Best Bardic Poems
As dark canvas unfurls bit by bit
Randomly gulping down acrylic paints of dusk
To satisfy his own thirst, not for long, to sprawl
Into a magical cosmos - flapping his dark wings atop
Swirling soft fair clouds that rock and roll
Through gray-black, myriad dazzling stars so
Idyllic, and artistically spilt sparkling stardust
Charm the sky as if shiny pompoms and buttons;
Night sky lights up my gloomy mind:
In its artsy glory, I savour a tick of tranquil clock;
Glowing bright, stars and moon transmit rays of
Harmony. Aw! tiny drops of opals and diamonds
Thrown arbitrarily at pitch-dark canvas as if
Showcasing splash liquid art - so bright and brilliant;
Knitting a charcoal-black fabric of captivating stars and moon,
Yay! our night sky is shining, inspiring my bardic pupils.
Date: 01/13/2023
Lipogram Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
In a world ruled by gods and men,
who holds in their hand nature's pen?
When words are smitten to deaf ears,
dost one conclude their deepest fears?
Thy skilled soothsayer is portrayed,
as nothing more than a beggar paid.
A wandering derelict of the past,
his bardic tongue now shall avast.
On a park bench, he sleeps at night,
oft Poe's "The Raven" he does recite.
'Tis thy chilly nights he dreads the most,
so in his prose, he gets engrossed.
The birds doth come and hearken in,
as he weaves his tales and rhymes within.
This man was once like you and me,
so sad this world could never see.
Pondering the phrase,
“Written in the stars”-
On the darkest nights,
Crowned with cloudless skies;
A still lake channels
The sonnets above.
19 Mar 2021
Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way
For Kim Patrice Nunez*, with hope
Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way
Let your wheels skid by letting loose grip on wheel
Free verse range’s for marksmen trained on rondolet*
Dipodic foot pantun villanelle dactyl
Cut their teeth on the slippery run-on-line
Roll their anaepest tongue round limerick rhyme
Do not a ballad begin with aubade fine
Nor drive straight past end-stopped line’s feminine rhyme
Such as painters’ coprophilia canvasses
Hide chance ironic hidden ghostly faces
Cubist abstract surrealist morasses
Whose apprenticeships lead to trumping aces
Far too many poets love the sound of words
Yet shirk bardic tasks speeding on twisted roads
* Nunez: Sorry, no tilde over the “n” on my Mac.
• rondolet: French pronunciation rhymes with “way”.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Once in a blue moon, in the circuit of the cryptic sky appears the transcendental fusion,
when the acquiescence of the sky emerges to display two heavenly bodies most exotic phases of union.
On those, mesmerizing venerated nights, the new moon and the wolf moon in juxtaposition,
supercede the perceived notion of eclipses; when the earth's shadow devours the pearly moon, its unparalleled companion!
Contrary to the credence, they recline and mingle, into one in secret paranormal amalgamation!
At that spectacular moment, the blood of the luna oozes, turns scarlet,
and the venerated Full Moon turns into Blood Moon in unison:
when the earth's umbra covers the moon in its arms, passionately to hide pains of her bunion!
They have clandestine agreement, beyond the mortal comprehension to fathom their cabalistic union!
Although, once in a blue moon, even the cynical corporals,
turn fortunate to witness the epochal communion!
Deluded and hypnotised, they come out with their finite, shallow persuasions!
Even waning, the luna in all her immaculate purity, maneuvers the blue planet, her matchless companion
in various alluring phases, in exuberant magnificent manifestations!
Those rarest phases in rotation connotes their cryptic indulgences in culmination!
The momentum of the earth-moon collision forms curious rarefied condensation,
causes in its beloved's bosom, the tidal ridges, the ebb and flow, a unique phenomenon!
When the luna grows from New Moon to Waxing Crescent, whispering the earth to cast its beams for illumination
in diverse evolving phases from Crescent, First Quarter Waxing Gibbous, Full Moon, Waning Gibbous, Last Quarter, Waning Crescent to the New Moon,
both the celestial- bodies embrace each other
in variant robes of orientations!
Their hide and seek, merging enigma, provokes the lunatics for musing bardic explorations;
as once in a blue moon merges the peerless pens to extol,
the unfathomed metamorphosis of earth-luna's metaphysical communion!
All Rights Reserved © Silpika Kalita
I've been a bit free with the vitriol with a couple of poems recently, and need to check myself. Some months ago I met a bard, Kevan Manwaring. In his book, the Bardic Handbook, he recommends satirising oneself to see how it feels...
With satire comes responsibility
Thus spake the bard, regarding cosmic law
‘Tis true that thought and act and speech are free
But heed the truth learned by the bards of yore
What goes around and round will soon return
To that dark human place where it began
And pain shall be the lesson he shall learn
Who points his pen in anger at a man
Lest he forget, we none of us shine bright
That are not sullied by some silent shade
And he who seeks another man to slight
May curse the pen that bore the words he made
For what we see in others, we have known
Some simple human neediness or greed
The weakness we perceive is like our own
Who knows a tree that has not seen a seed
So satirise yourself, so spake the bard
Before you dare another man to mock
And turn upon yourself a light as hard
As that with which you wish a man to shock
Unshadow your shortcomings, write them true
Or fall upon your failings like a sword
For this is what you would to others do
And thine own self hast thine own pen ignored
Now weigh the pain you draw like blood from light
With cut of blade, of swift and vicious pen
Look down upon yourself from lofty height
As you would fain look down on other men
What do you see, but merely flesh and fear
A naked frightened soul that cries for love
All sorrow bound and clothed in darkness drear
With eyes up turned in hope to light above
Have pity, spake the bard, for every word
You wield will have the power to wound or heal
Remember what you here have seen and heard
Think twice before you cause a man to feel
The lacerations of your jagged wit
The schadenfreude of your savage ire
Lest you be made to join him in the pit
Lest you be so consumed in that same fire
He snuffed the candle flame, picked up his book
And left the poet, wise from sorrow shown
An unveiled mirror’s face in which to look
At imperfection that was his alone
With satire comes responsibility
For what goes forth returns, of that be sure
And you are that which you in others see
The naked frightened soul the poet saw
by Gail
For all the night she trod the furrowed earth
As she has walked all winter in her wake
In seeking for the child she brought to birth
The maiden bride whom Hades chose to take
The gibbous moon is waxing to the bright
And shedding shifting shadows on the lands
One single moonbeam spills down through the night
Upon the rutted earth on which she stands
Made heavy by the weight of mother’s tears
The ground beneath her feet begins to yield
The imprint of a child’s foot appears
Emerging from the darkness of the field
The dawn is tinting grey the silken skies
The lifting mist moves gulls to take the air
She swears she hears these words within their cries
She comes, she comes, she comes, is nearly there…
Around the hill of Silbury swirl the springs
From many sources meeting there as one
Upon the fence a bardic blackbird sings
His songs of seasons ended and begun
The heron stands in wait down by the brook
The willows’ leaves weave rills upon the stream
The cormorant is fishing for the rook
Whose shadow shapes a fish from daybreak’s gleam
From alder trees drip drops of ancient dew
Like shining crystals, in to waters deep
The grey of morn becomes a brighter blue
New lambs are woken from the dark womb’s sleep
A muffled drumbeat pounds within her bones
Thrills through her feet and trembles in her chest
Draws from four corners people of the stones
To stand and lay the winter to his rest
Can it be so, she thinks, that she will come
And willingly escape the thrall of Hades
Be called by this fast beating of the drum
To dance among the wild lords-and-ladies...?
(See Part Two)
© Gail Foster 2016
Sweet Just the Way I Like It
you're a genius she moaned
there can only be so much money in circulation
he replied halfheartedly fingering her abacus
the moon arose sharp as a razor
and they set about creating a dynasty
a master race of thumb sucking idiots
that arose from the dead at midnight
with pretensions of divine right
she was a plump desert highway waitress
with a mile of sunny cleavage
a beckoning oasis of hope
to every butt sore trucker
he was a cadre from the Cro Magnon bloc
raised by the Sisters of Inchoate Ire
in a constant din of prayer
a model of pedagogical endurance
a time of war ravaged the land
the grip of the Dept. of Antiquities was strong
wizards made the oceans boil
mystics buskered the street corners
will work for the contemplation of food
a few actually knew something
but in practice were a bit too bent
by the wind blinded by repetition
to be true in the rigorous mortis sense
nothing to be done except perhaps
another detached from reality ******
now that the past was in hot pursuit
but the leibensborn are clever
and they were smuggled to safety
in boxes of radio parts
he picked up the Bardic Hour
on the Welsh Luftwaffe Network
she was wired to the 220 dryer circuit
and clicked through the channels
Gamble for Your Soul followed by
Ladies of Leisure followed by
Nearly Inaudible the game show
which asked the same question
if the picture is perfect is it changeable
this is how they ineluctably became
the enemy of both sides
the rim shots were deafening
but histrionics had worked in the past
you'd think we were defending against death
rather than a better data set
so it is with surface addiction
a searching modern art piece
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
In blue moonlight where Lady Ophelia drifts
the whispered streams in winter's beauty, her eyes
reflecting starlight vaguely float and fade
quietly to grey.
As the breeze kisses her soft white breasts, she sighs
a zephyr to carry her to sleeping worlds
where soporific trees roam the joyful earth
and a goddess dreams.
The curve of her cherry lips that still the dark
waters of a Bardic heart as a poet
feasts at the perked teat of her inspiration
and suspires the breeze.
By starlit springs that let a bard sail rivers
to the shadow lands with flesh perfumed blooms
and perceptions of ancient dreams fall back to
slumber in her arms.
Darkly glancing dragon eyes
Dancing pools of fiery light
Sparkling gems witched from the skies
Emerald, pearl, and ruby bright
Opal, sapphire, amethyst
Coyly blend their crystal beams
Diamond spheres by heaven kissed
Doorways to a thousand dreams
Wild -- undreampt since Ancient Time
When the dragon ruled the night
Words were Magick, Music, Rhyme
Bardic songs set hearts aflight
Man and Woman ruled as Kings
In that Golden Paradise
Soaring high on dragon wings
'Til the snow-white moon would rise
Gone -- Lost in Night's endless deeps
Yet its phantom-image lies
Where the waiting dragon sleeps
Deep within your dragon eyes.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Eighteen
Even as the lower rubbed its dazed eyes over Her hillocks
The light-foot Lass of Lahore made her way past the boating docks
Past the Marie’s dank reedy banks over Her heaving breast
Tip-toeing over the complaining boards of Her nose-bridge locks
Hugging a bottle labeled “OMAR” where Her bust cut an arc -
A left-behind lame garden warbler tweeted its dirge dark
While the doe-eyed Lass tilted the bottle at the water’s edge -
Her own secret message to save the Sufi Khayyam from wreck:
“Oh! Illustrious Beacon of the Saljuk Empire!
Pray! Let me so much as I might deign to sing sans lyre!
The WORD is out: Your Eminence’s proscribed by penal mettle:
The Republic’s Procureur Général wants you in pyre!”
“Your humble sister begs your esteemed bardic indulgence:
Two fitful summers gone past we did cross each other’s presence
Me a mere slip of a girl from yon Ghaznavid Empire
Heard the clamorous reed warbler’s Himalayan penance!”
“This bottle with the missive I know the Lady of the Lake
Will to you waft: tidings dire as to keep me awake
Through bitterly biting lonesome nights you stumble and rove:
Take heed! POLICE cycle-brigades have tripled round the lake!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
I
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Do you know what you want to convey?
Have you set your ideas in a list with their peers
Ready to scribble away?
II
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Have you chosen your meter and rhyme?
Have you got the knack of trying to pack
The words in and make them keep time?
III
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Your pen poised over the page,
Praying that Calliope enters your muse as she
Has done with poets for an age.
IV
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Has God above roused you to thought?
Like King David at arms when he wrote his Psalms
Inspired but never taught.
V
It that a poem you’re writing?
Will the tale you scribe live on?
In Bardic tradition an epic rendition,
For centuries pondered upon.
VI
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Will words give your notions flight,
Or stay on the page, like Gibran’s “in a cage”,
Only revealed to sight?
VII
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Are you just going to let the words fly?
And leave the verse blank, like grass on the bank
Of the river ungroomed flowing by?
VIII
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Is sorrow or passion your whim?
Like me has desire ignited a fire
That bursts from the soul within?
IX
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Is the language you use esoteric?
Do elaborate words fall meaning nothing at all,
From your pen, but having no merit?
X
Is that a poem that you’re writing
Do you think that you’re a real poet?
Do you think ’cause a line, came out of your mind
It’s a poem and others won’t know it?
Now that you have got this far, leave a message and be a star!
Thank you
If ever Everafter seems
Inscrutable to you,
Remember, visionary dreams
At times come all too true.
The city by the bay will fall,
It’s Golden Gate to lie
Submerged, with skyscrapers once tall—
Metropolis must die!
The angel-city farther down
The shifting shore will be
Another, underwater town,
Punished presently.
So heed the bardic omens no
Mere scientist dare read—
Pacific coastal millions will go
Help the fishes feed…
"Before The Gates Of Alahsar,"
By,
Michael .P. Clarke.
Full Version.
Bardic style.
Chapter..........1..........Part..........1..........1.
Come now, my Lords and Ladies,
listen now to the tale I shall tell,
the ancient tale of the dreamland,
of Alahsar, I lay before you.
look now within your mind's eye,
look on the golden gates to peaceful shrine,
they stand in wonder,
before a city of joy and peace,
a most ancient jewel.
I, your Bard, stand before you,
my words, I am ready to sing,
my beating heart of truth,
it shall beat the tales cadence,
as my words, I do speak.
Oh, Alahsar, your dream forever sung,
I lay it forth, following ancient texts,
come now, my Lords and Ladies,
listen to the tale my heart shall tell.
Never, had there been dark, in Alahsar's jewelled kingdom,
the sky afire, with a golden glow, in a night of lightened twilight,
all night, this sun would lie low in the sky, a golden glory,
this light of love, ever touching the beating heart of Alahsar.
The sun did sparkle off golden pinnacles and minarets bejewelled,
the sun, kissed gold so gently, and golden light did live,
my Lords and Ladies, such a dazzling display of light effects,
forth did come the rainbows of dream's desire.
Upward, ran the virgin white, stone dwellings, of the city,
they did tower to such heights, they reached for the heart of Heaven,
open your minds to the vision, look upward, upward, ever upward,
atop the great city, a golden palace, how that glory did shine.
This was a golden beacon to all, that Alahsar did live,
the city of dream, in its golden coat, arrayed, it did sing dream's song,
from the golden gates below to the golden palace atop, peace and joy did reign,
Alahsar, sing dreams song in majesty.
On the first level, the dwellings of Alahsar's mighty armies,
of the most sumptuous furnishings, they were arrayed,
seem within your minds, soldiers dressed in such regal splendour,
those on duty, they walk proudly. from dwellings to the mighty parapet walls.
They all know nights of passion, in rooms of silken beauty,
primal passion, emitting sighs and screams into the night
communal wash areas were to the rear of these dwellings,
they were behind high walls, built into the rock itself.
To Be Continued...........
The night it seems, a wistful muse
as evening’s peach begins to bruise
with shadows stretched in brooding streams
A wistful muse, the night it seems
A mystic swath, transcending prose
Rewrites the night with grand compose
The Milky Way, a bardic froth
Transcending prose, a mystic swath
A spell is cast, when light has fled
Unwound from angst of unknown thread
Then spun in words of splendor - vast
When light has fled, a spell is cast
Swap Quatrain
14 Jun 2020