Best Marlowe Poems
I hear England's strong voice praising its past:
Football's World Cup glory in 1966,
Shakespeare and Marlowe penning plays,
Sir Francis Drake circumnavigating the world,
Queen Elizabeth I, with the stomach and heart of a king,
Queen Victoria, with her ever expanding empire and waistline,
Constable, Turner and Reynolds painting pictures...
and yes, although it can only whisper of its today,
it shall sing once more of new glories,
it shall shout from its rooftops for St George,
and be proud of its past and present.
A little Patriotic free verse for Carolyn's contest, inspired by Whitman's 'I hear America singing'
Categories:
marlowe, patriotic,
Form:
Ode
I feel the futility
after decades
of my fingers flitting
like dragonflies
over the keys
my once hopeful heart
shriveled and shrunken
as a plum into a prune
Shakespeare and Miller
Marlowe and Pinter
will never again
pick up the plume
to pen another
poem or play
yet they live on today
while my words
wither in the womb
Stillborn they are silently
whisked away unread
without a funeral
to the tomb
Categories:
marlowe, angst, fate, how i
Form:
Rhyme
I caught you creeping around
with your spying eyes
Quick, furtive glances
betray your silent, stealthy movements
Human satellite camouflaging black cloud,
always in passing tear bursts,
secretly scans through a purse in my closet
Your dubious, devious actions
speak loud
Such churning, internal accusations
would make any insecure man proud
Furthermore, you compounded your fidelity lies,
when you installed web cam spying eyes
Privacy invasion of the worst kind —
But, I caught you though,
looking through my bedroom window
with a telescope
I had a Philip Marlowe
reconnaissance pro trailing you ...
sweet turn of the table
Let my diamond stylus disgust skip to the end,
this relationship is over ...
It’s time for me to unfriend
Here is some advice I guilt-freely give you:
Your spying eyes
will never truly let you see inside
the heart of another person
Unconditional trust
is the only way to ever off-site remotely know
what lay beneath the quilted hidden covers
of someone else’s soul
Categories:
marlowe, allusion, betrayal, slam, trust,
Form:
Free verse
I wish I was a tough guy
The kind you meet in books
Made of rock hard muscle
With rugged hard man looks
A Raymond Chandler hero
Exuding macho charm
A super spy or villain
With a beauty on each arm
I’d love to be the kind of guy
That others see and fear
The bane of every coppers life
I'd look at them and sneer
I might fall for a sucker punch
Get beaten up or more, but
I’d meet them face to face
And then, I’d even up the score
Wish I could be like Marlowe
And ooze testosterone
Women falling at my feet
For my heart as cold as stone
I would stand up to the bad guys
When I’d won, I’d get the dame
They would say “who was that tough guy”
I’d say “Rupert, that’s my name”
Categories:
marlowe, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
The fancy degree from a world famous school
set in a frame that’s worth more
than the paper on which it’s printed
all the awards
the accolades
none of it has taught you
the lessons I learned long ago
before either of us could even read or had ever heard
of Shakespeare or Marlowe
Dickens or Carroll or Hemingway
when we were but larvae of what we would become
when you put on your first pair of patent leather shoes
polished to a high shine
before you toddled to the table for tea
at around the same time that half a world away
I slipped into my sandals
the straps hanging by a thread
the holes in the soles patched with duct tape
before sauntering into the kitchen
to spread mayonnaise or mustard or margarine
onto a single slice of stale bread
so I would have something in my stomach
to see me through until supper
which would consist of a can of some sort of beans
and a ten cent box of macaroni and cheese
with slices of cheap hot dogs stirred in
sometimes cut into quarters
when money was even more tight due to a medical bill
some other unexpected expense
You may be capable of convincing an audience
but you can never really know
You will never understand what that life is
Some things they can’t teach you at Cambridge
Categories:
marlowe, celebrity, childhood, education, food,
Form:
Free verse
My Profound Thousandth Poem
Dedicated to England and also
world renown poet Terry Cooper.
England is exciting place to be
Will enjoy it in every opportunity
People of pageantry are such a site
Forty in Round Table and were a knight.
There was Marlowe and Shakespeare
And Gainsborough to see far and near
Cathedrals, mighty castles with a moot
To see does require much time to devote.
In England is Rugby, Lacrosse and Soccer
Manchester being beaten is a real shocker
Weather will be cool and then end up warm
May need to be prepared for a mighty storm.
When you leave will want to return again
Which is exactly what we both intend
Was it mole in hole or pied piper in wall
Whatever it was old me just can't recall.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
and one of top 40 Poetry Soup Producers.
Categories:
marlowe, england, history, humor,
Form:
Couplet
There …
It was
dark. England,
set down, and stretched out
for miles,
and days
without end
Far afield her quondam spirit,
But forever sprawling
Beneath
Discouraging clouds
with unbroken tears
that washed out …
cricket games
and pigeon stool,
bleeding into drinking …
Watered-down whiskey
from pubs
following the concrete pavements
Victorian structures,
and verdant meadows
that sleep …
to the lullabies
of Jackdaws and humming engines
I often wonder,
how one can speak
without both lips in motion;
Are they half ventriloquists?
I need no retort;
I’m just playing George on this one
When Auntie returned …,
from London, with her brain
swimming in high tide,
they were quick to blame
the clock,
but Manchester is the author
of this charlatan
The tale is that
those who trust
Big Ben for time
Will in fact misplace their minds
How true a case is he?
Old England will agree
he is special
Rum will whisper tall stories,
same with Cognac and Vodka,
but aren’t there days
when we are restrained
What is Sawicki,
but a train, blowing wet whistle?
How straight can one walk
with neurons bathing in ethanol?
In days past, dictionaries were scarfed-up;
men were …
Men were quick and questioning
Where is evolution;
like monkeys we mimic?
John Fletcher
I know, and C. Marlowe
Much of William Blake and Carew
I recalled Arnold,
the Brownings, and Dowson,
So much for Killigrew,
old Abercrombie, Crowley,
and young Liam Wilkinson
Who in God’s name is Sawicki,
Whose “master” is he?
Categories:
marlowe, mystery, on writing and
Form:
Lyric
(On the morning of February 25, 1983, the great dramatist
Tennessee Williams was found dead in a New York hotel suite.
He had choked on the plastic cap of his eyedrops bottle, which
he habitually held in his mouth when applying the eyedrops.
The alcohol and pills he'd consumed suppressed his gag response.
This poem is (we are asked to imagine) the last thing he wrote,
a flurry of notes scribbled on hotel stationery.)
Why don’t I just go out and meet some bum?
for I confound hell in Elysium.
Romantic anonymity, just like
you’re lost out in the rain, Ciudad Juarez …
No human thing disgusts me, if it’s not
unkind, or violent.
I feel good, now.
I’m jacked up, and I’ve got my Seconal wind.
Where are you, Merlo? I’ve spent too much time
alone. We make decisions - is it will?
Well, character is fate. (Those eye drops. Damn,
where are they?) Walking out on Mom and Rose
was something which, although it had to be,
required a holy selfishness of me
that was spectacular.
The Rose Tattoo.
The only thing I wanted was to love –
was that too much to ask? Somebody’s Stella –
Stella for star. We muse too much on cruelty.
The pain’s no bane, so long as there is love.
Who cares what people say, after you’re gone?
I just wish I’d been lighter, funnier.
Camino, Orpheus, Sweet Bird of Youth:
they’re all so miserable – I’m not like that.
I think I’ll do a comedy named “Playwrights Dead”.
They always seem to go in silly ways!
There’s Hasek, Aeschylus and Ottoway,
and Orton, too. And Marlowe, most of all.
I need an epigraph that’s frivolous,
ironic, ludicrous, nonsensical.
(Ah, found my drops.)
In spite of all life’s dangers
If “proud”’s allowed, two things above the crowd
still clamor loud. I love the Texas Rangers,
and casual kindness, meted out by strangers.
Categories:
marlowe,
Form:
Blank verse
A Copy Cay
I no longer appeared to be a little tyke
Have started writing poems that I like
Would like to lavish in again and again
Should my bragging be considered a sin?
My poems have many great things to say
No matter how they are read or which way
They always can clearly be understood
And through all time will have withstood.
Around in my mind with new idea played
What if Pulitzer Prize material I had made
Them and one day became exactly that
Visited Queen in her palace where she sat.
I became distinguished and was delighted
Because by the Queen I had been knighted
Then sailed away in ship with much cargo
After copying poems of Christopher Marlowe.
All of the poems were appreciated and enjoyed
Even though other poets became annoyed
And all of them finally had been knocked flat
When they discovered that I was a copy cat.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Categories:
marlowe, analogy, humorous, inspirational,
Form:
Couplet
He was alone and lonely.
Sadness swept his eyes
before he jabbed at me
with his cynical sarcasm.
He slowly lit his Camel.
It was a simple act of murder
and he was a scholar of sorts –
a player of chess, a fan of poetry.
I knew I was under his scrutiny.
I agree it looked rather suspicious.
After all, the body was there
and I was found holding the knife.
I squirmed under his hard eye
but leaned back into the chair
in front of his desk knowing
he had a soft spot for women.
A hard drinker, he took a bottle
from his cabinet and offered
a glass to me. I didn’t accept
as I knew I should stay alert.
“It was a man, a squabby man,
with a glimmer of glee in his eye,”
I said. “He looked at me, then
threw down the knife and ran.”
Marlowe said, “I don’t think you did it.
There was no blood on your clothes.
Your shoes would have soaked
in the blood and crusted.”
I relaxed a little and offered a smile.
I knew I was home free.
I was glad I had changed my shoes.
“I’ll take that drink now.”
She took the bait…
Inspired by but not entered in Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest
Categories:
marlowe, confidence, death, murder, mystery,
Form:
Free verse
*The Passionate Shepherd's Final Plea To His Love* ( my version of the conclusion, ) inspired from " The Passionate Shepherd To His Love" and " The Nymphs Reply To The Shepard" by Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh
I never spoke rivers seize to rage, nor denied disease of winter brings the flowers to fade, surely there will come nights that our home be plaqued with cold, and indeed Father Time ensures our bones will grow old...
How can I promise you truth in every shepherd's tongue, when I am the only one? However everlasting youth is quite possible, if you look past your worldly presumptions of love...
Tangible were never thy cap nor kirtle, neither beds of roses nor gown or anything embroidered in myrtle, merely metaphors my love, in attempts to swoon, for all I can truly offer you, are all my remaining suns and moons...
From behind a wall of protection you stand, armed with daggers of doubt that you throw at each man, who ever so tries to untie a layer of twine, that you've entraped yourself under meant to be there for all time...
But if from behind that wall you've built ,my love, you are not compelled to move, your heart I'm afraid, it will wither and die, and you'll never know of any love..
So come live with me and be my love, and all that has left my lips, I'll prove, together we'll build a foundation, and watch it grow under golden hues...
You've never heard laughter, like that of a child's echoing through the hills, so welcoming that from miles, birds will flock to perch upon our windowsills
What say you my dear precious? from that stubborn wall shall you be moved? Or shall I knock down each brick until my last dieing breath to ask once more to come be my love....
Categories:
marlowe, april, devotion, feelings, love,
Form:
ABC
He penned plays in verse with great ease
But just his rivals to displease
Greene called him upstart crow
And reading him, even Marlowe
Raised eyebrow
Playwright and actor in theatre
Shrewd observer of human nature
In shylock he portrays minority psyche
Callow youth's indecision,
In Hamlet’s to be not to be
His songs as fresh as morning dew
Telling secrets of life in lines a few
'Friends, Romans and countrymen'
Remains, till date, rhetoric's rare specimen
It's true, he had jealous rivals and adversaries
But, then he had equally great contemporaries
Eventually he surpassed established wits
And outsmarted even University Dramatists
It’s true,
Lear-Othello-Macbeth are pessimistic plays
But aren’t his sonnets sanguine as sunrays?
Categories:
marlowe, life, philosophy, uplifting,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
Come along retire, travel with me
Be my love in places we've not seen
We'll travel around the world our home
Roaming those valleys and mountains tall
Our love won't wane only grow__untame
We will have all our pleasures anew
Every moment treasure other
Whilst each day brings us new sunrises
Each one more glorious__ exciting
If these pleasures seem your heart to move
Come be my love in our latter life
In passage over the ocean blue
We'll travel see the world anew__dream
Dreams that our imagination schemes
(Parody of "The Passionate Shephard To His Love" by Christopher Marlowe (1564-
1593) for Dr. Ram's contest.)
Categories:
marlowe, fantasy, hope, husband, imagination,
Form:
Sonnet
come up ta my crib, he adlibbed
bump bellies wid me, wid what god gived
we’ll part da sheets likes Moses sea
little mama we’ll be on a kissin spree
we’ll drink some wine and smoke some grass
invite in d’ crew and make some cash
and by dat neon light shining
dhey’ll be some booty reclining
hell wid the flowers get the stash
‘fore the po po come ‘rest ‘ur ****
bump jeans wid me baby y’ur so fine
don’t pay no ‘tention to the line
be my Baby Momma its aight
maybe ‘ll take you home tonight
*An inner city parody of Come Live with me and be my Love by Christopher Marlowe
Categories:
marlowe, parodybaby, baby, me,
Form:
Sonnet
Dr Faustus signed a pact
Not realising the fact
That great magical aspirations
Are only mental formations
To the devil he gave his soul
Who did not fulfill his role
And laughed in his lair
While Faustus was in despair
He disintegrated mentally
by leaving god completely
He wished for his own destruction
To once again gain salvation
To God at last he raised his hands
To ask for grace and forgiveness
This poem Was inspired by the play 'Dr. Faustus' by Christopher Marlowe
Categories:
marlowe, educationgod, god,
Form: