Best Martial Poems
Awesome is what I heard.
a Kung fu master poet spoken word martial artist nunchuckering his words.
kaRate kicking, chopping, spit splitting nouns, adjectives and verbs.
yo vOice defines its comfort zone, spitting dictionary through the microphone.
a traNsformation of mr dictionary to a vivid pictionary.
a voicEprint crobratically erected ventriloquilizing from the ink.
causes Me to feel and think
the mans Salivary glands spit spoken word poetically totally in super sync.
they have sWollen and begun to secrete
epileptic By like products foaming spoken word with a poetic convulsing beat.
this is realLy forming a mouthful of hot poetic word heat.
wisdom bluetOoth biting, fighting, writing through his pen
presses and kiCkstarts his tongue to send
spoken word the Kinsman of poetry makes an epipoeticplectic wireless connection blend.
Karate is not only about winning, but also mastering your mind.
Date: 09/12/2015
Iron warrior
pulled by fear and panic moons
turning blood to rust.
May 11, 2016
Mars Contest
We live in strange times, my brother
men make money
with war dances
and occupation...
Do you not see the bombardments
and the pillaging?
Under the boot
you are worn out,
these days
the sweat of your brow
no longer serves you!
Tanks come from distant lands
passing down your streets
demanding to know
why you were born!
And you can say nothing.
Soon, if this continues,
it will be the course of progress
to be denied learning.
One speaks of the rights of man
here and there.
Do not believe those rumors!
You see that nothing is in place now!
We live in strange times my brother,
arms dealing,
construction
governing the land.
Is it so difficult to understand?
They sell the merchandise of war!
Come listen to my counsel.
Don't marry, it is unsupportable
to suffer the massacre of your children.
The success of your affairs depends
on producing fictitious enemies
to menace...
In this manner
they take over small countries
one after the other
under the pretext of saving them.
While you fight amongst yourselves
others consume your underground resources.
What should I tell you;
do these times plant sorrow
in your hearts?
Be a little understanding!
Increase the number of fratricidal wars,
divide your people further
to make the lives of the invaders easier.
Do not forget that to destroy love
requires only this:
Live in a society without love
and don't educate anyone...
Live in the clarity of obscurity,
depend only on yourself!
The sun rises and sets on time...
the throats of cocks are cut
that sing before the hour!
We live in strange times my brother,
men make money with war dances
and occupation...
Do you not see the bombardments
and the pillaging?
By Uzeyir Lokman CAYCI
Paris - 17.03.2003
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Joneve McCormick - 2003
A tableau of brass sits with serious intent;
A Court it is of the martial bent.
And before it I stand stiff with pride,
I did my duty with nothing to hide.
My men they were , my very kind,
Hardened soldiers, the best you can find,
More than brothers of same mothers born,
Out of war's dirty entrails were we torn.
The dust of battle was scarcely settled,
By the enemy's ambush we were sorely nettled.
Then suddenly appeared a mother and son,
In my sniper scope they appeared as one.
How unnatural was the scene to my trained eye,
One small mistake , my comrades would die.
My heart did flutter, my finger did twitch,
I spied through the scope a dead-man's switch.
The seconds ticked by, they would be within range,
My mind clicked shut, I felt something strange.
I let out two shots, the bullets went true,
We were then evac-ed, myself and my crew.
The brass at the desk in sanctimony asked,
Tell me, my worthy, with what were you tasked?
Can you justify, the death of a child
Of his mother, or did you run wild?
I was tasked to do my duty, which I did well,
I put aside my emotions, I went through my hell;
For the life of my brothers is worth more than their wage,
And war asks no creed, no gender, no age.
Men, we are, victory and survival is our goal,
You may condemn me, the Lord will commend my soul.
~13 Jun 2016~
"Ki-Ahp!" I draw back my arm like a sword,
stepping back to challenge, before bracing forward.
Like weapons meeting, grunting lips clink,
each movement controlled, bodies never link.
Roundhouse kicks swing, kumgang punches pop.
Whirlwinds can be felt with each rapid chop.
Maneuvers are blocked with reflexes swift.
From side to side, back and forth we shift.
Rhythmically flowing like a rehearsed dance,
we give-and-take with each emboldened glance.
A stern whistle blows; we wipe our moist brows,
then respectfully shake hands, after our bows.
1-16-2023
Martial arts come in many forms
They’d studied the animals until dawn
With style and grace they master their art
From dusk till dawn they train from the heart
Fluid and free they move like water
Practicing moves that could slaughter
A highly skilled philosophy
Moving with elegance, such as tai chi
The wind you don’t see, it’s just the effect
Using their chi, with the greatest respect
Ready for action at lightning speeds
They deliver a blow with complete accuracy
Their knowledge of every meridian point
They flexibly, challenge every joint
Toning their body’s to live their dream
Kung Fu masters these ones supreme
With speed and timing precise as can be
Their talents are raw, quick and deadly
Balanced, controlled and complete in mind
These the grand masters of ancient time
One full of wisdom, courage and hope
The fist of the dragon, one might boast
As these martial arts make one to reform
It’s an art in its self, a philosophy born
© Copyright 24 January 2014
K.C. Leake
All Rights Reserved
Martial Translations
Coq au vin (Cook or wine)
by Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you merely an éclair to the greedy?
2.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you tart Amaro to the greedy?
Amaro is an after-dinner liqueur thought to aid the digestion after a large meal.
3.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you an aperitif to the greedy?
4.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but they’re pimps to the seedy.
Ad cenam invitant omnes te, Phoebe, cinaedi.
mentula quem pascit, non, puto, purus *****est.
You ask me why I love fresh country air?
You're not befouling it, mon frère.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
You’ll find good poems, but mostly poor and worse,
my peers being “diverse” in their verse.
2.
Some good poems here, but most not worth a curse:
such is the crapshoot of a book of verse.
Sunt bona, sunt quaedam mediocria, sunt mala plura
quae legis hic: aliter non fit, Auite, liber.
He undertook to be a doctor
but turned out to be an undertaker.
Chirurgus fuerat, nunc est uispillo Diaulus:
coepit quo poterat clinicus esse modo.
1.
The book you recite from, Fidentinus, was my own,
till your butchering made it yours alone.
2.
The book you recite from I once called my own,
but you read it so badly, it’s now yours alone.
3.
You read my book as if you wrote it,
but you read it so badly I’ve come to hate it.
Quem recitas meus est, o Fidentine, libellus:
sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus.
Recite my epigrams? I decline,
for then they’d be yours, not mine.
Ut recitem tibi nostra rogas epigrammata. Nolo:
non audire, Celer, sed recitare cupis.
I do not love you, but cannot say why.
I do not love you: no reason, no lie.
Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.
You’re young and lovely, wealthy too,
but that changes nothing: you’re a shrew.
Bella es, nouimus, et puella, uerum est,
et diues, quis enim potest negare?
Sed cum te nimium, Fabulla, laudas,
nec diues neque bella nec puella es.
Keywords/Tags: Martial, Latin, translation, epigram, hosts, dinner, meal, food, drink, wine, addiction, house, host, dessert
Martial arts, the art that
takes on any form depending
on the shape of your heart.
I hear it friend! Don’t you?
But I’ve heard that sound before
When Legion screamed aloud its voice
And chilled men to the core…
They’ve sat so long in chamber
With nothing there to fear
The serpents head keeps changing
Each fifth or each tenth year
The ‘falling man’ a symbol
Unholiness abounds
A harsh reality awaits us all
As the chain-link underground
I hear it friend! Don’t you?
But I’ve heard that sound before
When Legion screamed aloud its voice
And chilled men to the core…
The worker claws at logic
Stores emptied without reason
The Devil’s in the detail
The poor accused of treason
We’ve watched the Towers fall
And we’ve seen the jaded truths
The proof of lies, they still deny
The eniquity the refute
I hear it friend! Don’t you?
But I’ve heard that sound before
When Legion screamed aloud its voice
And chilled men to the core…
Who’ll rise up to the call
The fight for Good or Evil
Protect our childrens future
Who’ll check the cards they’re Dealing
Our Brothers eyes are opened
Yet they tunnel in the dark
Their egos can’t deny their deeds
So they call themselves WAL-MART
I hear it friends! Can’t you?
Now, it’s louder than before
As Legion screams aloud
Its voice chills me to the core…
My goldfish Finster Darcy
Speaks English but not Farsi
He has an education
And moral reputation
He does kung-fu better than you
He's such an inspiration.
He stands in diametrical opposition,
taking in the measures of his opposite self,
taking on the warriors stance,
that leads into the martial dance.
His pace is measured,
every breath taken at deliberate pace,
as he puts on a mask of passivity,
that is now his warriors face.
The dance begins,
the energy pools at hands and feet,
as he waits coiled for the opportunity to strike,
his steps are refined to the point of infinite calculation,
so that no two steps remain the same,
to be analyzed in the warriors game.
The coiled spring strikes out,
past the mounted and now shattered defence ,
the defender has changed his vibratory nature,
as the defender becomes the one who is on the offence.
The game continues,
as liquid flows are merging,
and the offender becomes the defender,
as the defender becomes the offender,
and the skilled might and the roll of the dice,
become the judge of the victorious contender.
High atop our chimney breast,
Lives Steve Seagull upon his nest.
He’s a highly trained, bombing master,
Atop my rooftop, his name spells disaster.
If you’re like me, and live down by the sea,
You’d better hide quick, and find the nearest tree.
He thinks the seaside sky’s his domain,
And his mission is to cause both misery and pain.
Steve seagull, he dominates his space,
As you take leave of your house, of your place.
He swoops down low, he targets your head,
And ‘bombs away’ he just misses you instead.
That was his warning shot, next time you won’t be so lucky,
Next time will hit you, and you’ll be feeling all mucky.
You’ll have to return home, and you’ll then need a shower,
And Steve Seagull triumphantly returns atop of his tower.
The roughest, toughest to ever enter the Octagon/
Beating the competition to a pulp, is what I be on/
I do not cut slack, my combinations are vicious/
They hit you back to back, the impact is stupendous/
Your blood is delicious, the smell is metallic/
Stepping in the ring with me, it will get drastic/
I finesse, I brawl, however they want it/
I stand on the level of a bully pulpit/
Everything I do is nice, I'm way too legit/
I'm banging and I keep banging till you split/
You're not even ready, you're not even steady/
I can beat you to submission, but I like to get messy/
You can get chewed up, and screwed up/
The impact when it kick is like a million upper cuts/
It comes to me too easy so I don't even brag/
But when you're going against me, just wave the white flag/
Kick punch kick punch pitbull repetition/
I put the game in a choke hold, it's my submission/
I'm the world champion, I don't have to say/
Welcome to the Octagon of the Pitbull MMA/
I'm the baddest man alive and the best to ever do it/
I do not play no games, I just get straight to it/
I dominate every stage, every single round/
So everytime I enter the booth, it's going down/
Me against whoever, I win every time/
It's not even fair, that's why the crown is mine/
When I'm done with you, they'll call you a ghost/
I'm super paranormal you should call me coast to coast/
This is the king post, and I am the host/
They say that I'm horrible, but so adorable/
A dangerous match up, you do not want trouble/
I'll hit you one time and have you seeing double/
Punch kick kick punch kick punch kick/
Send one to his temple, now it's over with/
Swirling, pulsing, and throbbing through air
came a cloud, not quite black, above my bed,
not closing my eyes and watching in fear,
Death would be easy but the cloud was my dread.
Looking closer, I viewed a darkening black spot
two thirds of the way down the visage's form.
It grew, spun, shrunk as though it were hot.
My head seemed electric as though in a storm.
I jumped from the bed wanting a fight.
The cloud backed away, I thought setting me free.
I grabbed at its shoulders holding on tight,
Saying Death take no one, but take only me.
I kicked the spot with best martial art,
thus causing the form to fold with a cry.
We tumbled to hell, there never to part.
I sacrificed life, and in hell I would die.