unshackle My Verse - A Literary Law by Troutman, Tanis
Existentially Deconstructing the 'Knock-Knock Joke' into Its Perfect Literary Form by Crisis, Dialectic
Rhythms of Literary Art by Tate, James
To My Literary Friends by Gulley, Sharon
16th November: Bodo Literary Day by Brahma, Ronjoy
Literary Math Equation by Kent, Ronald

View all new Literary Poems

The Best Literary Poems

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Slamming The Super-Duper-Soupers

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

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Heinrich Heine Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Great Contest Expectations, the folly of man

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


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

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Doctor Ram: The Soup's Golden Voice

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

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 

Copyright © William Willis | Year Posted 2011

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Victim of a Word Place Accident

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

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.

On loving the literary soup,,

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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Write Your Own

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

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Alice in Wonderland

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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Modern Poetry

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

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.


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


© Joe Maverick 25-04-2011

Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.


                      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

Details | Literary Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Lady Legend

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.

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014

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Broom Sage

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
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 - The Anaphora Style

~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


~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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Another impoverished evening
draped so strangely bleak,  the moon weeps
for one more burning a soul must retain...
And she clings among lost stars
with frozen heartbeat thawing   minutes
weighed on jagged sounds of owl's play.

No twilight concerto to sway     not yet
as  zigzag street lights pound upon
heavy fog  clutching iced flakes  on rooftops
like hushed matte from night's gale
pouring bitter ovules to a past in need of relief.

While in her vein is a constant downpour
of Bach's untenable requiem
as hands pound on ivory keys,
immersing in the fever of  the moment
until fingers carve a solemn journey 
into wiry  trails of insolent rain.
How she summons  the goddess of morn
to cure thistles of wait and pang,
sifting each beat, each note without interludes
until this child- woman shifts her face against  breezes, 
tasting madness    rawness on lapping winds…

In disheveled lingering    she cuddles 
unspoken words, her own song
on panels of cut-glass-------with acceptance
the world could  still breathe despite a torment:

just then...in a twirl  of air's cadence

the night shuts off.


Jamie Pan's  How Long Can A Poetry Go

This poetic attempt is a cross between existential expression
and stream of consciousness technique. The former highlights
contemporary man's response to anguish, isolation,uncertainty
of life in the midst of change.Thus, this poet explores
the outpouring born from inner annihilation-- being
absent from the self- YET allowing space to exhale for a new
awareness to surface.

Dovetailing this language of despair to the stream-of consciousness 
technique allows the spontaneous, raw float of thoughts without
the pleasure of edit, like journaling and ' writing down the bones.'
I feel that literary devices ( from metaphors, enjambment to alliteration)
come into play , well, quite instinctively.

In my creative writing class as a college professor, I ask my students
to write with their less dominant hand to discover the 'heart of the matter.'
Then again, that's beside the point. This author will leave this piece to assault your senses, and then, softly break all defenses. Thanks!



Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2017

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Gobsmacked Gams

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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Persistence Furthers

There are I'm sure
    I'm also sure 
you will persist
  in your literary 
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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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.
****************************************************************** 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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Patradoot or The Messenger 29 /Many

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.


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.


Kanpur India 12th August 2010                        to continue in 30


* 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 

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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Great Write

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